A Veteran Detective

The banking house of Badeau & Richter was situated at 48 Rue du Faubourg Poissopiere.

On October 17, 1863, an unknown man presented himself at the bank and left with them two drafts for collection, payable at the rooms of a monsieur Louis Vandier, 61 Rue Montorgueil.

Two days afterward the collecting clerk of the bank referred to, a young man named Goujet, only nineteen years old, started out on a long collecting tour, and was never again seen alive.

Such were the facts as reported to the police, and the detective force was at once set to work.

By diligent inquiry the missing clerk was traced to the house in the Rue Montorgueil, where all traces of him were lost.

Thorough search of the apartments occupied by M. Vandier showed that the person recently inhabiting them had flown and left no trace of his whereabouts or destination behind.

The name Vandier was written in chalk on the door.

Whether the clerk was in league with the person in the above-named street to defraud his employers, or whether he had been foully dealt with, was a very difficult question to settle at this stage of affairs.

No discoveries, however, were made, and it was determined on the 27^th of October, ten days later, at the prefecture, to entrust the case to one Varnet, a veteran detective noted for his activity and shrewdness. His first step, taken with little hope of successfully unraveling the mystery at so late a day, was to visit Monsieur Gosseau, the leasee of the house, in the Rue Montorgueil, and to obtain from him as precise a description of M. Vandier as possible.

Varnet was informed that M. Vandier and a companion had occupied rooms in the house, and as M. Vandier had called upon him in reference to the lease of the premises, a description of him was easily obtained. Monsieur Gosseau further stated that as he had seen the other tenant but once, he could not accurately describe him.

Furnished with a description of M. Vandier, Varnet determined to make a visit of inspection to all the lodging-houses frequented by thieves and malefactors.

No discoveries of any consequence were made in these until, in one kept by a man named Dageot, in the Faubourg du Temple, Varnet noticed in the police record book, which all houses of the kind were compelled to keep, the name Vandier, with the next about it that of Fichu, both as having arrived and left together.

By questioning the landlord and his wife, the detective learned that the two had occupied the same room and bed.

The woman was able to give an accurate description of Fichu, and with every statement she made Varnet’s surprise increased, for he recognized in Fichu a man named Francois, who had two days before been arrested for swindling a merchant out of some kegs of wine.

Full of this discovery, Varnet hastily returned to the prefecture, and finding that Francois was still in the cells, he hastened down to see him.

“Francois,” said the detective, “I have been ransacking my brain for the last twenty-four hours to imaging what motive you could have had for taking the name Fichu when you went to stay at Dageot’s. It puzzles me a great deal, especially as you say you had no hand in the swindle you are charged with.”

“Mon dieu!” answered Francois; “although, as I say, I had nothing whatever to do with that affair, I knew you had a warrant out against me for it. I’m not such an idiot as to give my real name at such a place as this, for you to clap your claws on me two minutes afterward.”

There was no more room for doubt. This Francois was the man who had slept with Vandier under the alias of Fichu, and he, therefore, it must have been who played the role of accomplice in the Rue Montorgueil.

On going back to Dageot’s the next day the proprietor was out and Varnet profited by his absence to talk with his wife, who was more communicative than her husband. She told the detective, among other things, that Vandier had been known to her previously under the alias of Baton.

“It is Baton, then,” muttered Varnet, “that I must look for.”

At this time there existed in the Rue De Bondy an establishment known as the Estaminet smoking-room des Quatre Billards, a place frequented almost exclusively by the criminal element of Paris. Applying to the keeper of this establishment, he learned from him that Baton came in almost every evening to play billiards, but that he had not yet arrived.

Varnet saw that to wait for him was out of the question, for the ruffians that crowded the room knew the detective and his assistants perfectly well, and several of them had already taken the alarm and shrank away.

Varnet then left privately, notifying the barkeeper that he should remain at the wine-shop near at hand, and requesting that individual to make known when Baton should arrive. But reflecting that the rascal was quite capable of betraying him, the detective thought it quite advisable to set one of his own men on the watch, and take note of every person who went in or left the shop.

Toward 9 o’clock the assistant notified Varnet that Baton had arrived.

“Are you quite certain?” asked the detective.

“Perfectly. A moment ago two men stopped in front of the Estaminet, and I heard one of them say to the other, ‘Good night, Baton.’ Baton went in.”

Followed by his two assistants, Varnet hurried to the Estaminet, and as he crossed the threshold the bar-keeper said:

“You are just in time. That is Baton talking near the billiard table, first with the man in the silk hat.”

He was immediately arrested and taken away.

