He hastily left the room, ran to the Place de Roubaix, jumped into a cab, and giving the driver the address of the district commissary of police, promised him a hundred sous over and above the regular fare if he would only make haste. As might have been expected under such circumstances, the poor horse fairly flew over the ground.
Lecoq was fortunate enough to find the commissary at his office. Having given his name, he was immediately ushered into the magistrate’s presence and told his story in a few words.
“It is really true that they came to inform me of this man’s disappearance,” said the commissary. “Casimir told me about it this morning.”
“They—came—to inform—you—” faltered Lecoq.
“Yes, yesterday; but I have had so much to occupy my time. Now, my man, how can I serve you?”
“Come with me, sir; compel them to show us the trunk, and send for a locksmith to open it. Here is the authority—a search warrant given me by the investigating magistrate to use in case of necessity. Let us lose no time. I have a cab at the door.”
“We will start at once,” said the commissary.
The driver whipped up his horse once more, and they were soon rapidly rolling in the direction of the Rue St. Quentin.
“Now, sir,” said the young detective, “permit me to ask if you know this woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?”
“Yes, indeed, I know her very well. When I was first appointed to this district, six years ago, I was a bachelor, and for a long while I took my meals at her table d’hote. Casimir, my secretary, boards there even now.”