The man was evidently anxious to earn the money. He thought earnestly for some time, but at last had to confess he could recall nothing fixing the date.
“Do you remember what he had to eat? Would that help you?” asked the detective.
The waiter shook his head after consideration.
“Or any little matter of a clean cloth or napkin or anything of that kind? No? Or any other person who was in at the same time, or to whom you may have spoken on the subject?”
Again the man shook his head. Then suddenly a look of satisfaction passed over his face.
“But yes, monsieur,” he said eagerly, “I remember now. What you have just asked me brings it to my mind. M. Pascot lunched also when the gentleman was here, and he noticed him and asked me if I knew who he was. M. Pascot may be able to tell us.”
“Who is M. Pascot?”
“The apothecary, monsieur. From a dozen doors up the street. He comes here sometimes when Madame goes shopping to Paris. If you like, monsieur, I will go with you to him and we can inquire.”
“I should be greatly obliged.”
A walk of a few yards brought them to the chemist’s shop. M. Pascot was a large, bald-headed man, with a high colour and a consequential manner.
“Good day, M. Pascot,” the waiter greeted him deferentially. “This gentleman is a friend of mine, a detective, and he is engaged on an inquiry of much importance. You remember the man with the black beard who was lunching in the café the last day you were in? He was sitting at the little table in the alcove and then he began telephoning. You remember? You asked me who he was.”
“I remember,” rumbled the apothecary in a deep bass voice, “and what of him?”
“My friend here wants to find out what day he was at the café, and I thought perhaps you would be able to tell him?”
“And how should I be able to tell him?”
“Well, M. Pascot, you see it was on the same day that you were with us, and I thought maybe you would be able to fix that date, the day Madame was in Paris—you told me that.”
The pompous man seemed slightly annoyed, as if the waiter was taking a liberty in mentioning his personal concerns before a stranger. La Touche broke in with his smooth suavity.
“If, M. Pascot, you could do anything to help me, I should be more than grateful. I should explain to you that I am acting on behalf of an innocent man,” and he drew a pathetic picture of the evil case in which Felix found himself, ending up by delicately insinuating that a reward for suitable information was not out of the reckoning.
M. Pascot thawed.
“Permit me to consult Madame, monsieur,” he said, and with a bow he withdrew. In a few moments he reappeared.
“I can recollect the date now, monsieur. Madame had occasion to go to Paris to see her solicitor on business, and a note of the date was kept. It was Monday, the 29th of March last.”
“I cannot say, monsieur, how obliged I am to you,” said La Touche in heartfelt tones, and by a sort of legerdemain, of which both participants remained profoundly unconscious, a twenty-franc bill passed from hand to hand. La Touche was extraordinarily pleased. He had broken the alibi.
Leaving the apothecary and waiter bowing and smiling as a result of their douceurs, La Touche turned his steps to the pier and took a river steamer to the Pont de l’Alma. Walking up the Avenue, he rang at Boirac’s and was soon closeted with François in his little room.
“About that telephone message we were talking of the other day, M. François,” he remarked casually, when they had conversed on general subjects for some minutes, “I wasn’t quite certain where you said M. Boirac was speaking from. My first recollection was that you said Calais; then I wondered if it was not Charenton. I have to make a report on my proceedings and I would like to get it as correct as possible.”
The butler looked surprised and interested.
“It is curious, monsieur, that you should ask me that, for I don’t remember mentioning anything about it. I also thought at first it was Calais. I thought the operator said ‘Calais wants you,’ and I was surprised, for I did not know M. Boirac intended to leave Paris. But I was wrong, for when M. Boirac began to speak I asked him the direct question. ‘You are speaking from Calais?’ I said. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘from Charenton.’ I am sure now it was my mistake and that what I thought was Calais was really Charenton. I am not very quick and on the telephone these names sound very much alike. Strange your making the same mistake.”
“It is curious,” admitted La Touche, “almost like one of those extraordinary cases of thought transference you read of. However, I am obliged for your confirmation that it was Charenton,” and he diverted the conversation into other channels.
His next visit was to the Telephone Central. Here at first they were not keen to give him any information, but on producing his card and confidentially explaining his business to the head of the department, he obtained what he wanted. Inquiries were made from Calais by wire, and after a considerable delay he was informed that at 2:32 and 2:44 on the Tuesday in question calls were made on Paris. The demand came from the public call office and were for the following numbers: Passy 386 and Nord 745. When La Touche found from the directory that these numbers were those of M. Boirac’s house and office respectively, he could hardly refrain from laughing aloud.
“How, I wonder,” he thought, “did Lefarge neglect so obvious a check on the Charenton messages?” Then it occurred to him that probably only inter-urban calls were so noted.
The proof of his theory seemed so complete he did not think it necessary to make
