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Monsieur Lecoq, v. 1

by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #4071 · 577,968 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Monsieur Lecoq, v. 1

Author: Emile Gaboriau


        
Release date: April 13, 2006 [eBook #4071]
                Most recently updated: September 24, 2016

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by David Moynihan, Dagny; David Widger


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Produced by David Moynihan, Dagny





MONSIEUR LECOQ

by Emile Gaboriau




I

At about eleven o’clock in the evening of the 20th of February, 186--,
which chanced to be Shrove Sunday, a party of detectives left the police
station near the old Barriere d’Italie to the direct south of Paris.
Their mission was to explore the district extending on the one hand
between the highroad to Fontainebleau and the Seine, and on the other
between the outer boulevards and the fortifications.

This quarter of the city had at that time anything but an enviable
reputation. To venture there at night was considered so dangerous
that the soldiers from the outlying forts who came in to Paris with
permission to go to the theatre, were ordered to halt at the barriere,
and not to pass through the perilous district excepting in parties of
three or four.

After midnight, these gloomy, narrow streets became the haunt of
numerous homeless vagabonds, and escaped criminals and malefactors,
moreover, made the quarter their rendezvous. If the day had been a lucky
one, they made merry over their spoils, and when sleep overtook them,
hid in doorways or among the rubbish in deserted houses. Every effort
had been made to dislodge these dangerous guests, but the most energetic
measures had failed to prove successful. Watched, hunted, and in
imminent danger of arrest though they were, they always returned with
idiotic obstinacy, obeying, as one might suppose, some mysterious law
of attraction. Hence, the district was for the police an immense trap,
constantly baited, and to which the game came of their own accord to be
caught.

The result of a tour of inspection of this locality was so certain, that
the officer in charge of the police post called to the squad as they
departed: “I will prepare lodgings for our guests. Good luck to you and
much pleasure!”

This last wish was pure irony, for the weather was the most disagreeable
that could be imagined. A very heavy snow storm had prevailed for
several days. It was now beginning to thaw, and on all the frequented
thoroughfares the slush was ankle-deep. It was still cold, however; a
damp chill filled the air, and penetrated to the very marrow of one’s
bones. Besides, there was a dense fog, so dense that one could not see
one’s hands before one’s face.

“What a beastly job!” growled one of the agents.

“Yes,” replied the inspector who commanded the squad; “if you had an
income of thirty thousand francs, I don’t suppose you’d be here.” The
laugh that greeted this common-place joke was not so much flattery as
homage to a recognized and established superiority.

The inspector was, in fact, one of the most esteemed members of the
force, a man who had proved his worth. His powers of penetration were
not, perhaps, very great; but he thoroughly understood his profession,
its resources, its labyrinths, and its artifices. Long practise had
given him imperturbable coolness, a great confidence in himself, and a
sort of coarse diplomacy that supplied the place of shrewdness. To his
failings and his virtues he added incontestable courage, and he
would lay his hand upon the collar of the most dangerous criminal as
tranquilly as a devotee dips his fingers in a basin of holy water.

He was a man about forty-six years of age, strongly built, with rugged
features, a heavy mustache, and rather small, gray eyes, hidden by bushy
eyebrows. His name was Gevrol, but he was universally known as “the
General.” This sobriquet was pleasing to his vanity, which was not
slight, as his subordinates well knew; and, doubtless, he felt that he
ought to receive from them the same consideration as was due to a person
of that exalted rank.

“If you begin to complain already,” he added, gruffly, “what will you do
by and by?”

In fact, it was too soon to complain. The little party were then passing
along the Rue de Choisy. The people on the footways were orderly; and
the lights of the wine-shops illuminated the street. All these places
were open. There is no fog or thaw that is potent enough to dismay
lovers of pleasure. And a boisterous crowd of maskers filled each
tavern, and public ballroom. Through the open windows came alternately
the sounds of loud voices and bursts of noisy music. Occasionally, a
drunken man staggered along the pavement, or a masked figure crept by in
the shadow cast by the houses.

Before certain establishments Gevrol commanded a halt. He gave a
peculiar whistle, and almost immediately a man came out. This was
another member of the force. His report was listened to, and then the
squad passed on.

“To the left, boys!” ordered Gevrol; “we will take the Rue d’Ivry, and
then cut through the shortest way to the Rue de Chevaleret.”

From this point the expedition became really disagreeable. The way led
through an unfinished, unnamed street, full of puddles and deep holes,
and obstructed with all sorts of rubbish. There were no longer any
lights or crowded wine-shops. No footsteps, no voices were heard;
solitude, gloom, and an almost perfect silence prevailed; and one might
have supposed oneself a hundred leagues from Paris, had it not been for
the deep and continuous murmur that always arises from a large city,
resembling the hollow roar of a torrent in some cavern depth.

All the men had turned up their trousers and were advancing slowly,
picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing upon his
prey. They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers when suddenly
a wild shriek rent the air. At this place, and at this hour, such a cry
was so frightfully significant, that all the men paused as if by common
impulse.

“Did you hear that, General?” asked one of the detectives, in a low
voice.

“Yes, there is murder going on not far from here--but where? Silence!
let us listen.”

They all stood motionless, holding their breath, and anxiously
listening. Soon a second cry, or rather a wild howl, resounded.

“Ah!” exclaimed the inspector, “it is at the Poivriere.”

This peculiar appellation “Poivriere” or “pepper-box” was derived from
the term “peppered” which in French slang is applied to a man who
has left his good sense at the bottom of his glass. Hence, also, the
sobriquet of “pepper thieves” given to the rascals whose specialty it is
to plunder helpless, inoffensive drunkards.

“What!” added Gevrol to his companions, “don’t you know Mother Chupin’s
drinking-shop there on the right. Run.”

And, setting the example, he dashed off in the direction indicated. His
men followed, and in less than a minute they reached a hovel of sinister
aspect, standing alone, in a tract of waste ground. It was indeed from
this den that the cries had proceeded. They were now repeated, and were
immediately followed by two pistol shots. The house was hermetically
closed, but through the cracks in the window-shutters, gleamed a reddish
light like that of a fire. One of the police agents darted to one of
these windows, and raising himself up by clinging to the shutters with
his hands, endeavored to peer through the cracks, and to see what was
passing within.

Gevrol himself ran to the door. “Open!” he commanded, striking it
heavily. No response came. But they could hear plainly enough the sound
of a terrible struggle--of fierce imprecations, hollow groans, and
occasionally the sobs of a woman.

“Horrible!” cried the police agent, who was peering through the
shutters; “it is horrible!”

This exclamation decided Gevrol. “Open, in the name of the law!” he
cried a third time.

And no one responding, with a blow of the shoulder that was as violent
as a blow from a battering-ram, he dashed open the door. Then the
horror-stricken accent of the man who had been peering through the
shutters was explained. The room presented such a spectacle that all
the agents, and even Gevrol himself, remained for a moment rooted to the
threshold, shuddering with unspeakable horror.

Everything denoted that the house had been the scene of a terrible
struggle, of one of those savage conflicts which only too often stain
the barriere drinking dens with blood. The lights had been extinguished
at the beginning of the strife, but a blazing fire of pine logs
illuminated even the furthest corners of the room. Tables, glasses,
decanters, household utensils, and stools had been overturned, thrown
in every direction, trodden upon, shivered into fragments. Near
the fireplace two men lay stretched upon the floor. They were lying
motionless upon their backs, with their arms crossed. A third was
extended in the middle of the room. A woman crouched upon the lower
steps of a staircase leading to the floor above. She had thrown her
apron over her head, and was uttering inarticulate moans. Finally,
facing the police, and with his back turned to an open door leading into
an adjoining room, stood a young man, in front of whom a heavy oaken
table formed, as it were, a rampart.

He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard. His clothes, not unlike
those of a railway porter, were torn to fragments, and soiled with dust
and wine and blood. This certainly was the murderer. The expression on
his face was terrible. A mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive
sneer distorted his features. On his neck and cheek were two wounds
which bled profusely. In his right hand, covered with a handkerchief, he
held a pistol, which he aimed at the intruders.

“Surrender!” cried Gevrol.

The man’s lips moved, but in spite of a visible effort he could not
articulate a syllable.

“Don’t do any mischief,” continued the inspector, “we are in force, you
can not escape; so lay down your arms.”

“I am innocent,” exclaimed the man, in a hoarse, strained voice.

“Naturally, but we do not see it.”

“I have been attacked; ask that old woman. I defended myself; I have
killed--I had a right to do so; it was in self-defense!”

The gesture with which he enforced these words was so menacing that one
of the agents drew Gevrol violently aside, saying, as he did so; “Take
care, General, take care! The revolver has five barrels, and we have
heard but two shots.”

But the inspector was inaccessible to fear; he freed himself from the
grasp of his subordinate and again stepped forward, speaking in a still
calmer tone. “No foolishness, my lad; if your case is a good one, which
is possible, after all, don’t spoil it.”

A frightful indecision betrayed itself on the young man’s features. He
held Gevrol’s life at the end of his finger, was he about to press the
trigger? No, he suddenly threw his weapon to the floor, exclaiming:
“Come and take me!” And turning as he spoke he darted into the adjoining
room, hoping doubtless to escape by some means of egress which he knew
of.

Gevrol had expected this movement. He sprang after him with outstretched
arms, but the table retarded his pursuit. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “the
wretch escapes us!”

But the fate of the fugitive was already decided. While Gevrol parleyed,
one of the agents--he who had peered through the shutters--had gone to
the rear of the house and effected an entrance through the back door. As
the murderer darted out, this man sprang upon him, seized him, and with
surprising strength and agility dragged him back. The murderer tried to
resist; but in vain. He had lost his strength: he tottered and fell upon
the table that had momentarily protected him, murmuring loud enough for
every one to hear: “Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!”

This simple and decisive maneuvre on the part of the subordinate had won
the victory, and at first it greatly delighted the inspector. “Good, my
boy,” said he, “very good! Ah! you have a talent for your business, and
you will do well if ever an opportunity--”

But he checked himself; all his followers so evidently shared his
enthusiasm that a feeling of jealousy overcame him. He felt his prestige
diminishing, and hastened to add: “The idea had occurred to me; but I
could not give the order without warning the scoundrel himself.”

This remark was superfluous. All the police agents had now gathered
around the murderer. They began by binding his feet and hands, and then
fastened him securely to a chair. He offered no resistance. His wild
excitement had given place to that gloomy prostration that follows all
unnatural efforts, either of mind or body. Evidently he had abandoned
himself to his fate.

When Gevrol saw that the men had finished their task, he called on them
to attend to the other inmates of the den, and in addition ordered the
lamps to be lit for the fire was going out. The inspector began his
examination with the two men lying near the fireplace. He laid his hand
on their hearts, but no pulsations were to be detected. He then held
the face of his watch close to their lips, but the glass remained quite
clear. “Useless,” he murmured, after several trials, “useless; they are
dead! They will never see morning again. Leave them in the same position
until the arrival of the public prosecutor, and let us look at the other
one.”

The third man still breathed. He was a young fellow, wearing the uniform
of a common soldier of the line. He was unarmed, and his large bluish
gray cloak was partly open, revealing his bare chest. The agents
lifted him very carefully--for he groaned piteously at the slightest
movement--and placed him in an upright position, with his back leaning
against the wall. He soon opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked
for something to drink. They brought him a glass of water, which he
drank with evident satisfaction. He then drew a long breath, and seemed
to regain some little strength.

“Where are you wounded?” asked Gevrol.

“In the head, there,” he responded, trying to raise one of his arms.
“Oh! how I suffer.”

The police agent, who had cut off the murderer’s retreat now approached,
and with a dexterity that an old surgeon might have envied, made an
examination of the gaping wound which the young man had received in the
back of the neck. “It is nothing,” declared the police agent, but as
he spoke there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It was
evident that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal.

“It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol in his turn; “wounds in the head,
when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month.”

The wounded man smiled sadly. “I have received my death blow,” he
murmured.

“Nonsense!”

“Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it, but I do not complain. I
have only received my just deserts.”

All the police agents turned toward the murderer on hearing these words,
presuming that he would take advantage of this opportunity to repeat his
protestations of innocence. But their expectations were disappointed; he
did not speak, although he must certainly have heard the words.

“It was that brigand, Lacheneur, who enticed me here,” continued the
wounded man, in a voice that was growing fainter.

“Lacheneur?”

“Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who knew me when I was rich--for I
had a fortune, but I spent it all; I wished to amuse myself. He, knowing
I was without a single sou in the world, came and promised me money
enough to begin life over again. Fool that I was to believe him, for he
brought me to die here like a dog! Oh! I will have my revenge on him!”
 At this thought the wounded man clenched his hands threateningly. “I
will have my revenge,” he resumed. “I know much more than he believes. I
will reveal everything.”

But he had presumed too much upon his strength. Anger had given him a
moment’s energy, but at the cost of his life which was ebbing away. When
he again tried to speak, he could not. Twice did he open his lips, but
only a choking cry of impotent rage escaped them. This was his last
manifestation of intelligence. A bloody foam gathered upon his lips, his
eyes rolled back in their sockets, his body stiffened, and he fell face
downward in a terrible convulsion.

“It is over,” murmured Gevrol.

“Not yet,” replied the young police agent, who had shown himself so
proficient; “but he can not live more than two minutes. Poor devil! he
will say nothing.”

The inspector of police had risen from the floor as if he had just
witnessed the commonest incident in the world, and was carefully dusting
the knees of his trousers. “Oh, well,” he responded, “we shall know
all we need to know. This fellow is a soldier, and the number of his
regiment will be given on the buttons of his cloak.”

A slight smile curved the lips of the subordinate. “I think you are
mistaken, General,” said he.

“How--”

“Yes, I understand. Seeing him attired in a military coat, you
supposed--But no; this poor wretch was no soldier. Do you wish for an
immediate proof? Is his hair the regulation cut? Where did you ever see
soldiers with their hair falling over their shoulders?”

