Arthur didn’t mind the pleasantries, but he hadn’t come out in foul weather to discuss the bill of fare at what seemed to him a second rate café for the lower middle class. He was about to lay his cards on the table, but on reflection decided it was best to remain polite. “Indeed, I’m sure the beer and sandwiches are superb, and will keep that in mind when I’m next in the neighborhood.”
Achille smiled and continued his effort at breaking the ice by reference to one of Arthur’s stories. “Last year I read your story about the detective who tracks down a lady jewel thief and falls in love with her. I thought it was excellent, as good as anything by Maupassant.”
“Thank you, Inspector, that’s very kind of you.” Arthur forced a smile; he hated the story. He had written it hastily at the urging of a magazine editor who regularly published his work and paid top dollar. Arthur wanted to use a nom de plume, but the editor convinced him that would hurt sales. Not surprisingly, the story was a great success, which made the publisher and Arthur’s agent quite happy. Moreover, since its publication, nine out of ten readers who complimented him mentioned this story, which he considered a meretricious potboiler. Maintaining his smile, he pursued: “That detective story is quite popular, and I’m very pleased you enjoyed it, but it’s not really my line of country.”
They were speaking English. Achille was fluent, but something Arthur had said puzzled him. “Pardon me, Monsieur, what is your ‘line of country’?”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid that’s an Anglicism that’s crept into my speech. I should have said not my métier.”
“Ah, I see, well for something that’s not your métier you handled it splendidly.”
Achille’s calculated flattery had worked its magic. Arthur relaxed and enjoyed his coffee and brioche. Rain battered the plate glass window, washed over the pavement and filled the gutters to overflowing. No use rushing in such weather, he thought. It’s a cozy place, the coffee and brioche aren’t bad, and this policeman seems like an intelligent fellow. I wonder if he reads anything besides romantic detective novelettes. “Perhaps you could satisfy my professional curiosity, Inspector. Have you a favorite writer or novel?”
Achille seized the opening. “With all due respect to your work, Monsieur, which I do indeed esteem greatly, my favorite novel is Dumas père’s The Count of Monte Cristo. I say this because it had a significant influence on my choice of career.”
The author was now intrigued by the policeman, Achille’s literary allusion having made a further inroad into Arthur’s confidence. An interesting individual, he thought. The inspector was more than a flattering casual reader; he had transformed into a ‘character,’ grist for Arthur’s fictive mill. “If I may inquire, Inspector, in what sense did the novel influence you?”
Achille smiled, now confident that he had accurately analyzed Arthur’s personality; his calculated effort to ingratiate himself with the author seemed to have been a success. He proceeded to reveal something about himself that was sincere while at the same time self-serving in the sense that it was intended to help secure Arthur’s unequivocal support. “I was a boy of thirteen when I read the book. I was deeply moved by the story of Edmond Dantès, an honest, decent man who through no fault of his own became the victim of treachery, greed, and the corruption of justice. Through either chance, or more likely the intervention of Divine Providence, he transformed into an avenging angel, an instrument of Divine retribution, a strict lex talionis that, in the end, was tempered with mercy.
“Of course, there were elements of adventure, mystery, romance, violence, and intrigue that would appeal to a young boy. But above all, Dumas’ story inspired in me a passion for justice, a dogged determination to pursue the guilty and defend the innocent.”
“That’s a noble sentiment, Inspector, and a fine ideal for a man of your profession. But what do you think of Hugo’s Javert?”
Achille felt like an angler; Arthur had taken the bait, it was now time to tug the line and drive the hook home. “You know, M. Wolcott, many believe Hugo modeled Javert on the Sûreté’s founder, Eugène François Vidocq. But Vidocq spent his career pursuing and capturing dangerous criminals; he did not hound poor individuals who stole bread to feed their starving families, and neither do I.
“Yet in many ways I am like Javert; I’m not a Divine avenger, and I’m more a realist than an idealist. I don’t make the laws; I assist in their enforcement. Justice is imperfect as is our world; citizens can make improvements, but we will always fall short of an ideal. As for my youthful passion, it’s been tempered by experience and the constraints of my profession. I now subscribe to Rochefoucauld’s maxim: “The love of justice is simply, in the majority of men, the fear of suffering injustice.”
Arthur nodded his silent agreement. He sipped his coffee and nibbled some pastry. Then: “Tell me Inspector, what can I do to assist your investigation?”
“At the moment, there are two things, Monsieur. First, if her health and circumstances permit, I would like to speak to Mlle Brownlow, informally and away from the hotel. You may be present. Hopefully, she can tell me something about Mlle Ménard that will be of some significance. Women often share confidences, even with casual acquaintances, that they would keep from their husbands or most intimate male companions.”
Arthur did not disagree. He knew Marcia had spoken intimately with Virginie and she had not yet revealed the details of their conversation to him. “Very well, Inspector, I’ll try to arrange such a meeting as soon as possible. You mentioned something else.”
Achille frowned and spoke solemnly to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “Monsieur Wolcott, I know you by reputation to be a man of honor. What I’m about to say must be held in the strictest confidence. I must have your word as a gentleman that you’ll not reveal what I’m about to tell you. If you break your oath, there could be grave consequences.”
Arthur nodded. “You have my word of honor, Inspector.”
“Very well, Monsieur. While this remains unofficial in the sense that no evidence has been presented to the magistrate, I suspect that Sir Henry Collingwood may have some involvement in the disappearance and death of Virginie Ménard. At present, and for reasons you do not need to know, I want a writing of Sir Henry’s, a note, letter, or perhaps a prescription. Could you obtain such a document?”
Arthur’s eyes widened. He had had his own suspicions about Sir Henry, but they had not gone so far as murder. Moreover, he had recently obtained a letter from the doctor relating to Marcia’s illness and recommendations for further treatment in England. “I do have something in my possession. May I ask why you need it?”
“I’m afraid not, Monsieur. The less you know about this matter, the better.”
“I see. Will you return the letter to me?”
Achille shook his head. “Depending on what I discover, I may need to keep it in evidence. If that’s the case, I’ll provide you with a copy. By the way, Monsieur, have you noticed if Sir Henry always wears gloves?”
Arthur found the question perplexing; he thought a moment before answering, “I’ve seen him without his gloves on occasion. And I suppose if I ask why you need this information you’ll tell me to mind my own business.”
“I apologize for being so secretive. Permit me another question. Were you with him when he wrote the letter? If so, was he wearing gloves?”
Still puzzled, Arthur replied “I was indeed present and he wasn’t wearing gloves.”
Achille smiled with relief. “Thank you, Monsieur Wolcott. You’ve been most helpful. There’s one more thing. When you arrange the meeting with Mlle Brownlow, you may do so on the pretext of taking her to the Bois, a gallery, or whatever. But instead, you’ll bring her here. You may contact my office by telephone to make arrangements.”