“Really?”
“No, they unloaded it onto a flat boat, a barge of sorts, which was moored to the wharf.”
“And where did the cart come from?”
“Oh, I knew it at once. It belonged to Master Vatinel, the carter.”
“And where does he live?”
“At Louvetot.”
Beautrelet consulted his military map. The hamlet of Louvetot lay where the highroad between Yvetot and Caudebec was crossed by a little winding road that ran through the woods to La Mailleraie.
Not until six o’clock in the evening did Isidore succeed in discovering Master Vatinel, in a pothouse. Master Vatinel was one of those artful old Normans who are always on their guard, who distrust strangers, but who are unable to resist the lure of a gold coin or the influence of a glass or two:
“Well, yes, sir, the men in the motor car that morning had told me to meet them at five o’clock at the crossroads. They gave me four great, big things, as high as that. One of them went with me and we carted the things to the barge.”
“You speak of them as if you knew them before.”