Chapter 73: The Debt Collector: I
The next morning, a well-dressed man in his early thirties walked into the mayor’s office in the bustling port city of Marseilles. Everything about him screamed "foreign businessman", from his crisp blue coat and pristine white vest to his clipped accent that marked him as English.
"Sir," he said, getting straight to business, "I represent Thomson & French Trading Company from Rome. We’ve had a partnership with the local shipping firm Morrel & Son for over ten years now. The thing is, we’ve loaned them around a hundred thousand francs, and we’re hearing some pretty disturbing rumors about their financial situation. I came all the way from Rome to get the real story."
The mayor leaned back in his chair, choosing his words carefully. "Look, I won’t lie to you, Morrel has had a string of bad luck these past few years. Lost several ships, got burned by some business partners who went bankrupt. But here’s the thing," he paused, "even though he owes me ten thousand francs personally, I can’t give you details about his finances. What I can tell you is that the man has never missed a payment in his life. Rock-solid integrity."
The mayor scribbled an address on a piece of paper. "If you want the real inside scoop, go see Inspector de Boville at 15 Rue de Nouailles. He handles the prison system here, and he’s got two hundred thousand tied up with Morrel, way more than my stake. If anyone’s sweating about this situation, it’ll be him."
The Englishman nodded curtly, thanked the mayor, and strode out with that distinctive confident walk that screamed "I own half of London."
When he arrived at the prison administration building, the Englishman found Inspector de Boville hunched over his desk, looking like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. The moment de Boville looked up, something flickered across the Englishman’s face. Recognition? But the inspector was too lost in his own misery to notice.
"Oh God," de Boville groaned when he heard why the Englishman was there, "your worst fears are absolutely justified. I’m completely screwed." He ran his hands through his hair. "That two hundred thousand I have with Morrel? That’s my daughter’s wedding fund. She’s supposed to get married in two weeks, and the money comes due in two installments, half this month, half next month."
His voice cracked slightly. "Morrel was just here thirty minutes ago. He told me that if his flagship, the Pharaon, doesn’t make it to port by the 15th, he won’t be able to pay a single cent."
"Sounds like bankruptcy to me," the Englishman observed coolly.
"Bankruptcy? Try complete financial ruin!" de Boville slammed his fist on the desk. "I might as well kiss my daughter’s future goodbye."
The Englishman seemed to consider this for a moment. "So you’re expecting this debt to be a total loss?"
"I’m not expecting it, I know it."
"Perfect. Then I’ll buy it from you."
De Boville’s head snapped up. "You’ll... what?"
"Buy your debt. The full amount."
"At what discount? Fifty percent? Seventy?"
The Englishman’s lips curved into a slight smile. "No discount. Full face value, two hundred thousand francs. My company doesn’t operate that way."
De Boville’s jaw dropped. "You’re serious? Cash?"
Without hesitation, the Englishman pulled out a thick bundle of banknotes that could have easily covered twice the amount in question. For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in de Boville’s eyes.
But his conscience kicked in. "Sir, I have to be honest with you, you’ll probably lose ninety-four percent of this investment. Maybe more."
The Englishman shrugged. "Not my problem. Thomson & French has their reasons, maybe they want to see a competitor go down. All I know is I’m authorized to make this deal. I just need one small favor in return."
"Anything! Name your commission! Two percent, five, even ten!"
"Nothing like that." The Englishman’s expression grew serious. "You run the prison system here, correct?"
"For fourteen years now."
"You keep detailed records on all prisoners?"
"Complete files on everyone."
"There was a priest imprisoned at the Château d’If fortress. He was my tutor back in Rome before he disappeared. I heard he died there, and I’d like to know the details. His name was Abbé Faria."
De Boville’s face lit up with recognition. "Oh, the crazy old man! Yes, I remember him perfectly."
"Crazy?"
"Completely delusional. Kept ranting about some massive treasure he’d hidden, promised to make the government rich if they’d release him."
"And he’s dead?"
"About five or six months ago, February I think."
The Englishman leaned forward slightly. "You have a good memory for dates."
"Hard to forget that one, his death caused quite the incident." De Boville seemed almost excited to tell the story.
"What kind of incident?"
"Well, the old priest’s cell was about fifty feet away from another prisoner, one of Napoleon’s former agents. Real dangerous type, one of the guys who helped Napoleon escape from his first exile and reclaim power. We always had to bring armed guards just to visit his cell."
"Interesting."
"This other prisoner, Edmond Dantès was his name, apparently he’d been digging a tunnel between their cells. Probably planning some elaborate escape. But then the old priest had some kind of seizure and died."
"That must have ended their escape plan."
"For the priest, sure. But Dantès? He got creative." De Boville was grinning now, clearly enjoying the story. "The guy figured that dead prisoners got buried in regular graveyards, so he switched places with the corpse. Had himself sewn into the burial sack, thinking he’d dig his way out once they buried him."
The Englishman raised an eyebrow. "Bold move."
"Too bold for his own good! See, what our genius escapee didn’t know was that the Château d’If doesn’t have a cemetery. We just tie a cannonball to the corpses and dump them in the ocean."
"Ah."
"So there he was, probably congratulating himself on his brilliant plan, right up until they chucked him off the cliffs with a thirty-six-pound weight attached to his ankles!" De Boville burst into laughter. "I would have paid good money to see his face at that moment!"
The Englishman’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Indeed. So he drowned?"
"Like a stone. The prison got rid of both the crazy priest and the dangerous revolutionary in one go."
"There must be official documentation of all this?"
"Of course, death certificates, incident reports, the works. If Dantès had any family wanting to claim inheritance or whatever, they can get certified proof he’s dead."
"Convenient. Now, about those prison records..."
"Right, right! Sorry, got carried away with the story. Come on, let me show you everything we have on your old tutor."
De Boville led him into a meticulously organized office where rows of filing cabinets lined the walls. He gestured to a comfortable chair and pulled out the relevant files, then settled into a corner with his newspaper to give his visitor privacy.
The Englishman quickly found the Abbé Faria’s records, but something else caught his attention. He flipped through more pages until he found Edmond Dantès’ file. There it was, the original accusation letter, examination records, and a petition from someone named Morrel.
His eyes sharpened as he read the prosecutor’s notes. Everything clicked into place. The petition that Morrel had submitted trying to help Dantès had actually been used against the prisoner when the political winds changed. In the margin, written in the prosecutor’s handwriting, was a damning assessment:
Edmond Dantès: Dangerous Napoleon loyalist. Actively participated in the return from exile. Keep in maximum security, constant surveillance.
Below that, in different handwriting: See above note, nothing can be done.
The Englishman compared the handwriting samples and confirmed his suspicion, the prosecutor had personally ensured Dantès would never see freedom. While de Boville remained absorbed in his newspaper, the Englishman quietly folded the original accusation letter and slipped it into his pocket.
"All finished," he announced, closing the file with a snap. "Now let’s complete our business."
As de Boville eagerly drew up the debt transfer paperwork, the Englishman methodically counted out the banknotes. Two hundred thousand francs in exchange for information that was, to him, absolutely priceless.
Neither man mentioned that the mysterious Englishman had just stolen a crucial piece of evidence. But then again, de Boville was too focused on his newfound fortune to care about some old paperwork, and the Englishman had gotten exactly what he’d really come for.