When, after a rapid walk of twenty minutes, Lecoq reached the police station near the Barriere d’Italie, the doorkeeper, with his pipe in his mouth, was pacing slowly to and fro before the guard-house. His thoughtful air, and the anxious glances he cast every now and then toward one of the little grated windows of the building sufficed to indicate that some very rare bird indeed had been entrusted to his keeping. As soon as he recognized Lecoq, his brow cleared, and he paused in his promenade.
“Ah, well!” he inquired, “what news do you bring?”
“I have an order to conduct the prisoners to the prefecture.”
The keeper rubbed his hands, and his smile of satisfaction plainly implied that he felt a load the less on his shoulders.
“Capital! capital!” he exclaimed. “The Black Maria, the prison van, will pass here in less than an hour; we will throw them in, and hurry the driver off—”
Lecoq was obliged to interrupt the keeper’s transports of satisfaction. “Are the prisoners alone?” he inquired.
“Quite alone: the woman in one cell, and the man in the other. This has been a remarkably quiet night, for Shrove Sunday! Quite surprising indeed! It is true your hunt was interrupted.”
“You had a drunken man here, however.”
“No—yes—that’s true—this morning just at daybreak. A poor devil, who is under a great obligation to Gevrol.”
The involuntary irony of this remark did not escape Lecoq. “Yes, under a great obligation, indeed!” he said with a derisive laugh.
“You may laugh as much as you like,” retorted the keeper, “but such is really the case; if it hadn’t been for Gevrol the man would certainly have been run over.”
“And what has become of him?”
The keeper shrugged his shoulders. “You ask me too much,” he responded. He was a worthy fellow who had been spending the night at a friend’s house, and on coming out into the open air, the wine flew into his head. He told us all about it when he got sober, half an hour afterward. I never saw a man so vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered: “The father of a family, and at my age too! Oh! it is shameful! What shall I say to my wife? What will the children think?”
“Did he talk much about his wife?”
“He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name—Eudosia Leocadie, or some name of that sort. He declared that he should be ruined if we kept him here. He begged us to send for the commissary, to go to his house, and when we set him free, I thought he would go mad with joy; he kissed our hands, and thanked us again and again!”
“And did you place him in the same cage as the murderer?” inquired Lecoq.
“Of course.”
“Then they talked with each other.”
“Talked? Why, the drunkard was so ‘gone’ I tell you, that he couldn’t have said ‘bread’ distinctly. When he was placed in a cell, bang! He fell down like a log of wood. As soon as he recovered, we let him out. I’m sure, they didn’t talk to each other.”
The young police agent had grown very thoughtful. “I was evidently right,” he murmured.
“What did you say?” inquired the keeper.
“Nothing,” replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to communicate his reflections to the custodian of the guard-house. These reflections of his were by no means pleasant ones. “I was right,” he thought; “this pretended drunkard was none other than the accomplice. He is evidently an adroit, audacious, cool-headed fellow. While we were tracking his footprints he was watching us. When we had got to some distance, he was bold enough to enter the hovel. Then he came here and compelled them to arrest him; and thanks to an assumption of childish simplicity, he succeeded in finding an opportunity to speak with the murderer. He played his part perfectly. Still, I know that he did play a part, and that is something. I know that one must believe exactly the opposite of what he said. He talked of his family, his wife and children—hence, he has neither children, wife, nor family.”
Lecoq suddenly checked himself, remembering that he had no time to waste in conjectures. “What kind of fellow was this drunkard?” he inquired.
“He was tall and stout, with full ruddy cheeks, a pair of white whiskers, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and a good-natured, jovial manner.”
“How old would you suppose him to be?”
“Between forty and fifty.”
“Did you form any idea of his profession?”
“It’s my opinion, that what with his soft cap and his heavy brown overcoat, he must be either a clerk or the keeper of some little shop.”
Having obtained this description, which agreed with the result of his investigations, Lecoq was about to enter the station house when a sudden thought brought him to a standstill. “I hope this man has had no communication with this Widow Chupin!” he exclaimed.
The keeper laughed heartily. “How could he have had any?” he responded. “Isn’t the old woman alone in her cell? Ah, the old wretch! She has been cursing and threatening ever since she arrived. Never in my whole life have I heard such language as she has used. It has been enough to make the very stones blush; even the drunken man was so shocked that he went to the grating in the door, and told her to be quiet.”
Lecoq’s glance and gesture were so expressive of impatience and wrath that the keeper paused in his recital much perturbed. “What is the matter?” he stammered. “Why are you angry?”
“Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, “because—” Not wishing to disclose the real cause of his anger, he entered the station house, saying that he wanted to see the prisoner.
Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his turn. “These police agents are all alike,” he grumbled. “They question you, you tell them all they desire to know; and afterward, if you venture to ask them anything, they reply: ‘nothing,’ or ‘because.’ They have too much authority; it makes them proud.”
Looking through the little latticed window in the door, by which the men on guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly examined the appearance of the assumed murderer. He was obliged to ask himself if this was really the same man he had seen some hours previously at the Poivriere, standing on the threshold of the inner door, and holding the whole squad of police agents in check by the intense fury of his attitude. Now, on the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of weakness and despondency. He was seated on a bench opposite the grating in the door, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin upon his hand, his under lip hanging low and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.
“No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not what he seems to be.”
So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave the detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word.
“Well, how goes it?” asked Lecoq.
“I am innocent!” responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, discordant voice.
