next four decades.
In 1907, a new translation by Ernest Tristan was published by Greening & Co. under the more evocative title The Blackmailers, a complete but more efficient interpretation of the book that halved its page count. It was this version that William Collins Sons & Co. of Glasgow later released in their rapidly expanding series of Pocket Classics. Also selected as the sixth book in Collins’ new Detective Story Club imprint, it was published in September 1929 with typical fanfare:
‘Émile Gaboriau is France’s greatest detective writer. The Blackmailers is one of his most thrilling novels, and is full of exciting surprises. The story opens with a sensational bank robbery in Paris, suspicion falling immediately upon Prosper Bertomy, the young cashier whose extravagant living has been the subject of talk among his friends. Further investigation, however, reveals a network of blackmail and villainy which seems as if it would inevitably close round Prosper and the beautiful Madeleine who is deeply in love with him. Can he prove his innocence in the face of such damning evidence?’
The story was filmed in Hollywood in 1932 under the older title File No.113, starring Lew Cody as the subtly renamed ‘Le Coq’.
Although Gaboriau’s fame and reputation were inevitably overshadowed by newer crime writers after his death, he was later championed by several discerning critics including the novelists Valentine Williams (in a 1923 landmark essay, ‘Gaboriau: Father of the Detective Novel’) and Arnold Bennett, who praised all the Lecoq novels in 1928, stating that they are ‘brilliantly presented and, besides the detection and crime-solving, Gaboriau was able to provide a really good, sound and emotional novel’.
After 150 years, Gaboriau’s novels will always deserve to be savoured, appreciated and rediscovered by connoisseurs of early detective fiction.
RICHARD DALBY
January 2016
THERE appeared in all the evening papers of Tuesday, February 28, 1865 the following paragraphs:
‘An extensive robbery from a well-known banker of the city, M. André Fauvel, this morning caused great excitement in the neighbourhood of the Rue de Provence. The thieves with extraordinary skill and daring succeeded in entering his office, forcing a safe, which was believed to be burglar-proof, and carrying off the enormous sum of 350,000 francs in banknotes.
‘The police, who were at once informed of the robbery, displayed their usual zeal, and their efforts have been crowned with success. One of the employees, “P.B.”, has been arrested; it is to be hoped that his accomplices will soon be in the clutches of the law.’
During four whole days Paris talked of nothing but this robbery.
Then other serious events happened, an acrobat broke his leg at the circus, a young actress made her début at a little theatre, and the paragraph of February 28 was forgotten.
But this time the newspapers, perhaps on purpose, had been badly or inaccurately informed.
A sum of 350,000 francs had, it was true, been stolen from M. André Fauvel, but not in the way indicated. An employee, in fact, had been detained for a time, but no real charge was made against him. The robbery, though of unusual importance, remained unexplained if not inexplicable.
Here are the facts as related in detail in the report of the inquiry.
THE André Fauvel bank premises, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is an important building and with its large staff looks almost like a Government office.
The counting-house of the bank is on the ground floor, and the windows which look out into the street are fitted with bars, so thick and close together as to discourage all attempts at robbery.
A large glass door opens into an immense vestibule in which, from morning to night, three or four messengers are stationed.
To the right are the offices, into which the public are admitted, and a passage leading to the entrance to the strong room. The correspondence, ledger and accountant general’s departments are on the left.
At the rear there is a little courtyard covered in with glass, into which seven or eight doors open. At ordinary times they are not used, but at certain times they are indispensable.
M. André Fauvel’s private room is on the first floor in a fine suite of apartments.
This private room communicates directly with the counting-house by a little black staircase, very narrow and steep, which descends into the chief cashier’s room.
This room, which is called the strong room, is protected from a sudden attack, and from a siege almost, for it is armour plated like a battleship.
Thick plates of sheet-iron protect the doors and the partitions, and a strong grating obstructs the chimney.
Inside these, let into the wall with enormous cramps, is the safe; one of those fantastic and formidable objects which make a poor devil, who can easily carry his fortune in his purse, dream.
The safe, a fine specimen by Becquet, is two metres high and one and a half broad. Made entirely of wrought-iron it is built with three walls, and inside is divided into isolated compartments in case of fire.
One tiny key opens this safe. But the opening with the key is quite an unimportant business. Five movable steel buttons, upon which are engraved all the letters of the alphabet, constitute the secret of its strength. Before putting the key in the lock it is necessary to be able to replace the letters in that order in which they were when the safe was locked.
There, as elsewhere, the safe was closed with a word which was changed from time to time.
This word was only known to the head of the firm and the cashier. Each of them had a key.
With such a property, though possessed of more diamonds than the Duke of Brunswick, a person ought to be able to sleep soundly.
There appears to be only one risk, that of forgetting the ‘Open Sesame’ of the iron door.
On the morning of February 28 the staff arrived as usual.
At half past nine when they were all attending to their duties, a very dark man of uncertain age and military bearing, in deep mourning, entered the office nearest the strong room, in which five or six of the staff were at work. He asked to see the chief cashier.
He was told that the cashier had not yet arrived and that the strong room did not open till ten, a large notice to this effect being displayed in the vestibule.
This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the newcomer.
‘I thought,’ he said in a dry almost impertinent tone, ‘that I should find someone here to see me, after arranging with M. Fauvel yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, ironmaster at Oloron. I have come to withdraw 300,000 francs deposited here by my brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that you have not received instructions.’
Neither the title of the noble ironmaster nor his business seemed to touch the staff.
‘The cashier has not yet come,’ they repeated, ‘we can do nothing.’
‘Then let me see M. Fauvel.’ After a certain amount of hesitation, a young member of the staff named Cavaillon, who worked near the window, said:
‘He always goes out about this time.’
‘I shall go then,’ said M. de Clameran.
He went out without saluting or raising his hat, as he had done when he came in.
‘Our client is not very polite,’ said Cavaillon, ‘but he has no luck, for here is Prosper.’
The chief cashier, Prosper Bertomy, was a fine fellow of thirty, he was fair with blue eyes and dressed in the latest style.
He