This objection silenced the General for a moment; but he replied
bruskly: “Do you think that I keep my eyes in my pocket? What you have
remarked did not escape my notice; only I said to myself, here is a
young man who has profited by leave of absence to visit the wig maker.”

“At least--”

But Gevrol would permit no more interruptions. “Enough talk,” he
declared. “We will now hear what has happened. Mother Chupin, the old
hussy, is not dead!”

As he spoke, he advanced toward the old woman, who was still crouching
upon the stairs. She had not moved nor ventured so much as a look since
the entrance of the police, but her moans had not been discontinued.
With a sudden movement, Gevrol tore off the apron which she had thrown
over her head, and there she stood, such as years, vice, poverty, and
drink had made her; wrinkled, shriveled, toothless, and haggard, her
skin as yellow and as dry as parchment and drawn tightly over her bones.

“Come, stand up!” ordered the inspector. “Your lamentations don’t affect
me. You ought to be sent to prison for putting such vile drugs into your
liquors, thus breeding madness in the brains of your customers.”

The old woman’s little red eyes traveled slowly round the room, and then
in tearful tones she exclaimed: “What a misfortune! what will become of
me? Everything is broken--I am ruined!” She only seemed impressed by the
loss of her table utensils.

“Now tell us how this trouble began,” said Gevrol.

“Alas! I know nothing about it. I was upstairs mending my son’s clothes,
when I heard a dispute.”

“And after that?”

“Of course I came down, and I saw those three men that are lying
there picking a quarrel with the young man you have arrested; the poor
innocent! For he is innocent, as truly as I am an honest woman. If my
son Polyte had been here he would have separated them; but I, a poor
widow, what could I do! I cried ‘Police!’ with all my might.”

After giving this testimony she resumed her seat, thinking she had said
enough. But Gevrol rudely ordered her to stand up again. “Oh! we have
not done,” said he. “I wish for other particulars.”

“What particulars, dear Monsieur Gevrol, since I saw nothing?”

Anger crimsoned the inspector’s ears. “What would you say, old woman, if
I arrested you?”

“It would be a great piece of injustice.”

“Nevertheless, it is what will happen if you persist in remaining
silent. I have an idea that a fortnight in Saint Lazare would untie your
tongue.”

These words produced the effect of an electric shock on the Widow
Chupin. She suddenly ceased her hypocritical lamentations, rose, placed
her hands defiantly on her hips, and poured forth a torrent of invective
upon Gevrol and his agents, accusing them of persecuting her family ever
since they had previously arrested her son, a good-for-nothing fellow.
Finally, she swore that she was not afraid of prison, and would be only
too glad to end her days in jail beyond the reach of want.

At first the General tried to impose silence upon the terrible
termagant: but he soon discovered that he was powerless; besides, all
his subordinates were laughing. Accordingly he turned his back upon her,
and, advancing toward the murderer, he said: “You, at least, will not
refuse an explanation.”

The man hesitated for a moment. “I have already said all that I have to
say,” he replied, at last. “I have told you that I am innocent; and this
woman and a man on the point of death who was struck down by my hand,
have both confirmed my declaration. What more do you desire? When the
judge questions me, I will, perhaps, reply; until then do not expect
another word from me.”

It was easy to see that the fellow’s resolution was irrevocable; and
that he was not to be daunted by any inspector of police. Criminals
frequently preserve an absolute silence, from the very moment they are
captured. These men are experienced and shrewd, and lawyers and judges
pass many sleepless nights on their account. They have learned that
a system of defense can not be improvised at once; that it is, on the
contrary, a work of patience and meditation; and knowing what a terrible
effect an apparently insignificant response drawn from them at the
moment of detection may produce on a court of justice, they remain
obstinately silent. So as to see whether the present culprit was an old
hand or not, Gevrol was about to insist on a full explanation when some
one announced that the soldier had just breathed his last.

“As that is so, my boys,” the inspector remarked, “two of you will
remain here, and I will leave with the others. I shall go and arouse
the commissary of police, and inform him of the affair; he will take
the matter in hand: and we can then do whatever he commands. My
responsibility will be over, in any case. So untie our prisoner’s
legs and bind Mother Chupin’s hands, and we will drop them both at the
station-house as we pass.”

The men hastened to obey, with the exception of the youngest among them,
the same who had won the General’s passing praise. He approached his
chief, and motioning that he desired to speak with him, drew him outside
the door. When they were a few steps from the house, Gevrol asked him
what he wanted.

“I wish to know, General, what you think of this affair.”

“I think, my boy, that four scoundrels encountered each other in this
vile den. They began to quarrel; and from words they came to blows.
One of them had a revolver, and he killed the others. It is as clear as
daylight. According to his antecedents, and according to the antecedents
of the victims, the assassin will be judged. Perhaps society owes him
some thanks.”

“And you think that any investigation--any further search is
unnecessary.”

“Entirely unnecessary.”

The younger man appeared to deliberate for a moment. “It seems to me,
General,” he at length replied, “that this affair is not perfectly
clear. Have you noticed the murderer, remarked his demeanor, and
observed his look? Have you been surprised as I have been--?”

“By what?”

“Ah, well! it seems to me--I may, of course, be mistaken--but I fancy
that appearances are deceitful, and--Yes, I suspect something.”

“Bah!--explain yourself, please.”

“How can you explain the dog’s faculty of scent?”

Gevrol shrugged his shoulders. “In short,” he replied, “you scent a
melodrama here--a rendezvous of gentlemen in disguise, here at the
Poivriere, at Mother Chupin’s house. Well, hunt after the mystery, my
boy; search all you like, you have my permission.”

“What! you will allow me?”

“I not only allow you, I order you to do it. You are going to remain
here with any one of your comrades you may select. And if you find
anything that I have not seen, I will allow you to buy me a pair of
spectacles.”




II

The young police agent to whom Gevrol abandoned what he thought an
unnecessary investigation was a debutant in his profession. His name
was Lecoq. He was some twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, almost
beardless, very pale, with red lips, and an abundance of wavy black
hair. He was rather short but well proportioned; and each of his
movements betrayed unusual energy. There was nothing remarkable about
his appearance, if we except his eyes, which sparkled brilliantly or
grew extremely dull, according to his mood; and his nose, the large full
nostrils of which had a surprising mobility.

The son of a respectable, well-to-do Norman family, Lecoq had received
a good and solid education. He was prosecuting his law studies in Paris,
when in the same week, blow following blow, he learned that his father
had died, financially ruined, and that his mother had survived him only
a few hours. He was left alone in the world, destitute of resources,
obliged to earn his living. But how? He had an opportunity of learning
his true value, and found that it amounted to nothing; for the
university, on bestowing its diploma of bachelor, does not give an
annuity with it. Hence of what use is a college education to a poor
orphan boy? He envied the lot of those who, with a trade at the ends of
their fingers, could boldly enter the office of any manufacturer, and
say: “I would like to work.” Such men were working and eating. Lecoq
sought bread by all the methods employed by people who are in reduced
circumstances! Fruitless labor! There are a hundred thousand people in
Paris who have seen better days. No matter! He gave proofs of undaunted
energy. He gave lessons, and copied documents for a lawyer. He made
his appearance in a new character almost every day, and left no means
untried to earn an honest livelihood. At last he obtained employment
from a well-known astronomer, the Baron Moser, and spent his days in
solving bewildering and intricate problems, at the rate of a hundred
francs a month.

But a season of discouragement came. After five years of constant toil,
he found himself at the same point from which he had started. He was
nearly crazed with rage and disappointment when he recapitulated his
blighted hopes, his fruitless efforts, and the insults he had endured.
The past had been sad, the present was intolerable, the future
threatened to be terrible. Condemned to constant privations, he tried to
escape from the horrors of his real life by taking refuge in dreams.

Alone in his garret, after a day of unremitting toil, assailed by the
thousand longings of youth, Lecoq endeavored to devise some means of
suddenly making himself rich. All reasonable methods being beyond his
reach, it was not long before he was engaged in devising the worst
expedients. In short, this naturally moral and honest young man spent
much of his time in perpetrating--in fancy--the most abominable crimes.
Sometimes he himself was frightened by the work of his imagination: for
an hour of recklessness might suffice to make him pass from the idea
to the fact, from theory to practise. This is the case with all
monomaniacs; an hour comes in which the strange conceptions that have
filled their brains can be no longer held in check.

One day he could not refrain from exposing to his patron a little plan
he had conceived, which would enable him to obtain five or six hundred
francs from London. Two letters and a telegram were all that was
necessary, and the game was won. It was impossible to fail, and there
was no danger of arousing suspicion.

The astronomer, amazed at the simplicity of the plan, could but admire
it. On reflection, however, he concluded that it would not be prudent
for him to retain so ingenious a secretary in his service. This was
why, on the following day, he gave him a month’s pay in advance, and
dismissed him, saying: “When one has your disposition, and is poor, one
may either become a famous thief or a great detective. Choose.”

Lecoq retired in confusion; but the astronomer’s words bore fruit in his
mind. “Why should I not follow good advice?” he asked himself. Police
service did not inspire him with repugnance--far from it. He had often
admired that mysterious power whose hand is everywhere, and which,
although unseen and unheard, still manages to hear and see everything.
He was delighted with the prospect of being the instrument of such a
power. He considered that the profession of detective would enable him
to employ the talents with which he had been endowed in a useful and
honorable fashion; besides opening out a life of thrilling adventure
with fame as its goal.

In short, this profession had a wonderful charm for him. So much so,
that on the following week, thanks to a letter from Baron Moser, he was
admitted into the service. A cruel disenchantment awaited him. He had
seen the results, but not the means. His surprise was like that of a
simple-minded frequenter of the theatre, when he is admitted for the
first time behind the scenes, and is able to pry into the decorations
and tinsel that are so dazzling at a distance.

However, the opportunity for which he had so ardently longed, for which
he had been waiting during many weary months, had come, he thought,
at last, as he reached the Poivriere with Gevrol and the other police
agents. While he was clinging to the window shutters he saw by the
light of his ambition a pathway to success. It was at first only a
presentiment, but it soon became a supposition, and then a conviction
based upon actual facts, which had escaped his companions, but which
he had observed and carefully noted. He recognized that fortune had, at
last, turned in his favor when he saw Gevrol neglect all but the merest
formalities of examination, and when he heard him declare peremptorily
that this triple murder was merely the result of one of those ferocious
quarrels so frequent among vagrants in the outskirts of the city.

“Ah, well!” he thought; “have it your own way--trust in appearances,
since you will see nothing beneath them! But I will prove to you that my
youthful theory is better than all your experience.”

The inspector’s carelessness gave Lecoq a perfect right to secretly seek
information on his own account; but by warning his superior officers
before attempting anything on his own responsibility, he would protect
himself against any accusation of ambition or of unduly taking advantage
of his comrade. Such charges might prove most dangerous for his future
prospects in a profession where so much rivalry is seen, and where
wounded vanity has so many opportunities to avenge itself by resorting
to all sorts of petty treason. Accordingly, he spoke to his superior
officer--saying just enough to be able to remark, in case of success:
“Ah! I warned you!”--just enough so as not to dispel any of Gevrol’s
doubts.

The permission which Lecoq obtained to remain in charge of the bodies
was his first triumph of the best possible augury; but he knew how to
dissimulate, and it was in a tone of the utmost indifference that he
requested one of his comrades to remain with him. Then, while the others
were making ready to depart, he seated himself upon the corner of the
table, apparently oblivious of all that was passing around. He did not
dare to lift his head, for fear of betraying his joy, so much did
he fear that his companions might read his hopes and plans in the
expression of his face.

Inwardly he was wild with impatience. Though the murderer submitted with
good grace to the precautions that were taken to prevent his escape, it
required some time to bind the hands of the Widow Chupin, who fought and
howled as if they were burning her alive. “They will never go!” Lecoq
murmured to himself.

They did so at last, however. Gevrol gave the order to start, and left
the house, addressing a laughing good-by to his subordinate. The latter
made no reply. He followed his comrades as far as the threshold to make
sure that they were really going, for he trembled at the thought that
Gevrol might reflect, change his mind, and return to solve the mystery,
as was his right.

His anxiety was needless, however. The squad gradually faded away in the
distance, and the cries of Widow Chupin died away in the stillness of
the night. It was only then that Lecoq reentered the room. He could
no longer conceal his delight; his eyes sparkled as might those of a
conqueror taking possession of some vast empire: he stamped his foot
upon the floor and exclaimed with exultation: “Now the mystery belongs
to us two alone!”

Authorized by Gevrol to choose one of his comrades to remain with him at
the Poivriere, Lecoq had requested the least intelligent of the party
to keep him company. He was not influenced by a fear of being obliged to
share the fruits of success with his companion, but by the necessity of
having an assistant from whom he could, in case of need, exact implicit
obedience.

The comrade Lecoq selected was a man of about fifty, who, after a term
of cavalry service, had become an agent of the prefecture. In the humble
office that he occupied he had seen prefect succeed prefect, and might
probably have filled an entire prison with the culprits he had arrested
with his own hands. Experience had not, however, made him any the
shrewder or any the more zealous. Still he had this merit, when he
received an order he executed it with military exactitude, so far as he
understood it. Of course if he had failed to understand it, so much the
worse. It might, indeed, be said of him, that he discharged his duties
like a blind man, like an old horse trained for a riding school.

When he had a moment’s leisure, and a little money in his pocket, he
invariably got drunk. Indeed, he spent his life between two fits of
intoxication, without ever rising above a condition of semi-lucidity.
His comrades had known, but had forgotten, his name, and his partiality
for a certain beverage had accordingly induced them to call him “Father
Absinthe.”

With his limited powers of observation, he naturally did not observe
the tone of triumph in his young companion’s voice. “Upon my word,” he
remarked, when they were alone, “your idea of keeping me here was a good
one, and I thank you for it. While the others spend the night paddling
about in the slush, I shall get a good sleep.”

Here he stood, in a room that was splashed with blood, that was
shuddering, so to speak, with crime, and yet face to face with the still
warm bodies of three murdered men he could talk of sleep!