“I hope so, I am sure—but that is for the magistrate to decide. I came to see if you wanted anything.”
“No,” replied the murderer, but a second later he changed his mind. “All the same,” he said, “I shouldn’t mind a crust and a drink of wine.”
“You shall have them,” replied Lecoq, who at once went out to forage in the neighborhood for eatables of some sort. In his opinion, if the murderer had asked for a drink after at first refusing to partake of anything, it was solely with the view of conveying the idea that he was really the kind of man he pretended to be.
At all events, whoever he might be, the prisoner ate with an excellent appetite. He then took up the large glass of wine that had been brought him, drained it slowly, and remarked: “That’s capital! There can be nothing to beat that!”
This seeming satisfaction greatly disappointed Lecoq, who had selected, as a test, one of those horribly thick, bluish, nauseous mixtures in vogue around the barrieres—hoping, nay, almost expecting, that the murderer would not drink it without some sign of repugnance. And yet the contrary proved the case. However, the young detective had no time to ponder over the circumstance, for a rumble of wheels now announced the approach of that lugubrious vehicle, the Black Maria.
When the Widow Chupin was removed from her cell she fought and scratched and cried “Murder!” at the top of her voice; and it was only by sheer force that she was at length got into the van. Then it was that the officials turned to the assassin. Lecoq certainly expected some sign of repugnance now, and he watched the prisoner closely. But he was again doomed to disappointment. The culprit entered the vehicle in the most unconcerned manner, and took possession of his compartment like one accustomed to it, knowing the most comfortable position to assume in such close quarters.
“Ah! what an unfortunate morning,” murmured Lecoq, disconsolately. “Still I will lie in wait for him at the prefecture.”
When the door of the prison-van had been securely closed, the driver cracked his whip, and the sturdy horses started off at a brisk trot. Lecoq had taken his seat in front, between the driver and the guard; but his mind was so engrossed with his own thoughts that he heard nothing of their conversation, which was very jovial, although frequently interrupted by the shrill voice of the Widow Chupin, who sang and yelled her imprecations alternately.
It is needless, however, to recapitulate her oaths; let us rather follow the train of Lecoq’s meditation. By what means could he secure some clue to the murderer’s identity? He was still convinced that the prisoner must belong to the higher ranks of society. After all, it was not so extraordinary that he should have succeeded in feigning an appetite, that he should have concealed his distaste for a nauseous beverage, and that he should have entered the Black Maria without hesitation. Such conduct was quite possible, indeed almost probable on the part of a man, endowed with considerable strength of will, and realizing the imminence of his peril. But granting this, would he be equally able to hide his feelings when he was obliged to submit to the humiliating formalities that awaited him—formalities which in certain cases can, and must, be pushed even to the verge of insult and outrage?
No; Lecoq could not believe that this would be possible. He felt sure that the disgraceful position in which the prisoner would find himself would cause him to revolt, to lose his self-control, to utter some word that might give the desired clue.
It was not until the gloomy vehicle had turned off the Pont Neuf on to the Quai de l’Horloge that the young detective became conscious of what was transpiring around him. Soon the van passed through an open gateway, and drew up in a small, damp courtyard.
Lecoq immediately alighted, and opened the door of the compartment in which the supposed murderer was confined, exclaiming as he did so: “Here we are, get out.” There was no fear of the prisoner escaping. The iron gate had been closed, and at least a dozen agents were standing near at hand, waiting to have a look at the new arrivals.
The prisoner slowly stepped to the ground. His expression of face remained unchanged, and each gesture evinced the perfect indifference of a man accustomed to such ordeals.
Lecoq scrutinized his demeanor as attentively as an anatomist might have watched the action of a muscle. He noted that the prisoner seemed to experience a sensation of satisfaction directly his foot touched the pavement of the courtyard, that he drew a long breath, and then stretched and shook himself, as if to regain the elasticity of his limbs, cramped by confinement in the narrow compartment from which he had just emerged. Then he glanced around him, and a scarcely perceptible smile played upon his lips. One might have sworn that the place was familiar to him, that he was well acquainted with these high grim walls, these grated windows, these heavy doors—in short, with all the sinister belongings of a prison.
“Good Lord!” murmured Lecoq, greatly chagrined, “does he indeed recognize the place?”
And his sense of disappointment and disquietude increased when, without waiting for a word, a motion, or a sign, the prisoner turned toward one of the five or six doors that opened into the courtyard. Without an instant’s hesitation he walked straight toward the very doorway he was expected to enter—Lecoq asked himself was it chance? But his amazement and disappointment increased tenfold when, after entering the gloomy corridor, he saw the culprit proceed some little distance, resolutely turn to the left, pass by the keeper’s room, and finally enter the registrar’s office. An old offender could not have done better.
Big drops of perspiration stood on Lecoq’s forehead. “This man,” thought he, “has certainly been here before; he knows the ropes.”
The registrar’s office was a large room heated almost to suffocation by an immense stove, and badly lighted by three small windows, the panes of which were covered with a thick coating of dust. There sat the clerk reading a newspaper, spread out over the open register—that fatal book in which are inscribed the names of all those whom misconduct, crime, misfortune, madness, or error have brought to these grim portals.
Three or four attendants, who were awaiting the hour for entering upon their duties, reclined half asleep upon the wooden benches that lined three sides of the room. These benches, with a couple of tables, and some dilapidated chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the office, in one corner of which stood a measuring machine, under which each culprit was obliged to pass, the exact height of the prisoners being recorded in order that the description of their persons might be complete in every respect.
