The Shadow of Great Britain

Of course, Arthur could not yet confirm if this was the truth of the matter, but this was the reasonable deduction made by Parisian Sleuth Francois Vidocq after gathering various pieces of evidence.

Even though it couldn’t be confirmed yet, faced with a series of evidence presented by Vidocq, Arthur had to admit that if this were at Scotland Yard, it could basically enter the final trial process.

Paris, Breaux Detective Agency.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, flipping through a thick stack of materials on the desk, occasionally tossing out a question or two: ”Mr. Victor, are you sure Balzac really told you himself that the leak to him was a lady?”

”Absolutely.” Vidocq tossed a coin in his hand: ”Don’t you know about my relationship with Mr. Balzac? He often comes here to gather material, and sometimes we go to the pub for a drink.”

”I’m not doubting you, but you know, in our line of work, being meticulous is the most important.” Arthur put down the materials, folding his hands on the desk: ”Can you reconstruct the scene at that time?”

Vidocq caught the coin mid-air, as if it were the proof of his testimony: ”That was last month. Mr. Balzac was having trouble with his new work, so he came here looking for inspiration. We talked all afternoon, but still didn’t get anywhere. But the next day, when I saw him in the café, he was all radiant. I asked him if he’d encountered something joyful. He then told me that a lady who holds a significant position in the Paris literary scene told him a great story, and he wanted to write it down.”

At this point, Vidocq paused and, crossing his legs, smiled: ”I paid a bit more attention then and asked, since it was such a good story, why didn’t the lady write it herself? Guess how Mr. Balzac replied?”

Arthur had long anticipated the follow-up: ”The lady was too closely related to the story’s heroine, unsuitable for her to write it herself, so she entrusted it to him?”

Vidocq laughed loudly and patted Arthur on the shoulder: ”Brother, you’re like me, born to do this job.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur wasn’t even slightly happy; he just slightly twisted his mouth: ”Boring case, like most of the love-murder cases.”

”If every case were as thrilling as they sound, where would we earn a living?” Vidocq poured Arthur a glass of wine: ”Okay, the case is clear, are you settling the fee now or putting it on the account?”

Arthur picked up the white gloves on the desk, slowly putting them on: ”Same old rule.”

”Put it on Scotland Yard’s account? Under what title?”

”Confidential case funds for sensitive matters.”

”Specifically, what sensitive case?”

Arthur adjusted his attire and took up his cane: ”No comment.”

”Neat, symmetrical.” Vidocq signed the document while whistling: ”Now that’s meticulous.”

Although Vidocq didn’t know how Arthur would explain the rising confidential case funds each year to the Treasury, as a mid-level officer who had been through the ropes at the Great Paris Police Hall for years, he knew what to ask and what not to.

Who knows, maybe Arthur nowadays held the kind of power at the Home Office that Talleyrand had in France back in the day.

With such a promising client, Vidocq was always clear about the boundary between business and personal matters; affairs were settled publicly, but out of personal friendship, he might even throw in a few extra favors for Arthur privately.

”Brother, don’t rush off!” Vidocq called out in an attempt to keep him: ”If you’re not busy, how about a lunch together? You haven’t been to Paris for years, the customs and scenery around here have changed quite a bit; if you have the time, I’ll reintroduce you during lunch?”

Arthur was about to pull the door open to leave, but stopped upon hearing this and turned back, looking at Vidocq’s smiling face, he eventually drew his hand back: ”Since you have this thought, it would not be gallant of me to be insensitive.”

Vidocq chuckled and immediately called for the servants to prepare the carriage.

Within the time it took to have a cup of tea, Vidocq’s four-wheeled carriage with copper fittings and a glossy paint finish was already waiting downstairs.

It was evident that Vidocq had indeed made quite a bit of money over the years; the sides of the carriage were embedded with gilt patterns, the glass windows covered with light muslin, and like this carriage, there were still four others parked in the Breaux Detective Agency’s backyard.

It was midday, and the streets of Paris were even more bustling than in the morning.

The café under the arcade had waiters loudly calling out for patrons to sit down, while a few Sorbonne University students, wearing wide-brimmed hats, argued passionately about the country’s future while puffing on cheap cigars. At the bakery on the corner, an apprentice handed steaming hot baguettes to the housewives lining up.

The mounds of fruit on the vendors’ carts smelled sweet of apples and grapes mixed with the scent of horse manure, wafting in the air.

Posters on the street displayed ads for next week’s theater performances, the paste not yet dry but already torn to shreds by the children.

At the end of the square, someone was loudly selling cheap editions of Hugo’s ”Othello,” while against the wall in the corner of the newsstand, a few furtive street artists, seeing no police around, began drawing satirical cartoons of Louis Philippe, depicting him as a pear.

Inside the carriage, the thick walls blocked out the noise from outside.