But, after all, what did it matter to him? He had seen so many similar
scenes in his time. And does not habit infallibly lead to professional
indifference, making the soldier cool and composed in the midst of
conflict, and rendering the surgeon impassible when the patient shrieks
and writhes beneath his operating knife.

“I have been upstairs, looking about,” pursued Father Absinthe; “I saw a
bed up there, and we can mount guard here, by turns.”

With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted him. “You must give up
that idea, Father Absinthe,” he said, “we are not here to sleep, but to
collect information--to make the most careful researches, and to note
all the probabilities. In a few hours the commissary of police, the
legal physician, and the public prosecutor will be here. I wish to have
a report ready for them.”

This proposition seemed anything but pleasing to the old police agent.
“Eh! what is the use of that?” he exclaimed. “I know the General. When
he goes in search of the commissary, as he has gone this evening, there
is nothing more to be done. Do you think you can see anything that he
didn’t see?”

“I think that Gevrol, like every one else, is liable to be mistaken. I
think that he believes too implicitly in what seems to him evidence. I
could swear that this affair is not what it seems to be; and I am sure
that if we like we can discover the mystery which is concealed beneath
present appearances.”

Although Lecoq’s vehemence was intense, he did not succeed in making
any impression upon his companion, who with a yawn that threatened to
dislocate his jaws replied: “Perhaps you are right; but I am going to
bed. This need not prevent you from searching around, however; and if
you find anything you can wake me.”

Lecoq made no sign of impatience: nor in reality was he impatient. These
words afforded him the opportunity for which he was longing. “You will
give me a moment first,” he remarked. “In five minutes, by your watch, I
promise to let you put your finger on the mystery that I suspect here.”

“Well, go on for five minutes.”

“After that you shall be free, Father Absinthe. Only it is clear that if
I unravel the mystery alone, I alone ought to pocket the reward that a
solution will certainly bring.”

At the word “reward” the old police agent pricked up his ears. He was
dazzled by the vision of an infinite number of bottles of the greenish
liquor whose name he bore. “Convince me, then,” said he, taking a seat
upon a stool, which he had lifted from the floor.

Lecoq remained standing in front of him. “To begin with,” he remarked,
“whom do you suppose the person we have just arrested to be?”

“A porter, probably, or a vagabond.”

“That is to say, a man belonging to the lowest class of society:
consequently, a fellow without education.”

“Certainly.”

Lecoq spoke with his eyes fixed upon those of his companion. He
distrusted his own powers, as is usual with persons of real merit, but
he felt that if he could succeed in making his convictions penetrate his
comrade’s obtuse mind, their exactitude would be virtually proved.

“And now,” he continued, “what would you say if I showed you that this
young man had received an excellent, even refined, education?”

“I should reply that it was very extraordinary. I should reply that--but
what a fool I am! You have not proved it to me yet.”

“But I can do so very easily. Do you remember the words that he uttered
as he fell?”

“Yes, I remember them perfectly. He said: ‘It is the Prussians who are
coming.’”

“What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“What a question! I should suppose that he did not like the Prussians,
and that he supposed he was offering us a terrible insult.”

Lecoq was waiting anxiously for this response. “Ah, well; Father
Absinthe,” he said gravely, “you are wrong, quite wrong. And that this
man has an education superior to his apparent position is proved by the
fact that you did not understand his meaning, nor his intention. It was
this single phrase that enlightened me.”

Father Absinthe’s physiognomy expressed the strange and comical
perplexity of a man who is so thoroughly mystified that he knows not
whether to laugh, or to be angry. After reflecting a little, he decided
to adopt the latter course. “You are rather too young to impose upon an
old fellow like me,” he remarked. “I don’t like boasters--”

“One moment!” interrupted Lecoq; “allow me to explain. You have
certainly heard of a terrible battle which resulted in one of the
greatest defeats that ever happened to France--the battle of Waterloo?”

“I don’t see the connection--”

“Answer, if you please.”

“Yes--then! I have heard of it!”

“Very well; you must know then that for some time victory seemed likely
to rest with the banners of France. The English began to fall back, and
the emperor had already exclaimed: ‘We have them!’ when suddenly on the
right, a little in the rear, a large body of troops was seen advancing.
It was the Prussian army. The battle of Waterloo was lost.”

In all his life, worthy Father Absinthe had never made such a strenuous
effort to understand anything. In this case his perseverance was not
wholly useless, for, springing from his stool, and probably in much the
same tone that Archimedes cried “Eureka!” he exclaimed, “I understand.
The man’s words were only an allusion.”

“It is as you have said,” remarked Lecoq, approvingly. “But I had
not finished. If the emperor was thrown into consternation by the
appearance of the Prussians, it was because he was momentarily
expecting the arrival of one of his own generals from the same
direction--Grouchy--with thirty-five thousand men. So if this man’s
allusion was exact and complete, he was not expecting an enemy, but a
friend. Now draw your own conclusions.”

Father Absinthe was amazed but convinced: and his eyes, heavy with sleep
a few moments before, now opened to their widest extent. “Good heavens!”
 he murmured, “if you put it in that way! But I forget; you must have
seen something as you were looking through the shutters.”

The young man shook his head. “Upon my honor,” he declared, “I saw
nothing save the struggle between the murderer and the poor devil
dressed as a soldier. It was that sentence alone that aroused my
attention.”

“Wonderful! prodigious!” exclaimed the astonished old man.

“I will add that reflection has confirmed my suspicions. I ask myself
why this man, instead of flying at once, should have waited and remained
there, at that door, to parley with us.”

With a bound, Father Absinthe sprang again to his feet. “Why?” he
interrupted; “because he had accomplices, and he wished to give them
time to escape. Ah! I understand it all now.”

A triumphant smile parted Lecoq’s lips. “That is what I said to myself,”
 he replied, “and now it is easy to verify my suspicions. There is snow
outside, isn’t there?”

It was not necessary to say any more. The elder officer seized the
light, and followed by his companion, he hastened to the back door of
the house, which opened into a small garden. In this sheltered enclosure
the snow had not melted, and upon its white surface the dark stains
of numerous footprints presented themselves. Without hesitation,
Lecoq threw himself upon his knees in the snow; he rose again almost
immediately. “These indentations were not made by the men’s feet,” said
he. “There have been women here.”




III

Obstinate men of Father Absinthe’s stamp, who are at first always
inclined to differ from other people’s opinions, are the very
individuals who end in madly adopting them. When an idea has at last
penetrated their empty brains, they twist and turn it, dwell upon it,
and develop it until it exceeds the bounds of reason.

Hence, the police veteran was now much more strongly convinced than
his companion that the usually clever Gevrol had been mistaken, and
accordingly he laughed the inspector to scorn. On hearing Lecoq affirm
that women had taken part in the horrible scene at the Poivriere, his
joy was extreme--“A fine affair!” he exclaimed; “an excellent case!” And
suddenly recollecting a maxim that has been handed down from the time
of Cicero, he added in sententious tones: “Who holds the woman holds the
cause!”

Lecoq did not deign to reply. He was standing upon the threshold,
leaning against the framework of the door, his hand pressed to his
forehead, as motionless as a statue. The discovery he had just made, and
which so delighted Father Absinthe, filled him with consternation. It
was the death of his hopes, the annihilation of the ingenious structure
which his imagination had built upon the foundation of a single
sentence.

There was no longer any mystery--, so celebrity was not to be gained by
a brilliant stroke!

For the presence of two women in this vile den explained everything in
the most natural and commonplace fashion. Their presence explained the
quarrel, the testimony of Widow Chupin, the dying declaration of the
pretended soldier. The behavior of the murderer was also explained. He
had remained to cover the retreat of the two women; he had sacrificed
himself in order to save them, an act of gallantry so common in the
French character, that any scoundrel of the barrieres might have
performed it.

Still, the strange allusion to the battle of Waterloo remained
unexplained. But what did that prove now? Nothing, simply nothing.
However, who could say how low an unworthy passion might cause a man
even of birth and breeding to descend? And the carnival afforded an
opportunity for the parties to disguise themselves.

But while Lecoq was turning and twisting all these probabilities in his
mind, Father Absinthe became impatient. “Are we going to remain here
until doomsday?” he asked. “Are we to pause just at the moment when our
search has been productive of such brilliant results?”

“Brilliant results!” These words stung the young man as deeply as the
keenest irony could have done. “Leave me alone,” he replied gruffly;
“and, above all, don’t walk about the garden, as by doing so, you’ll
damage any footprints.”

His companion swore a little; but soon became silent in his turn. He was
constrained to submit to the irresistible ascendency of superior will
and intelligence.

Lecoq was engaged in following out his course of reasoning. “The
murderer, leaving the ball at the Rainbow, a dancing-house not far from
here, near the fortifications, came to this wine-shop, accompanied by
two women. He found three men drinking here, who either began teasing
him, or who displayed too much gallantry toward his companions. He
became angry. The others threatened him; he was one against three; he
was armed; he became wild with rage, and fired--”

He checked himself, and an instant after added, aloud: “But was it the
murderer who brought these women here? If he is tried, this will be the
important point. It is necessary to obtain information regarding it.”

He immediately went back into the house, closely followed by his
colleague, and began an examination of the footprints round about the
door that Gevrol had forced open. Labor lost. There was but little snow
on the ground near the entrance of the hovel, and so many persons
had passed in and out that Lecoq could discover nothing. What a
disappointment after his patient hopes! Lecoq could have cried
with rage. He saw the opportunity for which he had sighed so long
indefinitely postponed. He fancied he could hear Gevrol’s coarse
sarcasms. “Enough of this,” he murmured, under his breath. “The General
was right, and I am a fool!”

He was so positively convinced that one could do no more than discover
the circumstances of some commonplace, vulgar broil, that he began to
wonder if it would not be wise to renounce his search and take a nap,
while awaiting the coming of the commissary of police.

But Father Absinthe was no longer of this opinion. This worthy man, who
was far from suspecting the nature of his companion’s reflections could
not explain his inaction. “Come! my boy,” said he, “have you lost your
wits? This is losing time, it seems to me. The authorities will arrive
in a few hours, and what report shall we be able to give them! As for
me, if you desire to go to sleep, I shall pursue the investigation
alone.”

Disappointed as he was, the young police officer could not repress a
smile. He recognized his own exhortation of a few moments before. It
was the old man who had suddenly become intrepid. “To work, then!” he
sighed, like a man who, while foreseeing defeat, wishes, at least, to
have no cause for self-reproach.

He found it, however, extremely difficult to follow the footprints in
the open air by the uncertain light of a candle, which was extinguished
by the least breath of wind. “I wonder if there is a lantern in the
house,” he said. “If we could only lay our hands upon one!”

They searched everywhere, and, at last, upstairs in the Widow Chupin’s
own room, they found a well-trimmed lantern, so small and compact that
it certainly had never been intended for honest purposes.

“A regular burglar’s implement,” said Father Absinthe, with a coarse
laugh.

The implement was useful in any case; as both men agreed when
they returned to the garden and recommenced their investigations
systematically. They advanced very slowly and with extreme caution. The
old man carefully held the lantern in the best position, while Lecoq,
on his knees, studied each footprint with the attention of a chiromancer
professing to read the future in the hand of a rich client. This
new examination assured Lecoq that he had been correct in his first
supposition. It was plain that two women had left the Poivriere by the
back door. They had started off running, as was proved by the length of
the steps and the shape of the footprints.

The difference in the tracks left by the two fugitives was so remarkable
that it did not escape Father Absinthe’s eyes. “Sapristi!” he muttered;
“one of these jades can boast of having a pretty foot at the end of her
leg!”

He was right. One of the tracks betrayed a small, coquettish, slender
foot, clad in an elegant high-heeled boot with a narrow sole and an
arched instep. The other denoted a broad, short foot growing wider
toward the end. It had evidently been incased in a strong, low shoe.

This was indeed a clue. Lecoq’s hopes at once revived; so eagerly does
a man welcome any supposition that is in accordance with his desires.
Trembling with anxiety, he went to examine some other footprints a short
distance from these; and an excited exclamation at once escaped his
lips.

“What is it?” eagerly inquired the other agent: “what do you see?”

“Come and look for yourself, see there!” cried Lecoq.

The old man bent down, and his surprise was so great that he almost
dropped the lantern. “Oh!” said he in a stifled voice, “a man’s
footprint!”

“Exactly. And this fellow wore the finest of boots. See that imprint,
how clear, how neat it is!”

Worthy Father Absinthe was scratching his ear furiously, his usual
method of quickening his rather slow wits. “But it seems to me,” he
ventured to say at last, “that this individual was not coming from this
ill-fated hovel.”

“Of course not; the direction of the foot tells you that. No, he was
not going away, he was coming here. But he did not pass beyond the spot
where we are now standing. He was standing on tiptoe with outstretched
neck and listening ears, when, on reaching this spot, he heard some
noise, fear seized him, and he fled.”

“Or rather, the women were going out as he was coming, and--”

“No, the women were outside the garden when he entered it.”

This assertion seemed far too audacious to suit Lecoq’s companion, who
remarked: “One can not be sure of that.”

“I am sure of it, however; and can prove it conclusively. If you doubt
it, it is because your eyes are growing old. Bring your lantern a little
nearer--yes, here it is--our man placed his large foot upon one of the
marks made by the woman with the small foot and almost effaced it.”
 This unexceptionable piece of circumstantial evidence stupefied the old
police agent.

“Now,” continued Lecoq, “could this man have been the accomplice whom
the murderer was expecting? Might it not have been some strolling
vagrant whose attention was attracted by the two pistol shots? This is
what we must ascertain. And we will ascertain it. Come!”

