“The medical officer insists on it that death was natural,” said this functionary, “and I can hardly report the case, especially as the dead man was old Canquoelle; he had his finger in too many pies, and we should not be sure whom we might run foul of. Men like that die to order very often——”
“And my name is Corentin,” said Corentin in the man’s ear.
The Commissioner started with surprise.
“So just make a note of all this,” Corentin went on; “it will be very useful by and by; send it up only as confidential information. The crime cannot be proved, and I know that any inquiry would be checked at the very outset.—But I will catch the criminals some day yet. I will watch them and take them red-handed.”
The police official bowed to Corentin and left.
“Monsieur,” said Katt. “Mademoiselle does nothing but dance and sing. What can I do?”
“Has any change occurred then?”
“She has understood that her father is just dead.”
“Put her into a hackney coach, and simply take her to Charenton; I will write a note to the Commissioner-General of Police to secure her being suitably provided for.—The daughter in Charenton, the father in a pauper’s grave!” said Corentin—“Contenson, go and fetch the parish hearse. And now, Don Carlos Herrera, you and I will fight it out!”
“Carlos?” said Contenson, “he is in Spain.”