“What good will it do? Jean Lacheneur will betray me.” But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear Lacheneur for the present, at least. A few hours previously, on his way in the dark from the Rainbow to to the Poivriere, Jean had fallen to the bottom of a stone quarry, and fractured his skull. The labourers, on returning to their work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and that very moment they were carrying him to the hospital.
Although Otto also was ignorant of this circumstances, he did not seem discouraged. “There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you will only sustain your present character. An escape is an easy matter when a man has millions at his command.”
“They will ask me who I am, where I’ve come from, and how I’ve lived.”
“You speak English and German, don’t you; tell them that you have just returned from foreign parts; that you were a foundling, and that you have always lived a roving life.”
“How can I prove that?”
Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively: “We must agree on our plans, for success depends on a perfect understanding between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris—and no one knows of our connection. She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, in the Rue Saint-Quentin. You can say that you arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to that hotel, that you left your trunk there, and that it has a card nailed to the top with your name—say May, foreign artist.”
“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly. And then, with extraordinary quickness and precision, they agreed, point by point, on their plan of defense. When everything had been arranged, Otto pretended to awake from the heavy sleep of intoxication; he clamoured to be released, and the keeper finally opened the door and set him at liberty. Before leaving the station-house, however, he succeeded in throwing a note to the Widow Chupin, who was imprisoned in the opposite cell. So, when Lecoq, after his skilful investigations at the Poivriere, rushed to the Place d’Italie, panting with hope and ambition, he found himself outwitted by these men, who were inferior to him in penetration, but whose tact was superior to his own.
Martial’s plans being fully formed, he intended to carry them out with absolute perfection of detail, and, after his removal to the Depot, he was preparing himself for the investigating magistrate’s visit, when Maurice d’Escorval entered his cell. They recognized each other. They were both terribly agitated, and the examination was an examination only in name. After Maurice’s departure Martial attempted to destroy himself; for he had no faith in his former enemy’s generosity. But when he found M. Segmuller occupying Maurice’s place the next morning, he really believed that he was saved.
Then began that struggle between the magistrate and Lecoq on one side, and the prisoner on the other—a struggle in which neither conquered. Martial knew that Lecoq was the only person he had to fear, still he bore him no ill-will. Faithful to his nature, which compelled him to be just even to his enemies, he could not help admiring the astonishing penetration and perseverance of this young police agent, who, undismayed by the obstacles surrounding him, struggled on, unassisted, to reach the truth. But Lecoq was always outwitted by Otto, the mysterious accomplice, who seemed to know his every movement in advance. At the Morgue, at the Hotel de Mariembourg, with Toinon, the wife of Polyte Chupin, as well as with Polyte himself Lecoq was always just a little too late. He detected the secret correspondence between the prisoner and his accomplice, and he was even ingenious enough to discover the key to it, but this served no purpose. A man, who had seen a rival, or rather a future master in Lecoq—in short, Gevrol—had betrayed him. If his efforts to arrive at the truth through the jeweller and the Marchioness d’Arlange had failed, it was only because Blanche had not purchased the diamond ear-rings she wore at the Poivriere at any shop, but from one of her friends, the Baroness de Watchau. And finally, if no one in Paris had missed the Duke de Sairmeuse, it was because—thanks to an understanding between the duchess, Otto, and Camille—no other inmates of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his absence. All the servants supposed that the duke was confined to his room by illness. His breakfast and dinner were taken up to his private apartments every day; and soups and tisanes were prepared ostensibly for his benefit.
So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to be summoned before the Assize Court and condemned under the name of May, when he was afforded an opportunity to escape. Too shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set for him, it was only after horrible hesitation that he decided to alight from the prison-van, determined to run the risk, and commending himself for protection to his lucky star. And he decided wisely, for that same night he leaped over his own garden wall, leaving an escaped convict, Joseph Couturier by name, whom he had picked up in a low eating-house, as a hostage in Lecoq’s hands. Warned by Madame Milner, thanks to a blunder which Lecoq committed, Otto was waiting for his master. In the twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell under the razor; he plunged into the bath which was already prepared, and his clothes were burned. And he it was who, during the search a few minutes later, had the hardihood to call out: “Otto, by all means allow these men to do their duty.” But he did not breathe freely until the police-agents had departed. “At last,” he exclaimed, “honour is saved! We have outwitted Lecoq!”