A wooden fence of lattice-work, rather more than three feet high,
was all that separated the Widow Chupin’s garden from the waste land
surrounding it. When Lecoq made the circuit of the house to cut off the
murderer’s escape he had encountered this obstacle, and, fearing lest he
should arrive too late, he had leaped the fence to the great detriment
of his pantaloons, without even asking himself if there was a gate or
not. There was one, however--a light gate of lattice-work similar to the
fence, turning upon iron hinges, and closed by a wooden button. Now it
was straight toward this gate that these footprints in the snow led the
two police agents. Some new thought must have struck the younger man,
for he suddenly paused. “Ah!” he murmured, “these two women did not come
to the Poivriere this evening for the first time.”

“Why do you think that, my boy?” inquired Father Absinthe.

“I could almost swear it. How, unless they were in the habit of coming
to this den, could they have been aware of the existence of this gate?
Could they have discovered it on such a dark, foggy night? No; for I,
who can, without boasting, say that I have good eyes--I did not see it.”

“Ah! yes, that is true!”

“These two women, however, came here without hesitating, in a straight
line; and note that to do this, it was necessary for them to cross the
garden diagonally.”

The veteran would have given something if he could have found some
objection to offer; but unfortunately he could find none. “Upon my
word!” he exclaimed, “yours is a droll way of proceeding. You are only
a conscript; I am a veteran in the service, and have assisted in more
affairs of this sort than you are years old, but never have I seen--”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, “you will see much more. For example, I
can prove to you that although the women knew the exact position of the
gate, the man knew it only by hearsay.”

“The proof!”

“The fact is easily demonstrated. Study the man’s footprints, and you,
who are very sharp, will see at once that he deviated greatly from the
straight course. He was in such doubt that he was obliged to search for
the gate with his hand stretched out before him--and his fingers have
left their imprint on the thin covering of snow that lies upon the upper
railing of the fence.”

The old man would have been glad to verify this statement for himself,
as he said, but Lecoq was in a hurry. “Let us go on, let us go on!” said
he. “You can verify my assertions some other time.”

They left the garden and followed the footprints which led them toward
the outer boulevards, inclining somewhat in the direction of the Rue de
Patay. There was now no longer any need of close attention. No one save
the fugitives had crossed this lonely waste since the last fall of snow.
A child could have followed the track, so clear and distinct it was.
Four series of footprints, very unlike in character, formed the track;
two of these had evidently been left by the women; the other two, one
going and one returning, had been made by the man. On several occasions
the latter had placed his foot exactly on the footprints left by the two
women, half effacing them, thus dispelling all doubt as to the precise
moment of his approach.

About a hundred yards from the Poivriere, Lecoq suddenly seized his
colleague’s arm. “Halt!” he exclaimed, “we have reached a good place; I
can see unmistakable proofs.”

The spot, all unenclosed as it was, was evidently utilized by some
builder for the storage of various kinds of lumber. The ground was
strewn with large blocks of granite, some chiseled, some in the rough,
with numerous long planks and logs of wood in their midst. In front of
one of these logs, the surface of which had been evidently wiped, all
the various footprints came together, mingling confusedly.

“Here,” declared the young detective, “our fugitives met the man and
took counsel with him. One of the women, the one with the little feet,
sat down upon this log.”

“We ought to make quite sure of that,” said Father Absinthe, in an
oracular tone.

But his companion cut short his desire for verification. “You, my old
friend,” said he, “are going to do me the kindness to keep perfectly
still: pass me the lantern and do not move.”

Lecoq’s modest tone had suddenly become so imperious that his colleague
dared offer no resistance. Like a soldier at the command to halt,
he remained erect, motionless, and mute, following his colleague’s
movements with an inquisitive, wondering eye.

Quick in his motions, and understanding how to maneuvre the lantern
in accordance with his wishes, the young police agent explored the
surroundings in a very short space of time. A bloodhound in pursuit of
his prey would have been less alert, less discerning, less agile. He
came and went, now turning, now pausing, now retreating, now hurrying on
again without any apparent reason; he scrutinized, he questioned every
surrounding object: the ground, the logs of wood, the blocks of stone,
in a word, nothing escaped his glance. For a moment he would remain
standing, then fall upon his knees, and at times lie flat upon his
stomach with his face so near the ground that his breath must have
melted the snow. He had drawn a tape-line from his pocket, and using it
with a carpenter’s dexterity, he measured, measured, and measured.

And all his movements were accompanied with the wild gestures of a
madman, interspersed with oaths or short laughs, with exclamations of
disappointment or delight. After a quarter of an hour of this strange
exercise, he turned to Father Absinthe, placed the lantern on a stone,
wiped his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said: “Now I know
everything!”

“Well, that is saying a great deal!”

“When I say everything, I mean all that is connected with the episode of
the drama which ended in that bloody bout in the hovel. This expanse of
earth covered with snow is a white page upon which the people we are
in search of have written, not only their movements, their goings,
and comings, but also their secret thoughts, their alternate hopes and
anxieties. What do these footprints say to you, Papa Absinthe? To me
they are alive like the persons who made them; they breathe, speak,
accuse!”

The old agent was saying to himself: “Certainly, this fellow is
intelligent, undeniably shrewd; but he is very disagreeable.”

“These are the facts as I have read them,” pursued Lecoq. “When the
murderer repaired to the Poivriere with the two women, his companion--I
should say his accomplice--came here to wait. He was a tall man of
middle age; he wore a soft hat and a shaggy brown overcoat; he was,
moreover, probably married, or had been so, as he had a wedding-ring on
the little finger of his right hand--”

His companion’s despairing gestures obliged the speaker to pause.
This description of a person whose existence had but just now been
demonstrated, these precise details given in a tone of absolute
certainty, completely upset all Father Absinthe’s ideas, increasing his
perplexity beyond all bounds.

“This is not right,” he growled, “this is not kind. You are poking
fun at me. I take the thing seriously; I listen to you, I obey you
in everything, and then you mock me in this way. We find a clue,
and instead of following it up, you stop to relate all these absurd
stories.”

“No,” replied his companion, “I am not jesting, and I have told you
nothing of which I am not absolutely sure, nothing that is not strictly
and indisputably true.”

“And you would have me believe--”

“Fear nothing, papa; I would not have you do violence to your
convictions. When I have told you my reasons, and my means of
information, you will laugh at the simplicity of the theory that seems
so incomprehensible to you now.”

“Go on, then,” said the good man, in a tone of resignation.

“We had decided,” rejoined Lecoq, “that the accomplice mounted guard
here. The time seemed long, and, growing impatient, he paced to and
fro--the length of this log of wood--occasionally pausing to listen.
Hearing nothing, he stamped his foot, doubtless exclaiming: ‘What the
deuce has happened to him down there!’ He had made about thirty turns (I
have counted them), when a sound broke the stillness--the two women were
coming.”

On hearing Lecoq’s recital, all the conflicting sentiments that are
awakened in a child’s mind by a fairy tale--doubt, faith, anxiety,
and hope--filled Father Absinthe’s heart. What should he believe? what
should he refuse to believe? He did not know. How was he to separate the
true from the false among all these equally surprising assertions? On
the other hand, the gravity of his companion, which certainly was not
feigned, dismissed all idea of pleasantry.

Finally, curiosity began to torture him. “We had reached the point where
the women made their appearance,” said he.

“Yes, indeed,” responded Lecoq, “but here all certainty ceases; no more
proofs, only suppositions. Still, I have every reason to believe that
our fugitives left the drinking den before the beginning of the fight,
before the cries that attracted our attention. Who were they? I can only
conjecture. I suspect, however, that they were not equals in rank. I am
inclined to think that one was the mistress, the other her servant.”

“That is proved,” ventured the old man, “by the great difference in
their feet and in their shoes.”

This shrewd observation elicited a smile from Lecoq. “That difference,”
 he replied, seriously, “is something, of course; but it was not that
which decided me in my opinion. If greater or less perfection of the
extremities regulated social distinctions, many mistresses would be
servants. What struck me was this: when the two women rushed wildly from
Mother Chupin’s house, the woman with the small feet sprang across the
garden with one bound, she darted on some distance in advance of the
other. The terror of the situation, the vileness of the den, the horror
of the scandal, the thought of safety, inspired her with marvelous
energy. But her strength, as often happens with delicate and nervous
women, lasted only a few seconds. She was not half-way from the
Poivriere when her speed relaxed, her limbs trembled. Ten steps farther
on she tottered and almost fell. Some steps farther, and she became so
exhausted that she let go her hold upon her skirts; they trailed upon
the snow, tracing a faint circle there. Then the woman with the broad
feet came to aid her. She seized her companion round the waist; she
dragged her along; their footprints here are mingled confusedly; then,
seeing that her friend was about to fall, she caught her up in her
strong arms and carried her--for you will see that the footprints made
by the woman with the small feet suddenly cease at this point.”

Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by inventing this story? Was this scene
anything but a work of imagination? Was the accent of deep and sincere
conviction which he imparted to his words only feigned?

Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but he thought of a way in which he
might satisfy his uncertainty. He caught up the lantern and hurried off
to examine these footprints which he had not known how to read, which
had been speechless to him, but which yielded their secret to another.
He was obliged to agree with his companion. All that Lecoq had described
was written there; he saw the confused footprints, the circle made by
the sweeping skirts, the cessation of the tiny imprints.

On his return, his countenance betrayed a respectful and astonished
admiration, and it was with a shade of embarrassment that he said: “You
can scarcely blame an old man for being a little like St. Thomas. ‘I
have touched it with my fingers,’ and now I am content to follow you.”

The young police agent could not, indeed, blame his colleague for his
incredulity. Resuming his recital, he continued: “Then the accomplice,
who had heard the fugitives coming, ran to meet them, and he aided the
woman with large feet in carrying her companion. The latter must have
been really ill, for the accomplice took off his hat and used it in
brushing the snow off this log. Then, thinking the surface was not
yet dry enough, he wiped it with the skirt of his overcoat. Were these
civilities pure gallantry, or the usual attentions of an inferior? I
have asked myself that question. This much, however, is certain,
while the woman with the small feet was recovering her strength, half
reclining upon this board, the other took the accomplice a little on
one side, five or six steps away to the left, just beside that enormous
block of granite. There she talked with him, and, as he listened, the
man leaned upon the snow-covered stone. His hand left a very distinct
imprint there. Then, as the conversation continued, he rested his elbow
upon the snowy surface.”

Like all men of limited intelligence, Father Absinthe had suddenly
passed from unreasoning distrust to unquestioning confidence.
Henceforth, he could believe anything for the very same reason that
had, at first, made him believe nothing. Having no idea of the bounds
of human reasoning and penetration, he saw no limits to the conjectural
genius of his companion. With perfect faith, therefore, he inquired:
“And what was the accomplice saying to the woman with the broad shoes?”

Lecoq smiled at this simplicity, but the other did not see him do so.
“It is rather difficult for me to answer that question,” replied the
young detective, “I think, however, that the woman was explaining to
the man the immensity and imminence of the danger that threatened his
companion, and that they were trying to devise some means to rescue him
from it. Perhaps she brought him orders given by the murderer. It
is certain that she ended by beseeching the accomplice to run to the
Poivriere and see what was passing there. And he did so, for his tracks
start from this block of granite.”

“And only to think,” exclaimed Father Absinthe, “that we were in the
hovel at that very moment. A word from Gevrol, and we might have had
handcuffs on the whole gang! How unfortunate!”

Lecoq was not sufficiently disinterested to share his companion’s
regret. On the contrary, he was very thankful for Gevrol’s blunder. Had
it not been for that, how would he ever have found an opportunity of
investigating an affair that grew more and more mysterious as his search
proceeded, but which he hoped to fathom finally.

“To conclude,” he resumed, “the accomplice soon returned, he had
witnessed the scene, and was evidently afraid. He feared that the
thought of exploring the premises might enter the minds of the police.
It was to the lady with small feet that he addressed himself. He
explained the necessity of flight, and told her that even a moment’s
delay might be fatal. At his words, she summoned all her energy; she
rose and hastened away, clinging to the arm of her companion. Did
the man indicate the route they were to take, or did they know it
themselves? This much is certain, he accompanied them some distance, in
order to watch over them. But besides protecting these women, he had a
still more sacred duty to perform--that of succoring his accomplice, if
possible. He retraced his steps, passed by here once more, and the
last footprint that I can discover leads in the direction of the Rue
du Chateau des Rentiers. He wished to know what would become of the
murderer, and went to place himself where he might see him pass by with
his captors.”

Like a dilettante who can scarcely restrain his applause until the close
of the aria that delights him, Father Absinthe had been unable during
the recital to entirely suppress his admiration. But it was not until
Lecoq ceased speaking that he gave full vent to his enthusiasm: “Here is
a detective if you like!” he exclaimed. “And they pretend that Gevrol is
shrewd! What has he ever done to compare with this? Ah! shall I tell you
what I think? Why, in comparison with you, the General is a mere John
the Baptist.”

Certainly the flattery was gross, but it was impossible to doubt its
sincerity. This was the first time that the balmy dew of praise had
fallen upon Lecoq’s vanity, and it greatly delighted him, although he
modestly replied: “Nonsense, you are too kind, papa. After all, what
have I done that is so very clever? I told you that the man was of
middle age. It was not difficult to see that after one had examined his
heavy, dragging step. I told you that he was tall--an easy matter. When
I saw that he had been leaning upon that block of granite there to the
left, I measured the block in question. It is almost five feet five
inches in height, consequently a man who could rest his elbow upon it
must be at least six feet high. The mark of his hand proves that I am
not mistaken. On seeing that he had brushed away the snow which covered
the plank, I asked myself what he had used; I thought that it might be
his cap, and the mark left by the peak proves that I was right. Finally,
if I have discovered the color and the material of his overcoat, it is
only because when he wiped the wet board, some splinters of the wood
tore off a few tiny flakes of brown wool, which I have found, and which
will figure in the trial. But what does this amount to, after all?
Nothing. We have only discovered the first clues of the affair. Still,
we are on the right scent--so, forward then!”

The old officer was electrified, and, like an echo, he repeated:
“Forward!”




