"It
is very strange," he thought, as he walked toward his lodgings, "that
whichever side I turn, in this affair, I find mention of Germany. The
murderer comes from Leipsic, Madame Milner must be a Bavarian, and now
here is an Austrian baroness."
It was too late to make any further inquiries that evening, and Lecoq
went to bed; but the next morning, at an early hour, he resumed his
investigations with fresh ardor. There now seemed only one remaining
clue to success: the letter signed "Lacheneur," which had been found
in the pocket of the murdered soldier. This letter, judging from the
half-effaced heading at the top of the note-paper, must have been
written in some cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. To discover which
precise cafe would be mere child's play; and indeed the fourth landlord
to whom Lecoq exhibited the letter recognized the paper as his. But
neither he, nor his wife, nor the young lady at the counter, nor the
waiters, nor any of the customers present at the time, had ever once
heard mention made of this singular name--Lacheneur.
And now what was Lecoq to do? Was the case utterly hopeless? Not yet.
Had not the spurious soldier declared that this Lacheneur was an old
comedian? Seizing upon this frail clue, as a drowning man clutches at
the merest fragment of the floating wreck, Lecoq turned his steps in
another direction, and hurried from theatre to theatre, asking every
one, from doorkeeper to manager: "Don't you know an actor named
Lacheneur?"
Alas! one and all gave a negative reply, at times indulging in some
rough joke at the oddity of the name.
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