There was another motive besides this of duty which incited him to follow more closely the vicissitudes of the rue Norvins drama, a motive still indefinite, vague, but nevertheless terribly strong. …
Jérôme Fandor had sworn to Elizabeth Dollon that he would get at the truth.
He recalled the girl's entreaty, her emotion; and when he closed his eyes, now and again, he seemed to see before him the tall, graceful, fair and fascinating sister of the vanished artist. … All Fandor would admit to himself was a chivalrous feeling towards her—Elizabeth Dollon was worth putting himself out for—that was all!
Our journalist spent the entire morning seated at his writing-table, his head between his hands, smoking cigarette after cigarette, arranging his plans for investigating the Dollon case:
"What I have to find out is how the dead man left the Dépôt. It is the first discovery to be made, the first impossibility to be explained—yes, and how am I to set about it?"
Suddenly Fandor jumped up, marched rapidly up and down his room, whistled a few bars of a popular melody, and in his exuberant gaiety attempted an operatic air in a voice deplorably out of tune.
"There are eighty chances out of a hundred that I shall not succeed," cried he; "but that still leaves me twenty chances of arriving at a satisfactory result—let us make the attempt!"
As Fandor was hurrying off, he called to the portress in passing:
"Madame Oudry, I don't know whether I shall be back this evening or no. Perhaps I may have to leave Paris for awhile, so would you be kind enough to pay particular attention to any letters that may come for me—be very particular about them, please!"
Fandor went off. A thought struck him. He turned back. He had something more to say to the good woman:
"I forgot to ask you whether anyone called to see me yesterday afternoon!"
"No, Monsieur Fandor, no one!"
"Good! If by any chance a messenger should bring a letter for me, look very carefully at him, Madame Oudry. I have a colleague or two who are playing a joke on me, and I should not be sorry to get even with them!"
This time Fandor really went off, having set his portress on the alert. In the rue Montmartre he hailed a cab:
"To the National Library! And as quick as you can!"
"By Jove! It's three o'clock! I've not a minute to lose!" cried Fandor as he got back his stick from the cloak-room of the National Library: he had handed it in there some hours ago. He entered the rue Richelieu. Now for an ironmonger's shop! He caught sight of one and went in:
"I should like fifty yards of fine cord, please; very strong and very pliable," said Fandor.
The shopkeeper stared at the smart young man:
"What do you want it for, sir? … I have various qualities."
Without the trace of a smile, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he replied:
"It is for one of my friends: he wants to hang himself!"
A shout of laughter was the response to this witticism, and the amused shopkeeper forthwith displayed various samples of cords. Fandor promptly made his choice and left the shop.
"Now for a watchmaker's!" said our journalist. He entered a jeweller's close by:
"I want an alarum clock—a small one—the cheapest you have!"
Provided with his alarum, Fandor looked at his watch again:
"Confound it all! It's half-past three!" he cried. He signalled to a closed cab:
"To the Palais de Justice! As hard as you can lick!"
Directly Fandor was well inside the vehicle, he drew down the blinds; took off his coat; unbuttoned his waistcoat! …
The great clock of the Palais de Justice had just struck four, and its silvery tones were echoing harmoniously along the corridors when Jérôme Fandor entered the tradesman's gallery. He turned to the right, and gained the little lobby in which the cloak-room is. He quietly entered it. Barristers were coming and going, full of business, throwing off their gowns, inspecting the letters put aside during the sittings of the Courts. Fandor made his way among the groups with the ease of custom. He seemed to be looking for someone, and finished by questioning one of the women employed in the cloak-room:
"Is Madame Marguerite not here?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur, she is down below."
Madame Marguerite was an old friend of Fandor's. She was head of the cloak-room staff, and by her kind offices she had often obtained an interview for our journalist with one or other of the big-wigs of the bar, who generally object strongly to being questioned by journalists. When she appeared, Fandor told her he only wanted a little bit of information from her.
"Oh, yes, I know all about that! There is someone you wish to see, and you want me to manage it for you!"
"No! Not a bit of it! What I want to know is, where these gentlemen of the Court of Justice robe and unrobe? I mean the Justices of the Assize Courts!"
This seemed to astonish Madame Marguerite considerably:
"But, Monsieur Fandor, if you wish to interview one of the puisne judges, it would be ten times quicker for you to go and see him at his own home: here, at the Palais, it's almost certain he will refuse to answer you. … "
"Don't bother about that, Madame Marguerite! Just tell me where these worthy guardians of order, defenders of right and justice, divest themselves of their red robes?"
Madame Marguerite was too much accustomed to our young journalist's ridiculous questions and absurd requests and remarks to argue with him any longer.
"The robing-room of these gentlemen," said she, "is in one of the outer offices of the court, near the Council Chamber."
"There is an assistant in that room, isn't there?"
"Yes, Monsieur Fandor."
"Ah! That is just what I wanted to know! Many thanks, madame," and Fandor, grinning with satisfaction, made off in the direction of the Court of Assizes. He ran up the steps leading to the Council Chamber, and spying the messenger asked:
"Can President Guéchand see me, do you think?"
"Monsieur le President has gone."
Fandor seemed to be reflecting. He gazed searchingly round the room. As a matter of fact, he was verifying the correctness of Madame Marguerite's information. All round the room Fandor saw the little presses where the men of law kept their red robes. Yes, it was the robing and unrobing room of the puisne judges, the magistrates, right enough!
"So the President has gone? Ah, well … " Fandor hesitated: he must think of some other name. He noticed the visiting cards nailed to each press, indicating the owner. He read one of the names and repeated it:
"Well, then, could Justice Hubert see me—could he possibly? Will you ask him to let me see him for five minutes?"
"What name shall I say?"
"My name will not tell him anything. Please say it is with reference to the—er—Peyru case—and I come from Maître Tissot."
"I will go and see," said the messenger, moving off.
Whilst he was in sight Fandor walked up and down in the regulation way, murmuring:
"Maître Tissot! … The Peyru case! … Go ahead, my good fellow! You will have a nice kind of reception