IV

That night the vagabonds, who had taken refuge in the neighborhood of
the Poivriere, had a very bad time of it; for while those who managed
to sleep were disturbed by frightful dreams of a police raid, those who
remained awake witnessed some strange incidents, well calculated to
fill their minds with terror. On hearing the shots fired inside Mother
Chupin’s drinking den, most of the vagrants concluded that there had
been a collision between the police and some of their comrades, and they
immediately began prowling about, eagerly listening and watching, and
ready to take flight at the least sign of danger. At first they could
discover no particular reasons for alarm. But later on, at about two
o’clock in the morning, just as they were beginning to feel secure
again, the fog lifted a little, and they witnessed a phenomenon well
calculated to arouse anxiety.

Upon the unoccupied tract of land, which the people of the neighborhood
called the “plain,” a small but very bright light was seen describing
the most capricious evolutions. It moved here and there without any
apparent aim, tracing the most inexplicable zigzags, sometimes sinking
to the earth, sometimes rising to a height of four or five feet, at
others remaining quite motionless, and the next second flying off like
a ball. In spite of the place and the season of the year, the less
ignorant among vagabonds believed the light to be some ignis fatuus, one
of those luminous meteors that raise from the marshes and float about
in the atmosphere at the bidding of the wind. In point of fact, however,
this ignis fatuus was the lantern by the light of which the two police
agents were pursuing their investigations.

After thus suddenly revealing his capacity to his first disciple, Lecoq
found himself involved in a cruel perplexity. He had not the boldness
and promptness of decision which is the gift of a prosperous past, and
was hesitating between two courses, both equally reasonable, and both
offering strong probabilities of success. He stood between two paths,
that made by the two women on the one side, and that made by the
accomplice on the other. Which should he take? For he could not hope
to follow both. Seated upon the log where the women had rested a few
moments before, with his hand pressed upon his forehead, he reflected
and weighed the chances.

“If I follow the man I shall learn nothing that I do not know already.
He has gone to hover round the party; he has followed them at a
distance, he has seen them lock up his accomplice, and he is undoubtedly
prowling round about the station house. If I hurried in pursuit, could I
hope to overtake and capture him? No; too long a time has elapsed.”

Father Absinthe listened to this monologue with intense curiosity,
as anxious as an unsophisticated person who, having questioned a
clairvoyant in regard to some lost articles, is waiting the oracle’s
response.

“To follow the women,” continued the young man, “to what would that
lead? Perhaps to an important discovery, perhaps to nothing.”

However, he preferred the unknown, which, with all its chances of
failure, had chances of success as well. He rose, his course was
decided.

“Father Absinthe,” said he, “we are going to follow the footprints of
these two women, and wherever they lead us we will go.”

Inspired with equal ardor they began their walk. At the end of the path
upon which they had entered they fancied they observed, as in some magic
glass, the one the fruits, the other the glory of success. They hurried
forward. At first it was only play to follow the distinct footprints
that led toward the Seine. But it was not long before they were obliged
to proceed more slowly.

On leaving the waste ground they arrived at the outer limits of
civilization, so to speak; and strange footprints mingled constantly
with the footprints of the fugitives, at times even effacing them. In
many spots, either on account of exposure or the nature of the soil,
the thaw had completed its work, and there were large patches of ground
entirely free from snow. In such cases they lost the trail, and it
required all Lecoq’s sagacity and all his companion’s good-will to find
it again.

On such occasions Father Absinthe planted his cane in the earth, near
the last footprint that had been discovered, and Lecoq and himself
hunted all over the ground around this point, much after the fashion
of a couple of bloodhounds thrown off the scent. Then it was that the
lantern moved about so strangely. More than a dozen times, in spite of
all their efforts, they would have lost the clue entirely had it not
been for the elegant shoes worn by the lady with the little feet. These
had such small and extremely high heels that the impression they left
could not be mistaken. They sank down three or four inches in the snow,
or the mud, and their tell-tale impress remained as clear and distinct
as that of a seal.

Thanks to these heels, the pursuers were able to discover that the two
fugitives had not gone up the Rue de Patay, as might have been supposed.
Probably they had considered this street too frequented, and too well
lighted. They had only crossed it, just below the Rue de la Croix-Rouge,
and had profited by an empty space between two houses to regain the open
ground.

“Certainly these women were well acquainted with the locality,” murmured
Lecoq.

Indeed, the topography of the district evidently had no secrets for
them, for, on quitting the Rue de Patay, they had immediately turned
to the right, so as to avoid several large excavations, from which a
quantity of brick clay had been dug.

But at last the trail was recovered, and the detectives followed it as
far as the Rue du Chevaleret. Here the footprints abruptly ceased. Lecoq
discovered eight or ten footmarks left by the woman who wore the broad
shoes, but that was all. Hereabout, moreover, the condition of the
ground was not calculated to facilitate an exploration of this nature.
There had been a great deal of passing to and fro in the Rue du
Chevaleret, and not merely was there scarcely any snow left on the
footpaths, but the middle of the street was transformed into a river of
slush.

“Did these people recollect at last that the snow might betray them? Did
they take the middle of the road?” grumbled the young police agent.

Certainly they could not have crossed to a vacant space as they had done
just before, for on the other side of the street extended a long factory
wall.

“Ah!” sighed Father Absinthe, “we have our labor for our pains.”

But Lecoq possessed a temperament that refused to acknowledge defeat.
Animated by the cold anger of a man who sees the object which he was
about to seize disappear from before his eyes, he recommenced his
search, and was well repaid for his efforts.

“I understand!” he cried suddenly, “I comprehend--I see!”

Father Absinthe drew near. He did not see nor divine anything! but he no
longer doubted his companion’s powers.

“Look there,” said Lecoq; “what are those marks?”

“Marks left by the wheels of some carriage that plainly turned here.”

“Very well, papa, these tracks explain everything. When they reached
this spot, our fugitives saw the light of an approaching cab, which
was returning from the centre of Paris. It was empty, and proved their
salvation. They waited, and when it came nearer they hailed the driver.
No doubt they promised him a handsome fare; this is indeed evident,
since he consented to go back again. He turned round here; they got into
the vehicle, and that is why the footprints go no further.”

This explanation did not please Lecoq’s companion. “Have we made any
great progress now that we know that?” he asked.

Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to shrug his shoulders. “Did you
expect that the tracks made by the fugitives would lead us through Paris
and up to their very doors?” he asked.

“No; but--”

“Then what would you ask more? Do you think that I shall not know how to
find this driver to-morrow? He was returning with his empty vehicle, his
day’s work was ended; hence, his stable is in the neighborhood. Do you
suppose that he will have forgotten that he took up two persons in the
Rue du Chevaleret? He will tell us where he drove them; but that will
not do us any good, for, of course, they will not have given him their
real address. But at all events he can probably give us a description
of them, tell us how they were dressed, describe their appearance, their
manner, and their age. And with that, and what we already know--”

An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder of his thought, then he
added: “We must now go back to the Poivriere, and go quickly. And you,
my friend, may now extinguish your lantern.”

While doing his best to keep pace with his companion, who was in such
haste to get back to the Poivriere that he almost ran, Father Absinthe’s
thoughts were as busy as his legs, and an entirely new train of ideas
was awakened in his mind.

During the twenty-five years that he had been connected with the police
force, the good man--to use his own expression--had seen many of his
colleagues walk over him and win, after only a few months’ work, a
promotion that his long years of service had not gained for him. In
these cases he had not failed to accuse his superiors of injustice, and
his fortunate rivals of gross flattery. In his opinion, seniority was
the only claim to advancement--the only, the best, the most respectable
claim; and he was wont to sum up all his opinions, all his grief and
bitterness of mind in one phrase: “It is infamous to pass over an old
member of the service.”

To-night, however, Father Absinthe discovered that there is something
else in the world besides seniority, and sufficient reasons for what
he had formerly regarded as favoritism. He secretly confessed that this
newcomer whom he had treated so carelessly had just followed up a clue
as he, veteran though he was, would never have succeeded in doing.

But communing with himself was not this good man’s forte; he soon grew
weary of reflection; and on reaching a place where they were obliged to
proceed more slowly on account of the badness of the road, he deemed
it a favorable opportunity to resume the conversation. “You are silent,
comrade,” he ventured to remark, “and one might swear that you were not
exactly pleased.”

This surprising result of the old man’s reflections would have amazed
Lecoq, if his mind had not been a hundred leagues away. “No, I am not
pleased,” he responded.

“And why, pray? Only ten minutes ago you were as gay as a lark.”

“Then I did not see the misfortune that threatens us.”

“A misfortune!”

“A very great misfortune. Do you not perceive that the weather has
undesirably changed. It is evident that the wind is now coming from the
south. The fog has disappeared, but the sky is cloudy and threatening.
It will rain in less than an hour.”

“A few drops are falling now; I just felt one.”

These words produced on Lecoq much the same effect as a whip-up on a
spirited horse. He sprang forward, and, adopting a still more hurried
pace, exclaimed: “Let us make haste! let us make haste!”

The old police agent followed him as in duty bound; but his mind was, if
possible, still more troubled by the replies of his young companion. A
great misfortune! The wind from the south! Rain! He did not, he could
not see the connection.

Greatly puzzled, and not a little anxious, Father Absinthe asked for an
explanation, although he had but little more breath than was absolutely
necessary to enable him to continue the forced march he was making.
“Upon my word,” said he, “I have racked my brains--”

His companion took pity on his anxiety. “What!” he exclaimed, as he
still hastened forward, “you do not understand that our investigation,
my success, and your reward, are dependent upon those black clouds which
the wind is driving toward us!”

“Oh!”

“Twenty minutes of merely gentle rain, and our time and labor will be
lost. If it rains, the snow will melt, and then farewell to our proofs.
Let us get on--let us get on more quickly! You know very well that in
such cases words don’t suffice. If we declare to the public prosecutor
that we have seen these footprints, he will ask, where? And what can we
say? If we swear by all the gods that we have seen the footprints of a
man and of two women, the investigating magistrate will say, ‘Let me
see them.’ And who will feel sheepish then? Father Absinthe and Lecoq.
Besides, Gevrol would not fail to declare that we were saying what was
not true, in order to enhance our own value, and humiliate him.”

“What an idea!”

“Faster, papa, faster; you will have all day to-morrow to be indignant.
Perhaps it will not rain. In that case, these perfect, clear, and
easily recognizable footprints will prove the culprits’ ruin. How can
we preserve them? By what process could we solidify them? I would deluge
them with my blood if that could only cause them to congeal.”

Father Absinthe was just then thinking that his share of the labor had
hitherto been the least important; for he had merely held the lantern.
But here was a chance for him to acquire a real and substantial right to
the prospective reward. “I know a method,” said he, “by which one could
preserve these marks in the snow.”

At these words the younger man stopped short. “You know--you?” he
interrupted.

“Yes, I know,” replied the old detective, with the evident satisfaction
of a man who has gained his revenge. “They invented a way at the time of
that affair at the Maison Blanche, last December.”

“I recollect.”

“Ah! well, on the snow in the courtyard there was a footprint that
attracted a detective’s attention. He said that the whole evidence
depended on that mark alone, that it was worth more than ten years’ hard
work in following up the case. Naturally, he desired to preserve it.
They sent for a great chemist--”

“Go on, go on.”

“I have never seen the method put into practise, but an expert told me
all about it, and showed me the mold they obtained. He explained it to
me precisely, on account of my profession.”

Lecoq was trembling with impatience. “And how did they obtain the mold?”
 he asked abruptly.

“Wait: I was just going to explain. They take some of the best gelatine,
and allow it to soak in cold water. When it becomes thoroughly softened,
they heat it until it forms a liquid, of moderate consistency. Then when
it is just cool enough, they pour a nice little covering of it upon the
footprint.”

Lecoq felt the irritation that is natural to a person who has just heard
a bad joke, or who has lost his time in listening to a fool.

“Enough!” he interrupted, angrily. “That method can be found in all the
manuals. It is excellent, no doubt, but how can it serve us? Have you
any gelatine about you?”

“No.”

“Nor have I. You might as well have counseled me to pour melted lead
upon the footprints to fix them.”

They continued their way, and five minutes later, without having
exchanged another word, they reentered the Widow Chupin’s hovel. The
first impulse of the older man would have been to rest to breathe, but
Lecoq did not give him time to do so.

“Make haste: get me a dish--a plate--anything!” cried the young
detective, “and bring me some water; gather together all the boards and
old boxes you can find lying about.”

While his companion was obeying him, Lecoq armed himself with a fragment
of one of the broken bottles, and began scraping away furiously at the
plastered wall that separated the two rooms.

His mind, disconcerted at first by the imminence of this unexpected
catastrophe, a fall of rain, had now regained its equilibrium. He had
reflected, he had thought of a way by which failure might possibly be
averted--and he hoped for ultimate success. When he had accumulated some
seven or eight handfuls of fine plaster dust, he mixed one-half with a
little water so as to form a thin paste, leaving the rest untouched on
the side of the plate.

“Now, papa,” said he, “come and hold the light for me.”

When in the garden, the young man sought for the deepest and most
distinct of the footprints, knelt beside it, and began his experiment,
trembling with anxiety. He first sprinkled upon the impression a fine
coating of dry plaster, and then upon this coating, with infinite care,
he poured his liquid solution drop by drop.

What luck! the experiment was successful! The plaster united in a
homogeneous mass, forming a perfect model of the impression. Thus, after
an hour’s labor, Lecoq possessed half a dozen of these casts, which
might, perhaps, be a little wanting in clearness of outline, but which
were quite perfect enough to be used as evidence.

The young detective’s alarm had been well founded, for it was already
beginning to rain. Still, he had plenty of time to cover a number of the
footprints with the boxes and pieces of board which Father Absinthe had
collected, thus placing them, as it were, beyond the reach of a thaw.
Now he could breathe. The authorities might come, for the most important
part of his task was completed.




V

It was some distance from the Poivriere to the Rue de Chevaleret, even
by way of the plain, and fully four hours had been occupied by Lecoq and
his colleague in collecting their elements of information.

