Joseph reviewed the cases handled by Vergniaud from start to finish and discussed at length with Fouche and others, yet he discovered that there really was no angle to work from.
Some cases, if thoroughly investigated, might yield some clues, but it would certainly take a considerable amount of time.
As everyone was at a loss, Eman approached and whispered, “Your Highness, if we don’t depart now, we’re going to miss the class at the police academy.”
Joseph rubbed his temples, realizing that finding a grip on Vergniaud would not be quick or easy, so he might as well go to his command class.
He got up and walked toward the exit, then thought better of it, turned back, and called Fouche over to discuss further on the way.
Fouche hurriedly gathered up a stack of documents about Vergniaud from the desk and quickly followed, but he had only taken a few steps when the letters in the files suddenly scattered everywhere.
Fouche awkwardly set down the files and called for those around to help pick up the letters.
Joseph, looking at the hundred or so letters on the floor, gestured, “Let’s go, there’s no need to pick them up, there’s no useful evidence anyway…”
He sighed, shaking his head irritably, “If only there were a few letters detailing his crimes.”
As he spoke, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, feeling as if he’d grasped a bit of inspiration.
If he didn’t have any evidence, could he possibly find a way to make Vergniaud unwittingly write something incriminating?
He rapidly went through the documents he had just reviewed in his mind, suddenly turned around, and pulled out a few from beside Fouche, spreading them on the table.
One of them was Valjean’s file, and then he looked at the information of Runashe’s father, the perpetrator of the recent murder case.
Although the two men had nothing to do with each other, they had one thing in common—they were both from Caen.
Joseph pondered with his head bowed, perhaps he could use this small leverage to move forward like this… and then lead the situation like that…
Then, even if Vergniaud was ever so careful, he would still inevitably fall into the trap!
He picked up the details of Vergniaud’s maid again, asked Fouche excitedly, “Is there anyone in the Police Affairs Department who specializes in imitating others’ handwriting?”
Fouche nodded, “Several, Your Highness.”
“Good, call them here now,” Joseph then pointed to the letters on the floor, “Find Valjean’s letters.”
“Ah? Valjean?” Fouche reacted, remembering the man was Vergniaud’s close friend, and hurriedly began searching on the ground.
Shortly, he held up a letter, “Your Highness, here it is!”
Several handwriting experts arrived one after another at the office, and under Joseph’s direction, they imitated the handwriting of Vergniaud and Valjean in a few paragraphs, using their letters for reference.
Joseph selected the two most convincing imitators and then had all of Valjean’s letters gathered and handed them over to the professional intelligence personnel to analyze if there was any coded message or the like.
With the preparations complete, Joseph said to Fouche, “Assign a few capable people to leave for Caen immediately.”
“Caen?”
Joseph nodded, “Go and investigate Valjean’s situation in detail, then arrange things like this…”
After he gave all his instructions, Fouche clearly had an epiphany, his face brightening, and he nodded continuously, “Yes, I’ll get right on it!”
Joseph then discussed the detailed plans with Fouche, ensuring that all aspects were considered. Only then did he leave the Police Affairs Department feeling much lighter, heading towards the police school.
Only by then, the tactics and command class had certainly already ended.
…
Several days later.
On the Left Bank of Paris, in a small villa on Mufuta Street.
An aristocratic couple in their forties sat in chairs, furrowing their brows in distress, each lost in their thoughts, occasionally letting out a sigh.
A stew, bread, and vegetable corn soup were laid out on the table in front of them, but the food had already gone cold without a bite taken.
A knock on the door startled them. The maid hurried to open the door a crack and asked, “May I ask who you’re looking for?”
“Is this the home of Viscount Monteli?”
“I’m here.”
The man inside stood up wearily and went to greet the newcomer, frowning at the stranger in front of him, “Excuse me, may I ask who you are?”
“It’s me, Sylvan,” the visitor said enthusiastically, hugging Viscount Monteli’s shoulders and giving them a pat. As the latter still looked confused, the visitor smiled, pointing to himself and said, “Lange, don’t you remember? Your cousin.”
“Cousin?” Viscount Monteli was utterly befuddled.
Mr. Lange seemed a bit displeased as he thrust the gift he was holding into Monteli’s hands and stepped back, “My mother, your Aunt Anrelique, does that ring a bell?”
Monteli suddenly realized, nodding repeatedly, “How is Aunt Anrelique? Oh, dear cousin, how did you find your way here?”
The so-called Lange was naturally not his cousin at all, but a secret agent from the Police Affairs Department.
The Police Affairs Department had recently visited Monteli’s hometown of Caen and made thorough preparations, specifically choosing one of his distant relatives as a point of entry.
Lange took out a copy of the “Caen News” from a week ago, unfolded it, and showed it to Monteli, “I saw the news about little nephew Runashe. Oh, it’s really… such a shame.”
The newspaper carried the news of the “Runashe Murder Case,” recently taken over by Magistrate Vergniaud.
Lady Monteli also came over, her eyes reddened as she covered her face, “God, even Caen knows about this now…”
Lange hurriedly said, “Mother saw the news too and immediately instructed me to help you. So I hurried over.
“Oh, right, how is the case going? Has it been judged yet?”
Viscount Monteli shook his head, “Not yet. But the presiding judge doesn’t want to see me, and I think… there might be no hope left.”
Lange smiled, patting him, “I’m here for exactly that reason.”
“You? You have a way?”
Lange nodded, “The master I currently serve has some connection with that judge. I’ll go and make some arrangements for you.
“Of course, it might require a sum of money, a substantial amount.”
The Montelis were so excited they almost knelt before him, repeatedly saying, “We will find a way with the money. Anything but a hanging, we’ll take anything. Please!”
Lange pulled them to sit down in their chairs and asked, “Please tell me the details of the case again.”
After a long while, Viscount Monteli finally recounted the case in a rambling manner, and Lange asked some more details, then stood up and said:
“Alright, I’ll head to the High Court now. Wait for my good news.”
Forty minutes later, Lange’s carriage stopped outside the side entrance of the Paris High Court.
He glanced at the dense crowd of protesters in front of him, shook his head helplessly, and squeezed through the crowd to get inside.
Before long, in the largest office on the third floor of the High Court, he finally met his target—Magistrate Wezignia.