At the entrance of the culprit accompanied by Lecoq, the clerk raised his head. “Ah!” said he, “has the van arrived?”
“Yes,” responded Lecoq. And showing the orders signed by M. d’Escorval, he added: “Here are this man’s papers.”
The registrar took the documents and read them. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “a triple assassination! Oh! oh!” The glance he gave the prisoner was positively deferential. This was no common culprit, no ordinary vagabond, no vulgar thief.
“The investigating magistrate orders a private examination,” continued the clerk, “and I must get the prisoner other clothing, as the things he is wearing now will be used as evidence. Let some one go at once and tell the superintendent that the other occupants of the van must wait.”
At this moment, the governor of the Depot entered the office. The clerk at once dipped his pen in the ink, and turning to the prisoner he asked: “What is your name?”
“May.”
“Your Christian name?”
“I have none.”
“What, have you no Christian name?”
The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily: “I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning me. I shan’t answer any one else but the magistrate. You would like to make me cut my own throat, wouldn’t you? A very clever trick, of course, but one that won’t do for me.”
“You must see that you only aggravate your situation,” observed the governor.
“Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish to ruin me. I only defend myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you can. But you had better give me back what they took from me at the station-house. My hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of this place. I want you to make a note of them on the register. Where are they?”
The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house, who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody. Lecoq now laid it upon the table.
“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” said he, “and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars.”
An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner’s features.
“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you answer?”
But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his boots.
Lecoq thought the assassin’s glance wavered as he heard this order. Was it only a fancy?
“Why must I do that?” asked the culprit.
“To pass under the beam,” replied the clerk. “We must make a note of your exact height.”
The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots. The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside. It was, moreover, noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated with mud.
“You only wear boots on Sundays, then?” remarked Lecoq.
“Why do you think that?”
“By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the ankle-bone.”
“What of that?” exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone. “Is it a crime not to have a marchioness’s feet?”
“It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events,” said the young detective slowly. “Do you think I can’t see that if the mud were picked off your feet would be white and neat? The nails have been carefully cut and polished—”
He paused. A new idea inspired by his genius for investigation had just crossed Lecoq’s mind. Pushing a chair in front of the prisoner, and spreading a newspaper over it, he said: “Will you place your foot there?”
The man did not comply with the request.
“It is useless to resist,” exclaimed the governor, “we are in force.”
The prisoner delayed no longer. He placed his foot on the chair, as he had been ordered, and Lecoq, with the aid of a knife, proceeded to remove the fragments of mud that adhered to the skin.
Anywhere else so strange and grotesque a proceeding would have excited laughter, but here, in this gloomy chamber, the anteroom of the assize court, an otherwise trivial act is fraught with serious import. Nothing astonishes; and should a smile threaten to curve one’s lips, it is instantly repressed.
All the spectators, from the governor of the prison to the keepers, had witnessed many other incidents equally absurd; and no one thought of inquiring the detective’s motive. This much was known already; that the prisoner was trying to conceal his identity. Now it was necessary to establish it, at any cost, and Lecoq had probably discovered some means of attaining this end.
The operation was soon concluded; and Lecoq swept the dust off the paper into the palm of his hand. He divided it into two parts, enclosing one portion in a scrap of paper, and slipping it into his own pocket. With the remainder he formed a package which he handed to the governor, saying: “I beg you, sir, to take charge of this, and to seal it up here, in presence of the prisoner. This formality is necessary, so that by and by he may not pretend that the dust has been changed.”
The governor complied with the request, and as he placed this “bit of proof” (as he styled it) in a small satchel for safe keeping, the prisoner shrugged his shoulders with a sneering laugh. Still, beneath this cynical gaiety Lecoq thought he could detect poignant anxiety. Chance owed him the compensation of this slight triumph; for previous events had deceived all his calculations.
The prisoner did not offer the slightest objection when he was ordered to undress, and to exchange his soiled and bloodstained garments for the clothing furnished by the Government. Not a muscle of his face moved while he submitted his person to one of those ignominous examinations which make the blood rush to the forehead of the lowest criminal. It was with perfect indifference that he allowed an inspector to comb his hair and beard, and to examine the inside of his mouth, so as to make sure that he had not concealed either some fragment of glass, by the aid of which captives can sever the strongest bars, or one of those microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners write the notes they exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, and called “postilions.”
These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent rang for one of the keepers. “Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells,” he ordered.
There was no need to drag the prisoner away. He walked out, as he had entered, preceding the guard, like some old habitue, who knows where he is going.
“What a rascal!” exclaimed the clerk.
“Then you think—” began Lecoq, baffled but not convinced.
“Ah! there can be no doubt of it,” declared the governor. “This man is certainly a dangerous criminal—an old offender—I think I have seen him before—I could almost swear to it.”
Thus it was evident these people, with their long, varied experience, shared Gevrol’s opinion; Lecoq stood alone. He did not discuss the matter—what good would it have done? Besides, the Widow Chupin was just being brought in.
The journey must have calmed her nerves, for she had become as gentle as a lamb. It was in a wheedling voice, and with tearful eyes, that she called upon these “good gentlemen” to witness the shameful injustice with which she was treated—she, an honest woman. Was she not the mainstay of her family (since her son Polyte was in custody, charged with pocket-picking), hence what would become of her daughter-in-law, and of her grandson Toto, who had no one to look after them but her?
Still, when her name had been taken, and a keeper was ordered to remove her, nature reasserted itself, and scarcely had she entered the corridor than she was heard quarreling with the guard.