All this while, the Widow Chupin’s abode had remained open, accessible
to any chance visitor. Still, when, on his return, the young police
agent remembered this neglect of elementary precautions, he did not feel
alarmed. Considering all the circumstances, it was very difficult
to believe that any serious harm could have resulted from this
carelessness.

For who would have been likely to visit this drinking-den after
midnight? Its bad name served the purpose of a bulwark. The most daring
vagrants did not drink there without some disquietude, fearing that if
the liquor caused them to lose consciousness, they might be robbed or
perhaps even murdered. Hence, if any one had been attracted to this
notoriously dangerous drinking-shop by the light that streamed through
the open door, it could only have been some very reckless person
returning late at night from the ball at the Rainbow, with a few sous
left in his pocket. But, even then, a single glance inside would have
sufficed to put the bravest to flight.

In less than a second the young police agent had weighed all these
possibilities, concerning which he did not breathe a word to Father
Absinthe. When, little by little, the excitement caused by his
successive hopes and disappointments, and by the accomplishment of the
experiment with the footprints had died away, and he had regained his
usual calm of mind, he made a careful inspection of the abode, and was
by no means satisfied with himself. He had experimented upon Father
Absinthe with his new system of investigation, just as an aspiring
orator tries his powers before his least gifted friends, not before
the cleverest. He had certainly overwhelmed the old veteran by his
superiority; he had literally crushed him. But what great merit, what
wonderful victory was this? Why should he boast of having outwitted
Father Absinthe, one of the least sagacious men in the service?

If he could only have given some startling proofs of his energy or
of his penetration! But, after all, what had he accomplished? Was the
mystery solved? Was his success more than problematical? When one thread
is drawn out, the skein is not untangled. This night would undoubtedly
decide his future as a detective, so he swore that if he could not
conquer his vanity, he would, at least, compel himself to conceal it.
Hence, it was in a very modest tone that he said to his companion: “We
have done all that we can do outside, now, would it not be wise to busy
ourselves with the inside of the house?”

Everything looked exactly in the same state as when the two men left the
room. A candle, with a charred smoking wick, cast its flickering light
upon the same scene of disorder, revealing to view the rigid features of
the three victims. Without losing a moment, Lecoq began to pick up and
study the various objects scattered over the floor. Some of these still
remained intact. The Widow Chupin had recoiled from the expense of a
tiled floor, judging the bare ground upon which the cabin was built
quite good enough for the feet of her customers. This ground, which must
originally have been well beaten down, had, by constant use and damp,
become well-nigh as muddy as the soil outside.

The first fruits of Lecoq’s search were a large salad-bowl and a big
iron spoon, the latter so twisted and bent that it had evidently been
used as a weapon during the conflict. On inspecting the bowl, it became
evident that when the quarrel began the victims were regaling themselves
with the familiar mixture of water, wine, and sugar, known round about
the barrieres as vin a la Frangaise. After the salad-bowl, the two men
picked up five of the weighty glasses ordinarily used in wine-shops, and
which, while looking as though they would contain half a bottle, are
in point of fact so thick at the bottom that they hold next to nothing.
Three of these glasses were broken, two were whole. All of them had
contained wine--the same vin a la Frangaise. This was plain, but for
greater surety, Lecoq applied his tongue to the bluish mixture
remaining in the bottom of each glass. “The deuce!” he muttered, with an
astonished air.

Then he examined successively the surfaces of the three overturned
tables. Upon one of these, the one nearest the fireplace and the window,
the still wet marks of the five glasses, of the salad-bowl, and even
of the spoons could be distinguished. Lecoq very properly regarded
this circumstance as a matter of the greatest importance, for it proved
clearly enough that five persons had emptied the salad-bowl in company.
Who were these five persons?

“Oh! oh!” suddenly exclaimed Lecoq in two entirely different tones.
“Then the two women could not have been with the murderer!”

A very simple mode of discovery had presented itself to his mind. It
was to ascertain if there were any other glasses, and what they had
contained. After a fresh search on the floor, a sixth glass was found,
similar in form to the others, but much smaller. Its smell showed that
it had contained brandy. Then these two women had not been with the
murderer, and therefore he could not have fought because the other
men had insulted them. This discovery proved the inaccuracy of Lecoq’s
original suppositions. It was an unexpected check, and he was mourning
over it in silence, when Father Absinthe, who had not ceased ferreting
about, uttered a cry of surprise.

The young man turned; he saw that his companion had become very pale.
“What is it?” he asked.

“Some one has been here in our absence.”

“Impossible!”

It was not impossible--it was true. When Gevrol had torn the apron
off Widow Chupin’s head he had thrown it upon the steps of the stairs;
neither of the police agents had since touched it. And yet the pockets
of this apron were now turned inside out; this was a proof, this was
evidence. At this discovery Lecoq was overcome with consternation, and
the contraction of his features revealed the struggle going on in
his mind. “Who could have been here?” he murmured. “Robbers? That is
improbable.”

Then, after a long silence which his companion took good care not to
interrupt, he added: “The person who came here, who dared to penetrate
into this abode and face the corpses of these murdered men--this person
could have been none other than the accomplice. But it is not enough to
suspect this, it is necessary to know it. I must--I will know it!”

They searched for a long time, and it was not until after an hour of
earnest work that, in front of the door forced open by the police, they
discovered in the mud, just inside the marks made by Gevrol’s tread, a
footprint that bore a close resemblance to those left by the man who
had entered the garden. They compared the impressions and recognized the
same designs formed by the nails upon the sole of the boot.

“It must have been the accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq. “He watched us,
he saw us go away, and then he entered. But why? What pressing,
irresistible necessity made him decide to brave such imminent danger?”
 He seized his companion’s hand, nearly crushing it in his excitement:
“Ah! I know why!” continued he, violently. “I understand only too well.
Some article that would have served to throw light on this horrible
affair had been left or forgotten, or lost here, and to obtain it, to
find it, he decided to run this terrible risk. And to think that it was
my fault, my fault alone, that this convincing proof escaped us! And
I thought myself so shrewd! What a lesson! The door should have been
locked; any fool would have thought of it--” Here he checked himself,
and remained with open mouth and distended eyes, pointing with his
finger to one of the corners of the room.

“What is the matter?” asked his frightened companion.

Lecoq made no reply, but slowly, and with the stiff movements of a
somnambulist, he approached the spot to which he had pointed, stooped,
picked up something, and said: “My folly is not deserving of such luck.”

The object he had found was an earring composed of a single large
diamond. The setting was of marvelous workmanship. “This diamond,”
 declared Lecoq, after a moment’s examination, “must be worth at least
five or six thousand francs.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“I think I could swear to it.”

He would not have troubled about such a preamble as “I think” a few
hours before, but the blunder he had made was a lesson that would not be
forgotten so long as he lived.

“Perhaps it was that same diamond earring that the accomplice came to
seek,” ventured Father Absinthe.

“The supposition is scarcely admissible. In that case, he would not have
sought for it in Mother Chupin’s apron. No, he must have been seeking
for something else--a letter, for example.”

The older man was not listening; he had taken the earring, and was
examining it in his turn. “And to think,” he murmured, astonished by
the brilliancy of the stone, “to think that a woman who had ten thousand
francs’ worth of jewels in her ears would have come to the Poivriere.
Who would have believed it?”

Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. “Yes, it is very strange, very
improbable, very absurd. And yet we shall see many things quite as
strange if we ever arrive--which I very much doubt--at a solution of
this mysterious affair.”

Day was breaking, cold, cheerless, and gloomy, when Lecoq and his
colleague concluded their investigation. There was not an inch of space
that had not been explored, carefully examined and studied, one might
almost say, with a magnifying glass. There now only remained to draw up
the report.

The younger man seated himself at the table, and, with the view of
making his recital as intelligible as possible, he began by sketching a
plan of the scene of the murder.

[[Graphic Omitted]]

It will be seen that in the memoranda appended to this explanatory
diagram, Lecoq had not once written his own name. In noting the things
that he had imagined or discovered, he referred to himself simply as one
of the police. This was not so much modesty as calculation. By hiding
one’s self on well-chosen occasions, one gains greater notoriety when
one emerges from the shade. It was also through cunning that he gave
Gevrol such a prominent position. These tactics, rather subtle, perhaps,
but after all perfectly fair, could not fail to call attention to the
man who had shown himself so efficient when the efforts of his chief had
been merely confined to breaking open the door.

The document Lecoq drew up was not a _proces-verbal_, a formal act
reserved for the officers of judiciary police; it was a simple report,
that would be admitted under the title of an inquiry, and yet the young
detective composed it with quite as much care as a general would have
displayed in drawing up the bulletin of his first victory.

While Lecoq was drawing and writing, Father Absinthe leaned over his
shoulder to watch him. The plan amazed that worthy man. He had seen a
great deal; but he had always supposed that it was necessary to be an
engineer, an architect, or, at least, a carpenter, to execute such work.
Not at all. With a tape-line with which to take some measurements, and
a bit of board in place of a rule, his inexperienced colleague had
soon accomplished the miracle. Father Absinthe’s respect for Lecoq was
thereby greatly augmented. It is true that the worthy veteran had not
noticed the explosion of the young police agent’s vanity, nor his return
to his former modest demeanor. He had not observed his alarm, nor his
perplexity, nor his lack of penetration.

After a few moments, Father Absinthe ceased watching his companion. He
felt weary after the labors of the night, his head was burning, and
he shivered and his knees trembled. Perhaps, though he was by no means
sensitive, he felt the influence of the horrors that surrounded him, and
which seemed more sinister than ever in the bleak light of morning.
He began to ferret in the cupboards, and at last succeeded in
discovering--oh, marvelous fortune!--a bottle of brandy, three parts
full. He hesitated for an instant, then he poured out a glass, and
drained it at a single draft.

“Will you have some?” he inquired of his companion. “It is not a very
famous brand, to be sure; but it is just as good, it makes one’s blood
circulate and enlivens one.”

Lecoq refused; he did not need to be enlivened. All his faculties were
hard at work. He intended that, after a single perusal of his report,
the investigating magistrate should say: “Let the officer who drew up
this document be sent for.” It must be remembered that Lecoq’s future
depended upon such an order. Accordingly, he took particular care to be
brief, clear, and concise, to plainly indicate how his suspicions on the
subject of the murder had been aroused, how they had increased, and how
they had been confirmed. He explained by what series of deductions he
had succeeded in establishing a theory which, if it was not the
truth, was at least plausible enough to serve as the basis for further
investigation.

Then he enumerated the articles of conviction ranged on the table before
him. There were the flakes of brown wool collected upon the plank, the
valuable earring, the models of the different footprints in the garden,
and the Widow Chupin’s apron with its pockets turned inside out. There
was also the murderer’s revolver, with two barrels discharged and three
still loaded. This weapon, although not of an ornamental character, was
still a specimen of highly finished workmanship. It bore the name of one
Stephens, 14 Skinner Street, a well-known London gunsmith.

Lecoq felt convinced that by examining the bodies of the victims he
would obtain other and perhaps very valuable information; but he did not
dare venture upon such a course. Besides his own inexperience in such a
matter, there was Gevrol to be thought of, and the inspector, furious
at his own mistake, would not fail to declare that, by changing the
attitude of the bodies, Lecoq had rendered a satisfactory examination by
the physicians impossible.

The young detective accordingly tried to console himself for his forced
inaction in this respect, and he was rereading his report, modifying
a few expressions, when Father Absinthe, who was standing upon the
threshold of the outer door, called to him.

“Is there anything new?” asked Lecoq.

“Yes,” was the reply. “Here come Gevrol and two of our comrades with the
commissary of police and two other gentlemen.”

It was, indeed, the commissary who was approaching, interested but
not disturbed by this triple murder which was sure to make his
arrondissement the subject of Parisian conversation during the next few
days. Why, indeed, should he be troubled about it? For Gevrol, whose
opinion in such matters might be regarded as an authority, had taken
care to reassure him when he went to arouse him from his slumbers.

“It was only a fight between some old offenders; former jail birds,
habitues of the Poivriere,” he had said, adding sententiously: “If all
these ruffians would kill one another, we might have some little peace.”

He added that as the murderer had been arrested and placed in
confinement, there was nothing urgent about the case. Accordingly, the
commissary thought there was no harm in taking another nap and waiting
until morning before beginning the inquiry. He had seen the murderer,
reported the case to the prefecture, and now he was coming--leisurely
enough--accompanied by two physicians, appointed by the authorities
to draw up a _medico-legal_ report in all such cases. The party also
comprised a sergeant-major of the 53d regiment of infantry of the line,
who had been summoned by the commissary to identify, if possible, the
murdered man who wore a uniform, for if one might believe the number
engraved upon the buttons of his overcoat, he belonged to the 53d
regiment, now stationed at the neighboring fort.

As the party approached it was evident that Inspector Gevrol was even
less disturbed than the commissary. He whistled as he walked along,
flourishing his cane, which never left his hand, and already laughing
in his sleeve over the discomfiture of the presumptuous fool who had
desired to remain to glean, where he, the experienced and skilful
officer, had perceived nothing. As soon as he was within speaking
distance, the inspector called to Father Absinthe, who, after warning
Lecoq, remained on the threshold, leaning against the door-post, puffing
his pipe, as immovable as a sphinx.

“Ah, well, old man!” cried Gevrol, “have you any great melodrama, very
dark and very mysterious, to relate to us?”

“I have nothing to relate myself,” replied the old detective, without
even drawing his pipe from his lips, “I am too stupid, that is perfectly
understood. But Monsieur Lecoq will tell you something that will
astonish you.”

The prefix, “monsieur,” which the old police agent used in speaking
of his colleague, displeased Gevrol so much that he pretended not to
understand. “Who are you speaking of?” he asked abruptly.

“Of my colleague, of course, who is now busy finishing his report--of
Monsieur Lecoq.” Quite unintentionally, the worthy fellow had certainly
become the young police agent’s godfather. From that day forward,
for his enemies as well as for his friends, he was and he remained
“Monsieur” Lecoq.

