I, needless to say, was a man of superlative elegance. I believe I have mentioned that my mustache was unrivaled in Europe. Yes, indeed, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that while dressing I used to keep my mustache out of the way by hanging it behind my ears. Nearly twenty-two inches, my friend, from tip to tip! However. It did not take me long to worm all the secrets out of the wretched little soul of this Cherubini. He was second in command to the unspeakable Crapaud. Yes. That, in itself, was bad enough. But he was a traitor even to his master.
I will cut it short. Crapaud had a hold upon the Minister... let us call him Monsieur Lamoureux. Follow this carefully. Crapaud also had a hold upon Cherubini. Do you get that? Good. The Minister Lamoureux wanted very much to break away from the clutches of Crapaud, and was prepared to pay heavy money for the letter which Crapaud held.
Was this letter procurable? No. But there was an alternative to procuring it, and that was, to incriminate Crapaud in such a manner that he would be glad to part with the letter incriminating the Minister.
But how could one incriminate Crapaud?
Cherubini had a plan.
There was one thing which, in France, could never be forgiven or forgotten; and that was Treason! Out of any other charge it was possible for a man with influence to wriggle; but not Treason. There was a spy scare at the time. (It was a little before the infamous Dreyfus affair.) If one could prove that Crapaud was receiving money from German agents, in return for information, then one had him.
“But is he?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Cherubini, “Crapaud is the outlet through which so many confidential matters concerning internal policy leak through to Germany. He receives, in his apartment, Von Eberhardt of the German Embassy; and receives, in exchange for certain information, a certain sum of money. If only one could prove this.”
I asked: “Have you means of getting into Crapaud’s flat?”
“Yes.”
“Then the whole matter is simple,” I said. “Find out the exact moment when the money is likely to change hands — and take a photograph. A good photograph of Crapaud, taking money from Von Eberhardt, would be enough to hang him ten times over.”
“Yes,” said Cherubini.
“There is only one drawback,” I said. “A camera is too cumbersome.” This, you must remember, was before the days of the candid camera and the lightning snapshot.
“Not at all,” said Cherubini. “The police in Paris are beginning to use the portable camera invented by Professor Hohler. This camera can be concealed under an ordinary overcoat and has a lens good enough to take a dear picture by strong gas-light.”
“Can you get one?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“I am afraid,” said Cherubini.
I paused; then asked: “How much would there be in this?”
“How much? Why, two or three hundred thousand francs,” said this rat of a man.
“Then have no fear. I will take the photograph, if you get me into Crapaud s flat at the right time.”
Bon. It was agreed.
We arranged to go to Paris together, and settle the affair.
“I have entrée to the flat,” said Cherubini, “and I know it like the palm of my hand. It is simple.” And he added: “But you must do the photography, mind.”
All right. I will skip the tiresome details concerning the house, and so forth. It was a huge place in the Avenue Victor Hugo, with rooms as large as three rooms such as are built nowadays. The salon was like a football field — vast, I tell you, and most luxuriously carpeted. The furniture in that room alone must have been worth four or five thousand pounds. Rare stuff. This pig-dog of a Crapaud did himself well. Near the window there was a deep alcove, with another little window, or air-vent, at the back of it.
It was from this place that I was supposed to work. Cherubini had keys, and everything necessary. He also supplied me with the camera — a nice little piece of work not dissimilar to the Leica or Contax camera of the present day. I was smuggled into the alcove, and there I waited for four hours, not daring to move. It was not very comfortable, my friend. However, in due course Crapaud arrived, with his friend Von Eberhardt. They sat. I was admirably in line with them. They conversed. I photographed them. They drank. Again I photographed them. They patted each other on the shoulder. Click! Again. Crapaud took out an enormous gold cigar-case, and offered Von Eberhardt a cigar. Again, click! Then, at last, the German took from his pocket a large roll of banknotes, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Crapaud grinned and produced a sheet of paper. Then as the paper and the money changed hands — click! Perfect.
Another hour passed before Von Eberhardt left. Then, as Crapaud went to escort his visitor to the door, I was up and out of the window, and away. You would never believe, looking at me now, how agile I used to be. I thought I saw another figure slinking away in the shadows, but the night was too dark. I got to the street, and walked quietly home, where I developed my plates.
They were beautiful. The glaring gaslight, amply reflected in a dozen mirrors, was perfect. The photographs were as clear as figures seen by strong sunlight.
The next day Cherubini came to see me. There was something in the manner of the wretch which disturbed me. He looked me up and down with an insolent grin, and said:
“Captain Crapaud’s apartment was broken into last night.”
“So?” I said.
“Watches, rings, trinkets, and money to the value of fifty thousand francs were stolen,” said Cherubini.
“Yes?”
“You were in the apartment, Monsieur,” said Cherubini.
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, Monsieur, I was behind you, also with a camera.”
“Indeed?” I said.
“Indeed. And I am afraid that it will be my duty to have you arrested for the crime.”
“Oh?”
“Unless, of course, you are prepared to...”
“Pay you off, I suppose?” I said.
“Fifty thousand francs,” said Cherubini.
“And otherwise?”
“Listen, my friend,” said Cherubini, throwing himself into a chair, “we are men of the world. I will put the cards on the table. The plates in your camera were duds, useless. You have no pictures. I, on the contrary, have some excellent ones of yourself in Captain Crapaud’s flat.”
“Any decent counsel could kick that case full of holes,” I said.
“Oh, no. Not by the time Crapaud and I have finished with it,” said Cherubini. “Oh, my friend, you have no idea what evidence our boys would find, if once they searched your rooms.”
“So I was caught, was I?” I asked. “Like a fish in a net.”
“But Von Eberhardt?”
Cherubini laughed. “Do you imagine that we would let you into the place with a camera? I mean, with a workable camera? With a camera loaded with proper plates? Be reasonable, Monsieur, be reasonable. There is nothing but your word, concerning Von Eberhardt. Who would believe you? No, no. You had better pay, my friend.”
“And supposing I thought of all that beforehand, and took the precaution of changing the plates?” I asked.
“It would still have made no difference,” said Cherubini. “The shutter of your camera would not work.”
I rose, and seized him by the throat, slapped him in the face, and threw him to the floor.
“Listen,” I said, “I would not trust you as far as I could see you. I saw through your game from the first. I had the shutter adjusted, the lens arranged, and the plates replaced. The camera was in perfect order. I will show you some pictures,” I said; and I showed him.