On the way to the prefecture Varnet’s mind was harassed with annoying doubts. After the revelations made by Dageot’s wife, there could be no doubt that the individual he had hold of was the one who had occupied a room in her house under the alias of Vandier, and by inference was the one who had had apartments in the Rue Montorgueil. But on confronting him with the landlord, Gosseau failed to recognize him as his recent tenant, and could not in any manner identify Francois.

There was nothing but to set the man at liberty, but as Varnet had recently been notified by a prisoner in La Force that Baton was intimate with a man named Mussat, at one time a fellow-prisoner of his, the detective thought that he might learn something about the later jailbird, so he joined Baton as he left the prefecture.

On the way the conversation touched, of course by chance, on Mussat, and the detective succeeded in getting a description of the man from Baton.

Everything Baton imparted conformed with the detective’s idea of Vandier.

No doubt remained that the occupant of the rooms in the Rue de Montorgueil must have been Mussat, who, hiding his identity under the alias of Vandier, had taken refuge in the same house where he had once previously succeeded in hiding himself from the police under the name of his comrade, Baton.

Apparently but one thing remained for Varnet to do—namely, discover Mussat. The detective began looking for his name in the lodging-houses he could have by any chance visited. But here a difficulty presented itself. Varnet found at least twenty Mussats, and not knowing his first name or initials, he was at a loss to know in what way to proceed. It was an arduous task, but a personal description of each one of the twenty must be had. This the detective at once set about, and on the second day, at 17 Rue Marivaux des Lombards, he came across a Mussat in the police-book about whom it was thought well to put some questions.

Varnet asked the woman of the house if this Mussat received any visits, and what sort of persons came to see him.

“Only one person comes,” was the answer, “and that is a woman. I know nothing about her, or who she is, save that she has a savage scar on her left cheek as though made by a poniard stab.”

“Did he leave anything behind him when he went away?” asked Varnet. “No papers of any kind?”

“Yes, he left a bundle of songs—nothing else.”

“Have you kept them?” eagerly asked the detective.

“Yes, there they are,” answered the woman as she produced the bundle.

Varnet had a faint hope that some scrawl on the margin of these songs might throw some light on his path. Lucky thought! Among the papers he found a letter filled with insults for the chief of police. Running his eye over it he was struck with the identity of the handwriting with that of the word “Vandier” inscribed on the door in the Rue Montorgueil.

The search for Mussat was now officially authorized, the name Vandier having clearly been used as a blind.

Varnet now determined to arrest Mussat when he should come in that evening.

Addressing the woman of the house, the detective said:

“Madame, when do you expect Monsieur Mussat to return?”

“At 9 to-morrow morning,” was the response.

The next morning at that hour Varnet was at his post. He had hardly arrived before a man entered, and seating himself at the table, ordered a bottle of wine.

As he did so the woman whispered to the detective:

“That is Monsieur Mussat.”

Straightway the detective advanced, and clapping his hands on the man’s shoulder, said:

“My friend, you are wanted at the prefecture. Be kind enough to accompany me thither.”

“Certainly, if you will permit me to finish my wine. It would be a shame to waste it since I have already paid for it.”

The coolness of the man somewhat dazed the detective. The wine having been drank with apparent relish, Varnet ordered a fiacre to be called, took his prisoner to the prefecture and placed him before the prefect.

“Your name?” asked the magistrate.

“Louis Vandier.”

“What is your vocation?”

“Speculator,” was the response.

“Where do you reside?”

“In the Rue Mairvaux des Lombards, No. 17.”

“Where did you live on the 10^th of October?”

“In the Rue Montorgueil, No. 61.”

“On that day did you receive a visit from the clerk of the banking house of Badeau & M. Richter?”

“I did,” Vandier answered. “The young man called, and after settling our business he left, saying that he had a considerable number of calls to make before returning to the bank.”

“You have since that time frequently changed your name and residence. Why is that?” asked the prefect.

“Monsieur must understand that a man in my business is like a bird of passage, and to be successful one must constantly change his name and abode.”

The face of the detective assumed a troubled look. Had he again made an error in arresting the wrong man?

Such seemed to be the case. There being no evidence to hold the prisoner he was discharged, and, with the air of one but little annoyed by his experience, he left the prefecture carelessly humming an air.

After the prisoner had left the prefect addressed the detective, saying:

“Varnet, your zeal in this case has been commendable, but I fear that you have been on the wrong track. It must be that Goujet, the clerk, has absconded with the bank’s funds, and, being a very clever rascal, has covered up all traces of his departure.”

“Perhaps Monsieur le prefect is right,” responded Varnet, as he left the magistrate’s presence, his failure weighing heavily upon his mind.

