“Monsieur Jandidier,” he continued, “ordered the driver to take him to No. 48 Rue d’Arras-Saint-Victor. In this house lives a workman named Jules Tarot, employed by Monsieur Jandidier.”
M. Magloire’s way of pronouncing this name was intended to rouse the magistrate’s attention, and did so.
“You have suspicions?” he asked.
“Not exactly, but this is the story. Monsieur Jandidier dismissed the carriage at the Rue d’Arras and went to Tarot’s about ten o’clock. At eleven the employer and workman came out together. The latter did not return until midnight, and here I lose all trace of my man. Of course I didn’t question Tarot, for fear of putting him on his guard.”
“Who is this Jules Tarot?”
“A workman in mother-of-pearl, a man who polishes shells on a grindstone to make them perfectly iridescent. He’s a skillful fellow, and, assisted by his wife, to whom he has taught his trade, can make nearly a hundred francs a week.”
“They are in easy circumstances, then?”
“Oh! no. They are both young, they have no children, they are Parisians. Deuce take it, they enjoy themselves. Monday regularly carries away what the other days bring.”