Seventy Miles An Hour

by James M’Cabe, Jr.

M. Eugene Laromie was not a little startled one bright, clear morning, to receive an order commanding him to repair immediately to the Bureau of the Chief of the Secret Police of Paris. I say he was startled, not because such an occurrence was unusual, but because M. Laromie had been, for several days, indulging in what we Americans call “a spree,” and his guilty conscience suggested to him that his chief was about to bring him to account for it. Nevertheless, such a summons is something that a French official cannot disregard, and without delay he hastened to the bureau, and without delay he hastened to the bureau, and was at once admitted to the presence of the chief.

“Good morning, Laromie,” said the chief, pleasantly. “You look downcast. No wonder. For three days you have had too much wine in you. Ah, my friend, you see I am quite a good detective! I can tell you how you have spent every moment of those three days.”

“Monsieur,” said Laromie, bluntly, “one must relax his self-restraint sometimes.”

“True, my friend. I have no idea of censuring you. I only wish to warn you to be more careful in the future, as those above me may not thing so lightly of your indiscretions as I do. Enough of this, however. I wish to know if your head is clear enough to undertake a most difficult case?”

“I think so,” replied Laromie, laughing. “I would not have returned to duty, if it had not been.”

“Well, then, my friend, there has been a startling discovery in the last few hours. You know Monsieur Vilele, the banker?”

“Yes.”

“What is your opinion of him?”

“I know nothing of him by my own experience,” answered Laromie. “He has the reputation of being one of the most upright and reliable bankers in Paris.”

“Exactly,” said the chief, coolly; “and if he had not fallen into trouble, he would, no doubt, have… Read More