“You are wrong not to be polite,” she said; “you are losing a good fee, without counting many a good drink I would stand you when I get out of here.”
Lecoq was now free until M. d’Escorval’s arrival. He wandered through the gloomy corridors, from office to office, but finding himself assailed with questions by every one he came across, he eventually left the Depot, and went and sat down on one of the benches beside the quay. Here he tried to collect his thoughts. His convictions were unchanged. He was more than ever convinced that the prisoner was concealing his real social standing, but, on the other hand, it was evident that he was well acquainted with the prison and its usages.
He had also proved himself to be endowed with far more cleverness than Lecoq had supposed. What self-control! What powers of dissimulation he had displayed! He had not so much as frowned while undergoing the severest ordeals, and he had managed to deceive the most experienced eyes in Paris.
The young detective had waited during nearly three hours, as motionless as the bench on which he was seated, and so absorbed in studying his case that he had thought neither of the cold nor of the flight of time, when a carriage drew up before the entrance of the prison, and M. d’Escorval alighted, followed by his clerk.
Lecoq rose and hastened, well-nigh breathless with anxiety, toward the magistrate.
“My researches on the spot,” said this functionary, “confirm me in the belief that you are right. Is there anything fresh?”
“Yes, sir; a fact that is apparently very trivial, though, in truth, it is of importance that—”
“Very well!” interrupted the magistrate. “You will explain it to me by and by. First of all, I must summarily examine the prisoners. A mere matter of form for to-day. Wait for me here.”
Although the magistrate promised to make haste, Lecoq expected that at least an hour would elapse before he reappeared. In this he was mistaken. Twenty minutes later, M. d’Escorval emerged from the prison without his clerk.
He was walking very fast, and instead of approaching the young detective, he called to him at some little distance. “I must return home at once,” he said, “instantly; I can not listen to you.”
“But, sir—”
“Enough! the bodies of the victims have been taken to the Morgue. Keep a sharp lookout there. Then, this evening make—well—do whatever you think best.”
“But, sir, I must—”
“To-morrow!—to-morrow, at nine o’clock, in my office in the Palais de Justice.”
Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, but M. d’Escorval had entered, or rather thrown himself into, his carriage, and the coachman was already whipping up the horse.
“And to think that he’s an investigating magistrate,” panted Lecoq, left spellbound on the quay. “Has he gone mad?” As he spoke, an uncharitable thought took possession of his mind. “Can it be,” he murmured, “that M. d’Escorval holds the key to the mystery? Perhaps he wishes to get rid of me.”
This suspicion was so terrible that Lecoq hastened back to the prison, hoping that the prisoner’s bearing might help to solve his doubts. On peering through the grated aperture in the door of the cell, he perceived the prisoner lying on the pallet that stood opposite the door. His face was turned toward the wall, and he was enveloped in the coverlid up to his eyes. He was not asleep, for Lecoq could detect a strange movement of the body, which puzzled and annoyed him. On applying his ear instead of his eye to the aperture, he distinguished a stifled moan. There could no longer be any doubt. The death rattle was sounding in the prisoner’s throat.
“Help! help!” cried Lecoq, greatly excited. “The prisoner is killing himself!”
A dozen keepers hastened to the spot. The door was quickly opened, and it was then ascertained that the prisoner, having torn a strip of binding from his clothes, had fastened it round his neck and tried to strangle himself with the assistance of a spoon that had been left him with his food. He was already unconscious, and the prison doctor, who immediately bled him, declared that had another ten minutes elapsed, help would have arrived too late.
When the prisoner regained his senses, he gazed around him with a wild, puzzled stare. One might have supposed that he was amazed to find himself still alive. Suddenly a couple of big tears welled from his swollen eyelids, and rolled down his cheeks. He was pressed with questions, but did not vouchsafe so much as a single word in response. As he was in such a desperate frame of mind, and as the orders to keep him in solitary confinement prevented the governor giving him a companion, it was decided to put a straight waistcoat on him. Lecoq assisted at this operation, and then walked away, puzzled, thoughtful, and agitated. Intuition told him that these mysterious occurrences concealed some terrible drama.
“Still, what can have occurred since the prisoner’s arrival here?” he murmured. “Has he confessed his guilt to the magistrate, or what is his reason for attempting so desperate an act?”
Lecoq did not sleep that night, although he had been on his feet for more than forty hours, and had scarcely paused either to eat or drink. Anxiety, hope, and even fatigue itself, had imparted to his body the fictitious strength of fever, and to his intellect the unhealthy acuteness which is so often the result of intense mental effort.
He no longer had to occupy himself with imaginary deductions, as in former times when in the employ of his patron, the astronomer. Once again did the fact prove stranger than fiction. Here was reality—a terrible reality personified by the corpses of three victims lying on the marble slabs at the Morgue. Still, if the catastrophe itself was a patent fact, its motive, its surroundings, could only be conjectured. Who could tell what circumstances had preceded and paved the way for this tragical denouement?
It is true that all doubt might be dispelled by one discovery—the identity of the murderer. Who was he? Who was right, Gevrol or Lecoq? The former’s views were shared by the officials at the prison; the latter stood alone. Again, the former’s opinion was based upon formidable proof, the evidence of sight; while Lecoq’s hypothesis rested only on a series of subtle observations and deductions, starting from a single sentence that had fallen from the prisoner’s lips.