Two days later, as Varnet sat pondering as to the advisability of giving up the case of the Rue Montorgueil, his eye fell upon a scrap of newspaper lying on the floor at his feet. He picked it up instinctively and was carelessly toying with it when his eye fell upon the following advertisement:

Springing to his feet, the detective exclaimed:

“The key of the mystery is hidden here.”

Without losing a moment he called a fiacre and hastened to the Rue Phillipeaux. Alighting further up the street he strolled down in order to survey the premises at No. 13. The aspect of the place was most uninviting. The house bore a very dilapidated appearance and the grounds about showed signs of neglect, while the trees and shrubs seemed to be endeavoring to tie themselves into tangles of fantastic shape.

As Varnet was surveying the place the form of a man emerged from the door. Quick as thought the detective advanced and said:

“Is monsieur the owner of this place?”

“No,” responded the other, “I am the agent; and if monsieur is looking for a quiet place, I am sure this will suit him. Would monsieur like to inspect the premises?”

This was the very opportunity that Varnet wanted.

“If monsieur pleases,” he answered.

As they proceeded through the house Varnet’s attention was not particularly attracted by anything. When he came to the kitchen, which was arranged in the basement of the house, the agent, praising the house, said:

“Monsieur, the builder must have entertained royally, for see the immense size of his furnace.”

It was indeed an immense affair.

“I would like now to inspect the grounds,” said Varnet. As they were walking in the rear among the tangle, the keen eye of the detective noticed that in the furthest corner of the plot the ground had apparently been recently tampered with, although an attempt to make it appear natural had been made.

Advancing toward the spot, Varnet said, addressing the agent:

“I presume the soil here is sandy. I would not occupy a house upon damp soil. If monsieur will bring a spade I will soon satisfy myself in that particular.”

The spade was brought and the detective began to dig. He had progressed but a short while when the spade struck a wooden object. The agent stood looking on in wonder. Had he come in contact with a madman? The object that the spade had struck proved to be a soap box, which was soon brought to the surface. With one stroke of the spade the lid flew off and revealed a sight which, though vague to the agent, told a terrible tale to Varnet. In the box were black cinders and charred human bones.

“Eureka!” almost wildly shrieked the detective. The turning toward the agent he said:

“I am a detective from the prefecture. These are the bones of a murdered man. Guard them as you would your soul till I return,” and he bounded off.

Taking the fiacre that was waiting, it was not long before he was that the door of the lodging-house of Dageot in the Rue Marivaux des Lombards.

“Is Mussat in?” he asked, breathlessly.

“No,” answered the woman of the house; “but madame, his visitor, has just gone up to await him. His room is No. 16, second floor.”

Without waiting to hear more, the detective flew up and knocked at the door. At the invitation to “Come in,” he entered. Madame was comfortably ensconced, smoking a cigarette.

Without a word the detective said:

“I arrest you as an accomplice to the murder of the bank clerk, Goujet; The bones were found buried in the garden in the Rue Phillippeaux. Mussat has been arrested and confessed all.”

At this a look of scorn and contempt passed over the woman’s visage. Her face became pale, while the scar on her cheek seemed about to burst forth with blood. Then pointing her finger to the hideous wound she seemed to hiss: “I endured this for that man; now he is not satisfied with betraying himself, but attempts to ruin me. You shall know the whole story: Mussat and Francois laid the plan to capture the bank’s funds from the young clerk. Mussat hired the house in the Rue Phillipeaux, and said that I was to live there in peace for the rest of my days. I took possession of the house on the 10^th of October, and lived there contented, Mussat coming often to see me. He said he had mended his ways, and I was happy.

“It was not long to be thus, for on the night of the 19^th I was aroused from my sleep by a knock at the front door. I opened it. It was Mussat and Francois bearing a huge chest between them. This they carried immediately to the kitchen, where they deposited it and started a fire in the furnace. I did not go back to bed, but watched from the landing above their actions. From their talk I learned that as the young man entered the house in the Rue Montorgueil Mussat advanced to greet him, while Francois, springing from behind the door and throwing a noose around his neck, they strangled the poor boy there. When the box was opened the calm face of the dead youth so moved me, and their intention to burn his poor remains so terrified me, that I rushed upon them as though to stop their hellish purpose, when Mussat, the man I loved, stabbed me in the face. The rest you know.”

And the woman sunk back and sobbed aloud.

The detective’s ruse had worked right well.

When Mussat arrived he was arrested and speedily brought to trial, with Francois, for the murder of Goujet. Together they went to the guillotine, Mussat alone mourned by the woman who had unwittingly betrayed him.