“Ah! ah!” said the inspector, whose hearing was evidently impaired. “Ah,
he has discovered--”

“The pot of roses which others did not scent, General.” By this remark,
Father Absinthe made an enemy of his superior officer. But he cared
little for that: Lecoq had become his deity, and no matter what the
future might reserve, the old veteran had resolved to follow his young
colleague’s fortunes.

“We’ll see about that,” murmured the inspector, mentally resolving to
have an eye on this youth whom success might transform into a rival. He
said no more, for the little party which he preceded had now overtaken
him, and he stood aside to make way for the commissary of police.

This commissary was far from being a novice. He had served for many
years, and yet he could not repress a gesture of horror as he entered
the Poivriere. The sergeant-major of the 53d, who followed him, an old
soldier, decorated and medaled--who had smelt powder many scores of
times--was still more overcome. He grew as pale as the corpses lying on
the ground, and was obliged to lean against the wall for support. The
two physicians alone retained their stoical indifference.

Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand; he bowed, and assuming a
respectful attitude, was waiting to be questioned.

“You must have passed a frightful night,” said the commissary, kindly;
“and quite unnecessarily, since any investigation was superfluous.”

“I think, however,” replied the young police agent, having recourse
to all his diplomacy, “that my time has not been entirely lost. I have
acted according to the instructions of my superior officer; I have
searched the premises thoroughly, and I have ascertained many things.
I have, for example, acquired the certainty that the murderer had
a friend, possibly an accomplice, of whom I can give quite a close
description. He must have been of middle age, and wore, if I am not
mistaken, a soft cap and a brown woolen overcoat: as for his boots--”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and I--” He stopped short, like a man whose
impulse had exceeded his discretion, and who would have gladly recalled
his words.

“And you?” inquired the commissary, “pray, what do you mean?”

The inspector had gone too far to draw back, and, unwittingly, was now
obliged to act as his own executioner. “I was about to mention,” he
said, “that this morning, an hour or so ago, while I was waiting for
you, sir, before the station-house, at the Barriere d’Italie, where the
murderer is confined, I noticed close by an individual whose appearance
was not unlike that of the man described by Lecoq. This man seemed to
be very intoxicated, for he reeled and staggered against the walls. He
tried to cross the street, but fell down in the middle of it, in such a
position that he would inevitably have been crushed by the first passing
vehicle.”

Lecoq turned away his head; he did not wish them to read in his eyes how
perfectly he understood the whole game.

“Seeing this,” pursued Gevrol, “I called two men and asked them to
aid me in raising the poor devil. We went up to him; he had apparently
fallen asleep: we shook him--we made him sit up; we told him that he
could not remain there, but he immediately flew into a furious rage. He
swore at us, threatened us, and began fighting us. And, on my word, we
had to take him to the station-house, and leave him there to recover
from the effects of his drunken debauch.”

“Did you shut him up in the same cell with the murderer?” inquired
Lecoq.

“Naturally. You know very well that there are only two cages in the
station-house at the barriere--one for men and the other for women;
consequently--”

The commissary seemed thoughtful. “Ah! that’s very unfortunate,” he
stammered; “and there is no remedy.”

“Excuse me, there is one,” observed Gevrol, “I can send one of my men to
the station-house with an order to detain the drunken man--”

Lecoq interposed with a gesture: “Trouble lost,” he said coldly. “If
this individual is an accomplice, he has got sober by now--rest assured
of that, and is already far away.”

“Then what is to be done?” asked the inspector, with an ironical air.
“May one be permitted to ask the advice of Monsieur Lecoq.”

“I think chance offered us a splendid opportunity, and we did not know
how to seize it; and that the best thing we can do now is to give over
mourning, and prepare to profit by the next opportunity that presents
itself.”

Gevrol was, however, determined to send one of his men to the
station-house; and it was not until the messenger had started that Lecoq
commenced the reading of his report. He read it rapidly, refraining
as much as possible from placing the decisive proofs in strong relief,
reserving these for his own benefit; but so strong was the logic of his
deductions that he was frequently interrupted by approving remarks from
the commissary and the two physicians.

Gevrol, who alone represented the opposition, shrugged his shoulders
till they were well-nigh dislocated, and grew literally green with
jealousy.

“I think that you alone, young man, have judged correctly in this
affair,” said the commissary when Lecoq had finished reading. “I may be
mistaken; but your explanations have made me alter my opinion concerning
the murderer’s attitude while I was questioning him (which was only for
a moment). He refused, obstinately refused, to answer my questions, and
wouldn’t even give me his name.”

The commissary was silent for a moment, reviewing the past circumstances
in his mind, and it was in a serious tone that he eventually added: “We
are, I feel convinced, in presence of one of those mysterious crimes the
causes of which are beyond the reach of human sagacity--this strikes me
as being one of those enigmatical cases which human justice never can
reach.” Lecoq made no audible rejoinder; but he smiled to himself and
thought: “We will see about that.”




VI

No consultation held at the bedside of a dying man ever took place in
the presence of two physicians so utterly unlike each other as those who
accompanied the commissary of police to the Poivriere.

One of them, a tall old man with a bald head, wearing a broad-brimmed
hat, and an overcoat of antique cut, was evidently one of those modest
savants encountered occasionally in the byways of Paris--one of those
healers devoted to their art, who too often die in obscurity, after
rendering immense services to mankind. He had the gracious calmness of a
man who, having seen so much of human misery, has nothing left to learn,
and no troubled conscience could have possibly sustained his searching
glance, which was as keen as his lancet.

His colleague--young, fresh-looking, light-haired, and jovial--was
somewhat foppishly attired; and his white hands were encased in handsome
fur gloves. There was a soft self-satisfied smile on his face, and
he had the manners of those practitioners who, for profit’s sake,
invariably recommend the infallible panaceas invented each month in
chemical laboratories and advertised ad nauseam in the back pages of
newspapers. He had probably written more than one article upon “Medicine
for the use of the people”; puffing various mixtures, pills, ointments,
and plasters for the benefit of their respective inventors.

“I will request you, gentlemen,” said the commissary of police, “to
begin your duties by examining the victim who wears a military costume.
Here is a sergeant-major summoned to answer a question of identity, whom
I must send back to his quarters as soon as possible.”

The two physicians responded with a gesture of assent, and aided by
Father Absinthe and another agent of police, they lifted the body and
laid it upon two tables, which had previously been placed end to end.
They were not obliged to make any note of the attitude in which they
found the body, since the unfortunate man, who was still alive when the
police entered the cabin, had been moved before he expired.

“Approach, sergeant,” ordered the commissary, “and look carefully at
this man.”

It was with very evident repugnance that the old soldier obeyed.

“What is the uniform that he wears?”

“It is the uniform of the 2d battalion of the 53d regiment of the line.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure that he does not belong to your regiment?”

“I can not say for certain: there are some conscripts at the Depot whom
I have never seen. But I am ready to swear that he had never formed
part of the 2d battalion--which, by the way, is mine, and in which I am
sergeant-major.”

Lecoq, who had hitherto remained in the background, now stepped forward.
“It might be as well,” he suggested, “to note the numbers marked on the
other articles of clothing.”

“That is a very good idea,” said the commissary, approvingly.

“Here is his shako,” added the young police agent. “It bears the number
3,129.”

The officials followed Lecoq’s advice, and soon discovered that each
article of clothing worn by the unfortunate man bore a different number.

“The deuce!” murmured the sergeant; “there is every indication--But it
is very singular.”

Invited to consider what he was going to say, the brave trooper
evidently made an effort to collect his intellectual faculties. “I would
stake my epaulets that this fellow never was a soldier,” he said at
last. “He must have disguised himself to take part in the Shrove Sunday
carnival.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh, I know it better than I can explain it. I know it by his hair, by
his nails, by his whole appearance, by a certain _je ne sais quoi_; in
short, I know it by everything and by nothing. Why look, the poor devil
did not even know how to put on his shoes; he has laced his gaiters
wrong side outwards.” Evidently further doubt was impossible after this
evidence, which confirmed the truth of Lecoq’s first remark to Inspector
Gevrol.

“Still, if this person was a civilian, how could he have procured this
clothing?” insisted the commissary. “Could he have borrowed it from the
men in your company?”

“Yes, that is possible; but it is difficult to believe.”

“Is there no way by which you could ascertain?”

“Oh! very easily. I have only to run over to the fort and order an
inspection of clothing.”

“Do so,” approved the commissary; “it would be an excellent way of
getting at the truth.”

But Lecoq had just thought of a method quite as convincing, and much
more prompt. “One word, sergeant,” said he, “isn’t cast off military
clothing sold by public auction?”

“Yes; at least once a year, after the inspection.”

“And are not the articles thus sold marked in some way?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then see if there isn’t some mark of the kind on this poor wretch’s
uniform.”

The sergeant turned up the collar of the coat and examined the
waist-band of the pantaloons. “You are right,” he said, “these are
condemned garments.”

The eyes of the young police agent sparkled. “We must then believe that
the poor devil purchased this costume,” he observed. “Where? Necessarily
at the Temple, from one of the dealers in military clothing. There are
only five or six of these establishments. I will go from one to another
of them, and the person who sold these clothes will certainly recognize
them by some trade mark.”

“And that will assist us very much,” growled Gevrol. The sergeant-major,
to his great relief, now received permission to retire, but not without
having been warned that very probably the commissary would require his
deposition. The moment had come to search the garments of the pretended
soldier, and the commissary, who performed this duty himself, hoped that
some clue as to the man’s identity would be forthcoming. He proceeded
with his task, at the same time dictating to one of the men a
_proces-verbal_ of the search; that is to say, a minute description of
all the articles he found upon the dead man’s person. In the right hand
trousers pocket some tobacco, a pipe, and a few matches were found; in
the left hand one, a linen handkerchief of good quality, but unmarked,
and a soiled leather pocket-book, containing seven francs and sixty
centimes.

There appeared to be nothing more, and the commissary was expressing
his regret, when, on carefully examining the pocket-book he found a
compartment which had at first escaped his notice, being hidden by a
leather flap. This compartment contained a carefully folded paper. The
commissary unfolded it and read the contents aloud:


“My dear Gustave,--To-morrow, Sunday evening, do not fail to come to the
ball at the Rainbow, according to our agreement. If you have no money
pass by my house, and I will leave some with the concierge, who will
give it to you.

“Be at the ball by eight o’clock. If I am not already there, it will
not be long before I make my appearance. Everything is going on
satisfactorily.

“Lacheneur.”


Alas! what did this letter reveal? Only that the dead man’s name was
Gustave; that he had some connection with a man named Lacheneur, who had
advanced him money for a certain object; and that they had met at the
Rainbow some hours before the murder.

It was little--very little--but still it was something. It was a clue;
and in this absolute darkness even the faintest gleam of light was
eagerly welcomed.

“Lacheneur!” growled Gevrol; “the poor devil uttered that name in his
last agony.”

“Precisely,” insisted Father Absinthe, “and he declared that he wished
to revenge himself upon him. He accused him of having drawn him into a
trap. Unfortunately, death cut his story short.”

Lecoq was silent. The commissary of police had handed him the letter,
and he was studying it with the closest attention. The paper on which
it was written was of the ordinary kind; the ink was blue. In one of the
corners was a half-effaced stamp, of which one could just distinguish
the word--Beaumarchais.

This was enough for Lecoq. “This letter,” he thought, “was certainly
written in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. In which one? I must
ascertain that point, for this Lacheneur must be found.”

While the agents of the prefecture were gathered around the commissary,
holding council and deliberating, the physicians began their delicate
and disagreeable task. With the assistance of Father Absinthe, they
removed the clothing of the pretended soldier, and then, with sleeves
rolled up, they bent over their “subject” like surgeons in the schools
of anatomy, and examined, inspected, and appraised him physically.
Very willingly would the younger doctor have dispensed with these
formalities, which he considered very ridiculous, and entirely
unnecessary; but the old physician had too high a regard for his
profession, and for the duty he had been called upon to fulfil, to
neglect the slightest detail. Minutely, and with the most scrupulous
exactitude, he noted the height of the dead man, his supposed age, the
nature of his temperament, the color and length of his hair, and the
degree of development of his muscular system.

Then the doctors passed to an examination of the wound. Lecoq had judged
correctly. The medical men declared it to be a fracture of the base
of the skull. It could, they stated, only have been caused by some
instrument with a very broad surface, or by a violent knock of the head
against some hard substance of considerable magnitude.

But no weapon, other than the revolver, had been found; and it was
evidently not heavy enough to produce such a wound. There must, then,
necessarily, have been a hand-to-hand struggle between the pretended
soldier and the murderer; and the latter, seizing his adversary by the
throat, had dashed him violently against the wall. The presence of some
very tiny but very numerous spots of extravasated blood about the neck
made this theory extremely plausible.

No other wound, not even a bruise or a scratch, was to be found. Hence,
it became evident that this terrible struggle must have been exceedingly
short. The murder of the pretended soldier must have been consummated
between the moment when the squad of police heard the shrieks of despair
and the moment when Lecoq peered through the shutter and saw the victim
fall.

The examination of the other murdered man required different but
even greater precautions than those adopted by the doctors in their
inspection of the pseudo soldier. The position of these two victims
had been respected; they were still lying across the hearth as they had
fallen, and their attitude was a matter of great importance, since it
might have decisive bearing on the case. Now, this attitude was such
that one could not fail to be impressed with the idea that with both
these men death had been instantaneous. They were both stretched out
upon their backs, their limbs extended, and their hands wide open.

No contraction or extension of the muscles, no trace of conflict could
be perceived; it seemed evident that they had been taken unawares, the
more so as their faces expressed the most intense terror.

“Thus,” said the old doctor, “we may reasonably suppose that they were
stupefied by some entirely unexpected, strange, and frightful spectacle.
I have come across this terrified expression depicted upon the faces of
dead people more than once. I recollect noticing it upon the features of
a woman who died suddenly from the shock she experienced when one of
her neighbors, with the view of playing her a trick, entered her house
disguised as a ghost.”