And yet Lecoq resolutely persisted in his theory, guided by the following reasons. He learnt from M. d’Escorval’s clerk that when the magistrate had examined the prisoner, the latter not only refused to confess, but answered all the questions put to him in the most evasive fashion. In several instances, moreover, he had not replied at all. If the magistrate had not insisted, it was because this first examination was a mere formality, solely intended to justify the somewhat premature delivery of the order to imprison the accused.
Now, under these circumstances, how was one to explain the prisoner’s attempt at self-destruction? Prison statistics show that habitual offenders do not commit suicide. When apprehended for a criminal act, they are sometimes seized with a wild frenzy and suffer repeated nervous attacks; at others they fall into a dull stupor, just as some glutted beast succumbs to sleep with the blood of his prey still dripping from his lips. However, such men never think of putting an end to their days. They hold fast to life, no matter how seriously they may be compromised. In truth, they are cowards.
On the other hand, the unfortunate fellow who, in a moment of frenzy, commits a crime, not unfrequently seeks to avoid the consequences of his act by self-destruction.
Hence, the prisoner’s frustrated attempt at suicide was a strong argument in favor of Lecoq’s theory. This wretched man’s secret must be a terrible one since he held it dearer than life, since he had tried to destroy himself that he might take it unrevealed to the grave.
Four o’clock was striking when Lecoq sprang from his bed on which he had thrown himself without undressing; and five minutes later he was walking down the Rue Montmartre. The weather was still cold and muggy; and a thick fog hung over the city. But the young detective was too engrossed with his own thoughts to pay attention to any atmospherical unpleasantness. Walking with a brisk stride, he had just reached the church of Saint Eustache, when a coarse, mocking voice accosted him with the exclamation: “Ah, ha! my fine fellow!”
He looked up and perceived Gevrol, who, with three of his men, had come to cast his nets round about the markets, whence the police generally return with a good haul of thieves and vagabonds.
“You are up very early this morning, Monsieur Lecoq,” continued the inspector; “you are still trying to discover our man’s identity, I suppose?”
“Still trying.”
“Is he a prince in disguise, or only a marquis?”
“One or the other, I am quite certain.”
“All right then. In that case you will not refuse us the opportunity to drink to your success.”
Lecoq consented, and the party entered a wine-shop close by. When the glasses were filled, Lecoq turned to Gevrol and exclaimed: “Upon my word, General, our meeting will save me a long walk. I was going to the prefecture to request you, on M. d’Escorval’s behalf, to send one of our comrades to the Morgue this morning. The affair at the Poivriere has been noised about, and all the world will be there, so he desires some officer to be present to watch the crowd and listen to the remarks of the visitors.”
“All right; Father Absinthe shall be there when the doors open.”
To send Father Absinthe where a shrewd and subtle agent was required was a mockery. Still Lecoq did not protest, for it was better to be badly served than to be betrayed; and he could at least trust Father Absinthe.
“It doesn’t much matter,” continued Gevrol; “but you should have informed me of this last evening. However, when I reached the prefecture you had gone.”
“I had some work to do.”
“Yes?”
“At the station-house near the Barriere d’Italie. I wanted to know whether the floor of the cell was paved or tiled.” So saying, Lecoq paid the score, saluted his superior officer, and went out.
“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, striking his glass violently upon the counter. “Thunder! how that fellow provokes me! He does not know the A B C of his profession. When he can’t discover anything, he invents wonderful stories, and then misleads the magistrates with his high-sounding phrases, in the hope of gaining promotion. I’ll give him advancement with a vengeance! I’ll teach him to set himself above me!”
Lecoq had not been deceived. The evening before, he had visited the station-house where the prisoner had first been confined, and had compared the soil of the cell floor with the dust he had placed in his pocket; and he carried away with him, as he believed, one of those crushing proofs that often suffice to extort from the most obstinate criminal a complete confession. If Lecoq was in haste to part company with Gevrol, it was because he was anxious to pursue his investigations still further, before appearing in M. d’Escorval’s presence. He was determined to find the cab-driver who had been stopped by the two women in the Rue du Chevaleret; and with this object in view, he had obtained at the prefecture the names and addresses of all the cab-owners hiring between the road to Fontainebleau and the Seine.
His earlier efforts at investigation proved unsuccessful. At the first establishment he visited, the stable boys, who were not yet up, swore at him roundly. In the second, he found the grooms at work, but none of the drivers had as yet put in an appearance. Moreover, the owner refused to show him the books upon which are recorded—or should be recorded—each driver’s daily engagements. Lecoq was beginning to despair, when at about half-past seven o’clock he reached an establishment just beyond the fortifications belonging to a man named Trigault. Here he learned that on Sunday night, or rather, early on Monday morning, one of the drivers had been accosted on his way home by some persons who succeeded in persuading him to drive them back into Paris.
This driver, who was then in the courtyard harnessing his horse, proved to be a little old man, with a ruddy complexion, and a pair of small eyes full of cunning. Lecoq walked up to him at once.
“Was it you,” he asked, “who, on Sunday night or rather on Monday, between one and two in the morning, drove a couple of women from the Rue du Chevaleret into Paris?”
The driver looked up, and surveying Lecoq attentively, cautiously replied: “Perhaps.”
“It is a positive answer that I want.”
“Aha!” said the old man sneeringly, “you know two ladies who have lost something in a cab, and so—”
The young detective trembled with satisfaction. This man was certainly the one he was looking for. “Have you heard anything about a crime that has been committed in the neighborhood?” he interrupted.
