Chapter 92: The Uncle Arrives!
Joseph went through all the cases handled by Vezinier from beginning to end. He discussed them with Fouché and others for a long time, only to find that there was truly no place to start.
Some cases, if investigated thoroughly, might yield some clues, but that would definitely take a very long time.
As everyone was at their wits' end, Eman leaned closer and whispered, "Your Highness, if we don't leave now, you'll be late for your class at the police academy."
Joseph rubbed his temples. It seemed he wouldn't find any leverage against Vezinier anytime soon; he should just go to his command class first.
He stood up and headed outside. After a moment's thought, he turned back and called for Fouché, planning to continue their discussion on the way.
Fouché hurriedly gathered the thick stack of documents concerning Vezinier from the table and quickly followed. However, after only a few steps, the letters within the documents suddenly spilled out with a rustle.
Fouché awkwardly set down the documents and motioned for those around him to help pick up the letters.
Joseph looked at the hundreds of letters scattered on the floor and waved his hand. "Let's go. No need to pick them up, there's no useful evidence anyway..."
He sighed, shaking his head in annoyance. "If only there were a few letters containing evidence of his crimes."
'If I don't have evidence of his crimes, can I find a way to make Vezinier proactively write some evidence?'
He quickly reviewed the documents he had just seen in his mind, then suddenly turned, pulled a few sheets from the files next to Fouché, and spread them on the table.
One of them was Valayer's profile. Then he looked at the information for Runacher's father, the perpetrator of the recent murder case.
Though the two were unrelated, they shared one commonality: both were from Caen.
Joseph lowered his head in thought. 'Perhaps I can use this small leverage, push it this way... and then mislead him like this...'
'Then, no matter how cautious Vezinier is, he'll inevitably fall into the trap!'
He then grabbed Vezinier's maid's file and quickly scanned it before excitedly asking Fouché, "Does the Police Intelligence Bureau have anyone skilled at forging handwriting?"
Fouché nodded. "Several, Your Highness."
"Good, call them over quickly." Joseph then pointed at the letters on the floor. "See if there are any letters from Valayer."
"Ah? Valayer?" Fouché paused, remembering he was a close friend of Vezinier, and quickly crouched down to search.
A moment later, he held up a letter. "Your Highness, here it is!"
Several handwriting experts arrived at the office one after another. Under Joseph's direction, they used letters from Vezinier and Valayer as references to forge several passages in their respective hands.
Joseph selected the two best imitators, then had all of Valayer's letters collected and handed them over to professional intelligence agents to analyze for any hidden codes or signals.
With the preparations complete, Joseph told Fouché, "Select several capable operatives and send them to Caen immediately."
"Caen?"
Joseph nodded. "Go and thoroughly investigate Valayer's situation, then arrange things like this..."
Once Joseph finished explaining, Fouché's eyes lit up, clearly having connected the dots. He nodded repeatedly. "Yes, Your subordinate will see to it immediately!"
Joseph then meticulously planned with Fouché once more, ensuring all details were considered. Only then did he leave the Police Intelligence Bureau, feeling light, and head towards the police academy.
However, judging by the time, the tactical command class must have long since ended.
...
Several days later.
On the Left Bank of Paris, in a small villa on Rue Mouffetard.
A noble couple, both in their forties, sat glumly in their chairs, heads bowed, lost in thought, occasionally sighing.
On the table before them lay stew, bread, and vegetable corn soup. The food had long grown cold, untouched.
A knock on the door startled them both. The maid hurried to open the door just a crack. "May I ask whom you're looking for?"
"Is this Viscount Montry's residence, please?"
"I am," the man inside replied.
The man in the house rose wearily and approached, frowning at the stranger before him. "Excuse me, who might you be?"
"Sylvain, it's me," the newcomer said, warmly embracing Viscount Montry's shoulders and patting them. Seeing Montry still dazed, he smiled, pointing to himself. "Lange, have you forgotten? Your cousin."
"Cousin?" Viscount Montry said, utterly bewildered.
Mr. Lange seemed a little displeased. He pressed the gift he was carrying into Montry's hands, then stepped back. "My mother, your Aunt Angélique, do you remember her?"
Montry suddenly understood, nodding repeatedly. "Is Aunt Angélique well? Oh, dear cousin, how did you find me here?"
The so-called Lange was, of course, no cousin of his, but an agent from the Police Intelligence Bureau.
Earlier, the Police Intelligence Bureau had made a trip to Montry's hometown, Caen, and made thorough preparations, specifically choosing one of his distant relatives as an entry point.
Lange pulled out a copy of the Caen News from a week prior from his pocket and unfolded it for Montry. "I saw the news about Runacher's young nephew. Oh, it's truly... regrettable."
The newspaper reported on the "Runacher Frying Murder Case," recently handled by Vezinier.
Madame Montry also approached, her eyes red, covering her face. "God, even Caen knows about this..."
Lange quickly said, "My mother saw the news too. She immediately told me I absolutely had to help you. So I rushed over.
"Oh, right, how is the case progressing now? Has a verdict been reached?"
Viscount Montry shook his head. "Not yet. But the presiding judge refuses to see me. From what I can tell... there's probably no hope."
Lange smiled, patting him on the shoulder. "I came here precisely for this matter."
"You? You have a way?"
Lange nodded. "The master I now serve has some connections with that judge. I'll go and smooth things over for you.
"Of course, it might require a sum of money—a very large sum."
The Montry couple were so agitated they almost knelt before him, repeatedly saying, "We'll find a way to get the money. As long as it's not a death sentence by hanging, anything else is acceptable. Please, we beg you!"
Lange led them to sit down on the chairs and asked, "Please tell me the details of the case again, more thoroughly."
After a long while, Viscount Montry finally rambled through the entire case. Lange asked for a few more details, then immediately stood up and said:
"Alright, I'll go to the High Court now. Await my good news."
Forty minutes later, Lange's carriage stopped outside a side entrance of the Paris High Court.
He glanced at the dense crowd of protestors before him, shook his head helplessly, pushed through the throng, and squeezed his way inside.
Before long, in the largest office on the third floor of the High Court, he finally met the target of his operation—Grand Justice Vezinier.
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