He made these reflections in a low tone of voice; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity was aroused. “Excuse me,” said the old veteran, “I don’t quite understand you.”
“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to proceed further—” Lecoq paused with knitted brows. An idea had occurred to him. He fancied he could prove complicity between at least one of the witnesses summoned to give evidence, and some member of the duke’s household. He was indeed thinking of Madame Milner, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and of his first meeting with her. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, standing on a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, while she persistently repeated three or four German words to a starling, who with equal persistency retorted: “Camille! Where is Camille?” “One thing is certain,” exclaimed Lecoq aloud, “if Madame Milner—who is a German, and who speaks French with the strongest possible German accent—had reared this bird, it would either have spoken in German or else in French, and in the latter case with the same accent as its mistress. So it can’t have been in her possession long; but then who can have given it to her?”
Father Absinthe was beginning to grow impatient “In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.
“I say that if there is any one at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille, I have the proof I wish for. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.” And without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly towards the Seine.
When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq perceived a commissionaire leaning against the door of a wine-shop. He walked straight towards him. “Come, my good fellow,” said he. “I want you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting for her here.”
“But, sir——”
“What, you haven’t gone yet?”
The messenger started off, and the two police agents entered the wine-shop, Father Absinthe scarcely having time to swallow a glass of brandy before the envoy returned. “I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille,” said he. “The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly this morning.”
“Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young police agent. Then controlling himself, he mentally added: “He must have killed his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed. Now, I shall be allowed to continue my investigations.”
In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de Justice. M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately surprised by Lecoq’s revelations, though he listened with evident doubt to the young police agent’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the starling which at last decided him. “Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, “and to tell the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further action in the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that the Duke de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying it.”