“Yes; a murder in a low wine-shop.”
“Well, then, I will tell you that these two women are mixed up in it; they fled when we entered the place. I am trying to find them. I am a detective; here is my card. Now, can you give me any information?”
The driver had grown very pale. “Ah! the wretches!” he exclaimed. “I am no longer surprised at the luck-money they gave me—a louis and two five-franc pieces for the fare—thirty francs in all. Cursed money! If I hadn’t spent it, I’d throw it away!”
“And where did you drive them?”
“To the Rue de Bourgogne. I have forgotten the number, but I should recognize the house.”
“Unfortunately, they would not have let you drive them to their own door.”
“Who knows? I saw them ring the bell, and I think they went in just as I drove away. Shall I take you there?”
Lecoq’s sole response was to spring on to the box, exclaiming: “Let us be off.”
It was not to be supposed that the women who had escaped from the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den at the moment of the murder were utterly devoid of intelligence. Nor was it at all likely that these two fugitives, conscious as they were of their perilous situation, had gone straight to their real home in a vehicle hired on the public highway. Hence, the driver’s hope of finding them in the Rue de Bourgogne was purely chimerical. Lecoq was fully aware of this, and yet he did not hesitate to jump on to the box and give the signal for starting. In so doing, he obeyed a maxim which he had framed in his early days of meditation—a maxim intended to assure his after-fame, and which ran as follows: “Always suspect that which seems probable; and begin by believing what appears incredible.”
As soon as the vehicle was well under way, the young detective proceeded to ingratiate himself into the driver’s good graces, being anxious to obtain all the information that this worthy was able to impart.
In a tone that implied that all trifling would be useless the cabman cried: “Hey up, hey up, Cocotte!” and his mare pricked up her ears and quickened her pace, so that the Rue de Choisy was speedily reached. Then it was that Lecoq resumed his inquiries.
“Well, my good fellow,” he began, “you have told me the principal facts, now I should like the details. How did these two women attract your attention?”
“Oh, it was very simple. I had been having a most unfortunate day—six hours on a stand on the Boulevards, with the rain pouring all the time. It was simply awful. At midnight I had not made more than a franc and a half for myself, but I was so wet and miserable and the horse seemed so done up that I decided to go home. I did grumble, I can tell you. Well, I had just passed the corner of the Rue Picard, in the Rue du Chevaleret, when I saw two women standing under a lamp, some little distance off. I did not pay any attention to them; for when a man is as old as I am, women—”
“Go on!” said Lecoq, who could not restrain his impatience.
“I had already passed them, when they began to call after me. I pretended I did not hear them; but one of them ran after the cab, crying: ‘A louis! a louis for yourself!’ I hesitated for a moment, when the woman added: ‘And ten francs for the fare!’ I then drew up.”
Lecoq was boiling over with impatience; but he felt that the wisest course was not to interrupt the driver with questions, but to listen to all he had to say.
“As you may suppose,” continued the coachman, “I wasn’t inclined to trust two such suspicious characters, alone at that hour and in that part of the city. So, just as they were about to get into the cab, I called to them: ‘Wait a bit, my little friends, you have promised papa some sous; where are they?’ The one who had called after the cab at once handed me thirty francs, saying: ‘Above all, make haste!’”
“Your recital could not be more minute,” exclaimed Lecoq, approvingly. “Now, how about these two women?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what kind of women did they seem to be; what did you take them for?”
“Oh, for nothing very good!” replied the driver, with a knowing smile.
“Ah! and how were they dressed?”
“Like most of the girls who go to dance at the Rainbow. One of them, however, was very neat and prim, while the other—well! she was a terrible dowdy.”
“Which ran after you?”
“The girl who was neatly dressed, the one who—” The driver suddenly paused: some vivid remembrance passed through his brain, and, abruptly jerking the rains, he brought his horse to a standstill.
“Thunder!” he exclaimed. “Now I think of it, I did notice something strange. One of the two women called the other ‘Madame’ as large as life, while the other said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ and spoke as if she were somebody.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed the young detective, in three different keys. “And which was it that said ‘thee’ and ‘thou’?”
“Why, the dowdy one. She with shabby dress and shoes as big as a gouty man’s. You should have seen her shake the prim-looking girl, as if she had been a plum tree. ‘You little fool!’ said she, ‘do you want to ruin us? You will have time to faint when we get home; now come along. And then she began to sob: ‘Indeed, madame, indeed I can’t!’ she said, and really she seemed quite unable to move: in fact, she appeared to be so ill that I said to myself: ‘Here is a young woman who has drunk more than is good for her!’”
These facts confirmed even if they corrected Lecoq’s first suppositions. As he had suspected, the social position of the two women was not the same. He had been mistaken, however, in attributing the higher standing to the woman wearing the shoes with the high heels, the marks of which he had so particularly noticed in the snow, with all the attendant signs of precipitation, terror, and weakness. In reality, social preeminence belonged to the woman who had left the large, broad footprints behind her. And not merely was she of a superior rank, but she had also shown superior energy. Contrary to Lecoq’s original idea, it now seemed evident that she was the mistress, and her companion the servant.
“Is that all, my good fellow?” he asked the driver, who during the last few minutes had been busy with his horses.
“Yes,” replied the cabman, “except that I noticed that the shabbily dressed woman who paid me had a hand as small as a child’s, and in spite of her anger, her voice was as sweet as music.”
“Did you see her face?”
“I just caught a glimpse of it.”
“Could you tell if she were pretty, or whether she was a blonde or brunette?”
