Diary fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Mystery fiction; Short stories, English
I slid down into the street easily and quietly, as I thought I should,
and immediately set off at the top of my speed to a branch “Prefecture”
of Police, which I knew was situated in the immediate neighborhood. A
“Sub-prefect,” and several picked men among his subordinates, happened
to be up, maturing, I believe, some scheme for discovering the
perpetrator of a mysterious murder which all Paris was talking of just
then. When I began my story, in a breathless hurry and in very bad
French, I could see that the Sub-prefect suspected me of being a drunken
Englishman who had robbed somebody; but he soon altered his opinion as
I went on, and before I had anything like concluded, he shoved all
the papers before him into a drawer, put on his hat, supplied me with
another (for I was bareheaded), ordered a file of soldiers, desired his
expert followers to get ready all sorts of tools for breaking open doors
and ripping up brick flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly and
familiar manner possible, to lead me with him out of the house. I will
venture to say that when the Sub-prefect was a little boy, and was taken
for the first time to the play, he was not half as much pleased as he
was now at the job in prospect for him at the gambling-house!
Away we went through the streets, the Sub-prefect cross-examining and
congratulating me in the same breath as we marched at the head of our
formidable _posse comitatus._ Sentinels were placed at the back and
front of the house the moment we got to it; a tremendous battery of
knocks was directed against the door; a light appeared at a window; I
was told to conceal myself behind the police--then came more knocks and
a cry of “Open in the name of the law!” At that terrible summons bolts
and locks gave way before an invisible hand, and the moment after the
Sub-prefect was in the passage, confronting a waiter half-dressed and
ghastly pale. This was the short dialogue which immediately took place:
“We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping in this house?”
“He went away hours ago.”
“He did no such thing. His friend went away; _he_ remained. Show us to
his bedroom!”
“I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-prefect, he is not here! he--”
“I swear to you, Monsieur le Garcon, he is. He slept here--he didn’t
find your bed comfortable--he came to us to complain of it--here he
is among my men--and here am I ready to look for a flea or two in his
bedstead. Renaudin! (calling to one of the subordinates, and pointing
to the waiter) collar that man and tie his hands behind him. Now, then,
gentlemen, let us walk upstairs!”
Every man and woman in the house was secured--the “Old Soldier” the
first. Then I identified the bed in which I had slept, and then we went
into the room above.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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