So many questions at a time confused the driver. “Stop a minute!” he replied. “In my opinion she wasn’t pretty, and I don’t believe she was young, but she certainly was a blonde, and with plenty of hair too.”
“Was she tall or short, stout or slender?”
“Between the two.”
This was very vague. “And the other,” asked Lecoq, “the neatly dressed one?”
“The deuce! As for her, I did not notice her at all; all I know about her is that she was very small.”
“Would you recognize her if you met her again?”
“Good heavens! no.”
The vehicle was now rolling along the Rue de Bourgogne. Half-way down the street the driver pulled up, and, turning to Lecoq, exclaimed: “Here we are. That’s the house the hussies went into.”
To draw off the silk handkerchief that served him as a muffler, to fold it and slip it into his pocket, to spring to the ground and enter the house indicated, was only the work of an instant for the young detective.
In the concierge’s little room he found an old woman knitting. Lecoq bowed to her politely, and, displaying the silk handkerchief, exclaimed: “Madame, I have come to return this article to one of your lodgers.”
“To which one?”
“Really, I don’t exactly know.”
In a moment the worthy dame imagined that this polite young man was making fun of her. “You scamp—!” she began.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq; “allow me to finish. I must tell you that at about three o’clock in the morning, of the day before yesterday, I was quietly returning home, when two ladies, who were seemingly in a great hurry, overtook me and passed on. One of them dropped this handkerchief, which I picked up. I hastened after her to restore it, but before I could overtake them they had rung the bell at your door and were already in the house. I did not like to ring at such an unearthly hour for fear of disturbing you. Yesterday I was so busy I couldn’t come; however, here I am at last, and here’s the handkerchief.” So saying, Lecoq laid the handkerchief on the table, and turned as if to go, when the concierge detained him.
“Many thanks for your kindness,” said she, “but you can keep it. We have no ladies in this house who are in the habit of coming home alone after midnight.”
“Still I have eyes,” insisted Lecoq, “and I certainly saw—”
“Ah! I had forgotten,” exclaimed the old woman. “The night you speak of some one certainly did ring the bell here. I pulled the string that opens the door and listened, but not hearing any one close the door or come upstairs, I said to myself: ‘Some mischievous fellow has been playing a trick on me.’ I slipped on my dress and went out into the hall, where I saw two women hastening toward the door. Before I could reach them they slammed the door in my face. I opened it again as quickly as I could and looked out into the street. But they were hurrying away as fast as they could.”
“In what direction?”
“Oh! they were running toward the Rue de Varennes.”
Lecoq was baffled again; however, he bowed civilly to the concierge, whom he might possibly have need of at another time, and then went back to the cab. “As I had supposed, they do not live here,” he remarked to the driver.
The latter shrugged his shoulders in evident vexation, which would inevitably have vent in a torrent of words, if Lecoq, who had consulted his watch, had not forestalled the outburst by saying: “Nine o’clock—I am an hour behind time already: still I shall have some news to tell. Now take me to the Morgue as quickly as possible.”
When a mysterious crime has been perpetrated, or a great catastrophe has happened, and the identity of the victims has not been established, “a great day” invariably follows at the Morgue. The attendants are so accustomed to the horrors of the place that the most sickly sight fails to impress them; and even under the most distressing circumstances, they hasten gaily to and fro, exchanging jests well calculated to make an ordinary mortal’s flesh creep. As a rule, they are far less interested in the corpses laid out for public view on the marble slabs in the principal hall than in the people of every age and station in life who congregate here all day long; at times coming in search of some lost relative or friend, but far more frequently impelled by idle curiosity.
As the vehicle conveying Lecoq reached the quay, the young detective perceived that a large, excited crowd was gathered outside the building. The newspapers had reported the tragedy at the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den, of course, more or less correctly, and everybody wished to see the victims.
On drawing near the Pont Notre Dame, Lecoq told the driver to pull up. “I prefer to alight here, rather than in front of the Morgue,” he said, springing to the ground. Then, producing first his watch, and next his purse, he added: “We have been an hour and forty minutes, my good fellow, consequently I owe you—”
“Nothing at all,” replied the driver, decidedly.
“But—”
“No—not a sou. I am too worried already to think that I took the money these hussies offered me. It would only have served me right if the liquor I bought with it had given me the gripes. Don’t be uneasy about the score, and if you need a trap use mine for nothing, till you have caught the jades.” As Lecoq’s purse was low, he did not insist. “You will, at least, take my name and address?” continued the driver.
“Certainly. The magistrate will want your evidence, and a summons will be sent you.”
“All right, then. Address it to Papillon (Eugene), driver, care of M. Trigault. I lodge at his place, because I have some small interest in the business, you see.”
The young detective was hastening away, when Papillon called him back. “When you leave the Morgue you will want to go somewhere else,” he said, “you told me that you had another appointment, and that you were already late.”
“Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de Justice; but it is only a few steps from here.”
“No matter. I will wait for you at the corner of the bridge. It’s useless to say ‘no’; I’ve made up my mind, and I’m a Breton, you know. I want you to ride out the thirty francs that those jades paid me.”
It would have been cruel to refuse such a request. Accordingly, Lecoq made a gesture of assent, and then hurried toward the Morgue.
If there was a crowd on the roadway outside, it was because the gloomy building itself was crammed full of people. Indeed, the sightseers, most of whom could see nothing at all, were packed as closely as sardines, and it was only by dint of well-nigh superhuman efforts that Lecoq managed to effect an entrance. As usual, he found among the mob a large number of girls and women; for, strange to say, the Parisian fair sex is rather partial to the disgusting sights and horrible emotions that repay a visit to the Morgue.
The shop and work girls who reside in the neighborhood readily go out of their way to catch a glimpse of the corpses which crime, accident, and suicide bring to this horrible place. A few, the more sensitive among them, may come no further than the door, but the others enter, and after a long stare return and recount their impressions to their less courageous companions.
If there should be no corpse exhibited; if all the marble slabs are unoccupied, strange as it may seem, the visitors turn hastily away with an expression of disappointment or discontent. There was no fear of their doing so, however, on the morrow of the tragedy at Poivriere, for the mysterious murderer whose identity Lecoq was trying to establish had furnished three victims for their delectation. Panting with curiosity, they paid but little attention to the unhealthy atmosphere: and yet a damp chill came from beyond the iron railings, while from the crowd itself rose an infectious vapor, impregnated with the stench of the chloride of lime used as a disinfectant.
As a continuous accompaniment to the exclamations, sighs, and whispered comments of the bystanders came the murmur of the water trickling from a spigot at the head of each slab; a tiny stream that flowed forth only to fall in fine spray upon the marble. Through the small arched windows a gray light stole in on the exposed bodies, bringing each muscle into bold relief, revealing the ghastly tints of the lifeless flesh, and imparting a sinister aspect to the tattered clothing hung around the room to aid in the identification of the corpses. This clothing, after a certain time, is sold—for nothing is wasted at the Morgue.
However, Lecoq was too occupied with his own thoughts to remark the horrors of the scene. He scarcely bestowed a glance on the three victims. He was looking for Father Absinthe, whom he could not perceive. Had Gevrol intentionally or unintentionally failed to fulfil his promise, or had Father Absinthe forgotten his duty in his morning dram?
Unable to explain the cause of his comrade’s absence, Lecoq addressed himself to the head keeper: “It would seem that no one has recognized the victims,” he remarked.
“No one. And yet, ever since opening, we have had an immense crowd. If I were master here, on days like this, I would charge an admission fee of two sous a head, with half-price for children. It would bring in a round sum, more than enough to cover the expenses.”
The keeper’s reply seemed to offer an inducement to conversation, but Lecoq did not seize it. “Excuse me,” he interrupted, “didn’t a detective come here this morning?”
“Yes, there was one here.”
“Has he gone away then? I don’t see him anywhere?”
The keeper glanced suspiciously at his eager questioner, but after a moment’s hesitation, he ventured to inquire: “Are you one of them?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Lecoq, exhibiting his card in support of his assertion.
“And your name?”
“Is Lecoq.”
The keeper’s face brightened up. “In that case,” said he, “I have a letter for you, written by your comrade, who was obliged to go away. Here it is.”
The young detective at once tore open the envelope and read: “Monsieur Lecoq—”
“Monsieur?” This simple formula of politeness brought a faint smile to his lips. Was it not, on Father Absinthe’s part, an evident recognition of his colleague’s superiority. Indeed, our hero accepted it as a token of unquestioning devotion which it would be his duty to repay with a master’s kind protection toward his first disciple. However, he had no time to waste in thought, and accordingly at once proceeded to peruse the note, which ran as follows:
“Monsieur Lecoq—I had been standing on duty since the opening of the Morgue, when at about nine o’clock three young men entered, arm-in-arm. From their manner and appearance, I judged them to be clerks in some store or warehouse. Suddenly I noticed that one of them turned as white as his shirt; and calling the attention of his companions to one of the unknown victims, he whispered: ‘Gustave!’
“His comrades put their hands over his mouth, and one of them exclaimed: ‘What are you about, you fool, to mix yourself up with this affair! Do you want to get us into trouble?’
“Thereupon they went out, and I followed them. But the person who had first spoken was so overcome that he could scarcely drag himself along; and his companions were obliged to take him to a little restaurant close by. I entered it myself, and it is there I write this letter, in the mean time watching them out of the corner of my eye. I send this note, explaining my absence, to the head keeper, who will give it you. You will understand that I am going to follow these men. A. B. S.”
The handwriting of this letter was almost illegible; and there were mistakes in spelling in well-nigh every line; still, its meaning was clear and exact, and could not fail to excite the most flattering hopes.
Lecoq’s face was so radiant when he returned to the cab that, as the old coachman urged on his horse, he could not refrain from saying: “Things are going on to suit you.”
A friendly “hush!” was the only response. It required all Lecoq’s attention to classify this new information. When he alighted from the cab in front of the Palais de Justice, he experienced considerable difficulty in dismissing the old cabman, who insisted upon remaining at his orders. He succeeded at last, however, but even when he had reached the portico on the left side of the building, the worthy fellow, standing up, still shouted at the top of his voice: “At M. Trigault’s house—don’t forget—Father Papillon—No. 998—1,000 less 2—”
Lecoq had entered the left wing of the Palais. He climbed the stairs till he had reached the third floor, and was about to enter the long, narrow, badly-lighted corridor known as the Galerie de l’Instruction, when, finding a doorkeeper installed behind a heavy oaken desk, he remarked: “M. d’Escorval is, of course, in his office?”
The man shook his head. “No,” said he, “M. d’Escorval is not here this morning, and he won’t be here for several weeks.”
“Why not! What do you mean?”
“Last night, as he was alighting from his carriage, at his own door, he had a most unfortunate fall, and broke his leg.”