Lecoq followed the physician’s explanations, and tried to make them
agree with the vague hypotheses that were revolving in his own brain.
But who could these individuals be? Would they, in death, guard the
secret of their identity, as the other victim had done?

The first subject examined by the physicians was over fifty years of
age. His hair was very thin and quite gray and his face was closely
shaven, excepting a thick tuft of hair on his rather prominent chin.
He was very poorly clad, wearing a soiled woolen blouse and a pair of
dilapidated trousers hanging in rags over his boots, which were very
much trodden down at the heels. The old doctor declared that this man
must have been instantly killed by a bullet. The size of the circular
wound, the absence of blood around its edge, and the blackened and
burnt state of the flesh demonstrated this fact with almost mathematical
precision.

The great difference that exists in wounds made by firearms, according
to the distance from which the death-dealing missile comes, was seen
when the physicians began to examine the last of the murdered men. The
ball that had caused the latter’s death had scarcely crossed a yard of
space before reaching him, and his wound was not nearly so hideous in
aspect as the other’s. This individual, who was at least fifteen years
younger than his companion, was short and remarkably ugly; his face,
which was quite beardless, being pitted all over by the smallpox. His
garb was such as is worn by the worst frequenters of the barriere. His
trousers were of a gray checked material, and his blouse, turned back at
the throat, was blue. It was noticed that his boots had been blackened
quite recently. The smart glazed cap that lay on the floor beside him
was in harmony with his carefully curled hair and gaudy necktie.

These were the only facts that the physicians’ report set forth in
technical terms, this was the only information obtained by the most
careful investigation. The two men’s pockets were explored and turned
inside out; but they contained nothing that gave the slightest clue to
their identity, either as regards name, social position, or profession.
There was not even the slightest indication on any of these points, not
a letter, nor an address, not a fragment of paper, nothing--not even
such common articles of personal use, as a tobacco pouch, a knife, or a
pipe which might be recognized, and thus establish the owner’s identity.
A little tobacco in a paper bag, a couple of pocket handkerchiefs that
were unmarked, a packet of cigarettes--these were the only articles
discovered beyond the money which the victims carried loose in their
pockets. On this point, it should be mentioned that the elder man had
sixty-seven francs about him, and the younger one, two louis.

Rarely had the police found themselves in the presence of so strange an
affair, without the slightest clue to guide them. Of course, there was
the fact itself, as evidenced by the bodies of the three victims;
but the authorities were quite ignorant of the circumstances that had
attended and of the motive that had inspired the crime. Certainly, they
might hope with the powerful means of investigation at their disposal
to finally arrive at the truth in the course of time, and after repeated
efforts. But, in the mean while, all was mystery, and so strangely did
the case present itself that it could not safely be said who was really
responsible for the horrible tragedy at the Poivriere.

The murderer had certainly been arrested; but if he persisted in his
obstinacy, how were they to ascertain his name? He protested that he had
merely killed in self-defense. How could it be shown that such was not
the case? Nothing was known concerning the victims; one of whom had with
his dying breath accused himself. Then again, an inexplicable influence
tied the Widow Chupin’s tongue. Two women, one of whom had lost an
earring valued at 5,000 francs, had witnessed the struggle--then
disappeared. An accomplice, after two acts of unheard-of audacity, had
also made his escape. And all these people--the women, the murderer,
the keeper of the saloon, the accomplice, and the victims--were equally
strange and mysterious, equally liable not to be what they seemed.

Perhaps the commissary of police thought he would spend a very
unpleasant quarter of an hour at the prefecture when he reported the
case. Certainly, he spoke of the crime in a very despondent tone.

“It will now be best,” he said at last, “to transport these three bodies
to the Morgue. There they will doubtless be identified.” He reflected
for a moment, and then added: “And to think that one of these dead men
is perhaps Lacheneur himself!”

“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq. “The spurious soldier, being
the last to die, had seen his companions fall. If he had supposed
Lacheneur to be dead, he would not have spoken of vengeance.”

Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pretended to pay no attention to
the proceedings, now approached. He was not the man to yield even to the
strongest evidence. “If Monsieur, the Commissary, will listen to me, he
shall hear my opinion, which is a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq’s
fancies.”

Before he could say any more, the sound of a vehicle stopping before
the door of the cabin interrupted him, and an instant afterward the
investigating magistrate entered the room.

All the officials assembled at the Poivriere knew at least by sight the
magistrate who now made his appearance, and Gevrol, an old habitue
of the Palais de Justice, mechanically murmured his name: “M. Maurice
d’Escorval.”

He was the son of that famous Baron d’Escorval, who, in 1815, sealed his
devotion to the empire with his blood, and upon whom Napoleon, in the
Memorial of St. Helena, pronounced this magnificent eulogium: “Men
as honest as he may, I believe, exist; but more honest, no, it is not
possible.”

Having entered upon his duties as magistrate early in life, and being
endowed with remarkable talents, it was at first supposed that
the younger D’Escorval would rise to the most exalted rank in his
profession. But he had disappointed all such prognostications by
resolutely refusing the more elevated positions that were offered to
him, in order to retain his modest but useful functions in the public
prosecutor’s offices at Paris. To explain his repeated refusals, he said
that life in the capital had more charms for him than the most enviable
advancement in provincial centres. But it was hard to understand
this declaration, for in spite of his brilliant connections and large
fortune, he had, ever since the death of his eldest brother, led a most
retired life, his existence merely being revealed by his untiring labors
and the good he did to those around him.

He was now about forty-two years of age, but appeared much younger,
although a few furrows already crossed his brow. One would have admired
his face, had it not been for the puzzling immobility that marred its
beauty, the sarcastic curl of his thin lips, and the gloomy expression
of his pale-blue eyes. To say that he was cold and grave, did not
express the truth, it was saying too little. He was gravity and coldness
personified, with a shade of hauteur added.

Impressed by the horror of the scene the instant he placed his foot upon
the threshold, M. d’Escorval acknowledged the presence of the physicians
and the commissary by a slight nod of the head. The others in the room
had no existence so far as he was concerned. At once his faculties went
to work. He studied the ground, and carefully noted all the surroundings
with the attentive sagacity of a magistrate who realizes the immense
weight of even the slightest detail, and who fully appreciates the
eloquence of circumstantial evidence.

“This is a serious affair,” he said gravely; “very serious.”

The commissary’s only response was to lift his eyes to heaven. A gesture
that plainly implied, “I quite agree with you!” The fact is, that for
the past two hours the worthy commissary’s responsibility had weighed
heavily upon him, and he secretly blessed the investigating magistrate
for relieving him of it.

“The public prosecutor was unable to accompany me,” resumed M.
d’Escorval, “he has not the gift of omnipresence, and I doubt if it will
be possible for him to join me here. Let us, therefore, begin operations
at once.”

The curiosity of those present had become intense; and the commissary
only expressed the general feeling when he said: “You have undoubtedly
questioned the murderer, sir, and have learnt--”

“I have learnt nothing,” interrupted M. d’Escorval, apparently much
astonished at the interruption.

He took a chair and sat himself down, and while his clerk was busy in
authenticating the commissary’s _proces-verbal_, he began to read the
report prepared by Lecoq.

Pale, agitated, and nervous, the young police agent tried to read upon
the magistrate’s impassive face the impression produced by the document.
His future depended upon the magistrate’s approval or disapproval; and
it was not with a fuddled mind like that of Father Absinthe that he had
now to deal, but with a superior intelligence.

“If I could only plead my own cause,” he thought. “What are cold written
phrases in comparison with spoken, living words, palpitating with
emotion and imbued with the convictions of the speaker.”

However, he was soon reassured. The magistrate’s face retained its
immobility, but again and again did M. d’Escorval nod his head in token
of approval, and occasionally some point more ingenious than the others
extorted from his lips the exclamations: “Not bad--very good!”

When he had finished the perusal he turned to the commissary and
remarked: “All this is very unlike your report of this morning, which
represented the affair as a low broil between a party of miserable
vagabonds.”

The observation was only too just and fair; and the commissary deeply
regretted that he had trusted to Gevrol’s representations, and remained
in bed. “This morning,” he responded evasively, “I only gave you my
first impressions. These have been modified by subsequent researches, so
that--”

“Oh!” interrupted the magistrate, “I did not intend to reproach you; on
the contrary, I must congratulate you. One could not have done better
nor acted more promptly. The investigation that has been carried out
shows great penetration and research, and the results are given with
unusual clearness, and wonderful precision.”

Lecoq’s head whirled.

The commissary hesitated for an instant. At first he was sorely tempted
to confiscate this praise to his own profit. If he drove away the
unworthy thought, it was because he was an honest man, and more than
that, because he was not displeased to have the opportunity to do Gevrol
a bad turn and punish him for his presumptuous folly.

“I must confess,” he said with some embarrassment, “that the merit of
this investigation does not belong to me.”

“To whom, then, shall I attribute it--to the inspector?” thought M.
d’Escorval, not without surprise, for having occasionally employed
Gevrol, he did not expect from him such ingenuity and sagacity as was
displayed in this report. “Is it you, then, who have conducted this
investigation so ably?” he asked.

“Upon my word, no!” responded Inspector Gevrol. “I, myself, am not
so clever as all that. I content myself with telling what I actually
discover; and I only give proofs when I have them in hand. May I be hung
if the grounds of this report have any existence save in the brains of
the man who imagined them.” Perhaps the inspector really believed what
he said, being one of those persons who are blinded by vanity to such a
degree that, with the most convincing evidence before their eyes, they
obstinately deny it.

“And yet,” insisted the magistrate, “these women whose footprints have
been detected must have existed. The accomplice who left the flakes of
wool adhering to the plank is a real being. This earring is a positive,
palpable proof.”

Gevrol had hard work to refrain from shrugging his shoulders. “All this
can be satisfactorily explained,” he said, “without a search of twelve
or fourteen hours. That the murderer had an accomplice is possible. The
presence of the women is very natural. Wherever there are male thieves,
you will find female thieves as well. As for the diamond--what does that
prove? That the scoundrels had just met with a stroke of good luck, that
they had come here to divide their booty, and that the quarrel arose
from the division.”

This was an explanation, and such a plausable one, that M. d’Escorval
was silent, reflecting before he announced his decision. “Decidedly,”
 he declared at last, “decidedly, I adopt the hypothesis set forth in the
report. Who prepared it?”

Gevrol’s face turned red with anger. “One of my men,” he replied, “a
clever, adroit fellow, Monsieur Lecoq. Come forward, Lecoq, that the
magistrate may see you.”

The young man advanced, his lips tightly compressed so as to conceal a
smile of satisfaction which almost betrayed itself.

“My report, sir, is only a summary,” he began, “but I have certain
ideas--”

“Which you will acquaint me with, when I ask for them,” interrupted the
magistrate. And oblivious of Lecoq’s chagrin, he drew from his clerk’s
portfolio two forms, which he filled up and handed to Gevrol, saying:
“Here are two orders; take them to the station, where the murderer and
the landlady of this cabin are confined, and have them conducted to the
prefecture, where they will be privately examined.”

Having given these directions, M. d’Escorval was turning toward the
physicians, when Lecoq, at the risk of a second rebuff, interposed. “May
I venture, sir, to beg of you to confide this message to me?” he asked
of the investigating magistrate.

“Impossible, I may have need of you here.”

“I desired, sir, to collect certain evidence and an opportunity to do so
may not present itself again.”

The magistrate perhaps fathomed the young man’s motive. “Then, let it be
so,” he replied, “but after your task is completed you must wait for
me at the prefecture, where I shall proceed as soon as I have finished
here. You may go.”

Lecoq did not wait for the order to be repeated. He snatched up the
papers, and hastened away.

He literally flew over the ground, and strange to say he no longer
experienced any fatigue from the labors of the preceding night. Never
had he felt so strong and alert, either in body or mind. He was
very hopeful of success. He had every confidence in himself, and his
happiness would indeed have been complete if he had had another judge
to deal with. But M. d’Escorval overawed him to such a degree that he
became almost paralyzed in his presence. With what a disdainful glance
the magistrate had surveyed him! With what an imperious tone he had
imposed silence upon him--and that, too, when he had found his work
deserving of commendation.

“Still, never mind,” the young detective mentally exclaimed, “no one
ever tastes perfect happiness here below.”

And concentrating all his thoughts on the task before him, he hurried on
his way.




VII

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?”




VIII

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.”




IX

Some men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a pair of
high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in stylish livery; and
as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable cushions, they become the
object of many an envious glance. Sometimes, however, the coachman has
taken a drop too much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the horses
run away and a general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate
owner, in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and fractures
his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day; and their
long list should make humble foot-passengers bless the lowly lot which
preserves them from such peril.

On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face
wore such an expression of consternation that the doorkeeper could not
help laughing. “What is there so very extraordinary about that I’ve told
you?” he asked.

“I--oh! nothing--”

The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had just been
struck by the strange coincidence of two events--the supposed murderer’s
attempted suicide, and the magistrate’s fall. Still, he did not allow
the vague presentiment that flitted through his mind to assume any
definite form. For after all, what possible connection could there be
between the two occurrences? Then again, he never allowed himself to be
governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an
axiom he afterward professed: “Distrust all circumstances that seem to
favor your secret wishes.”

Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d’Escorval’s accident; could he
have prevented it, he would have gladly done so. Still, he could not
help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him
from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and
disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.

This thought caused a sensation of relief--almost one of
light-heartedness. “In that case,” said the young detective to the
doorkeeper, “I shall have nothing to do here this morning.”

“You must be joking,” was the reply. “Does the world stop moving because
one man is disabled? The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the
urgent business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has already been
divided among the other magistrates.”

“I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other night
just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau.”

“Eh! Why didn’t you say so at once? A messenger has been sent to the
prefecture after you already. M. Segmuller has charge of the case, and
he’s waiting for you.”

Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq’s forehead. He was
trying to remember the magistrate that bore this name, and wondered
whether he was a likely man to espouse his views.

“Yes,” resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, “M.
Segmuller--you don’t seem to know him. He is a worthy man, not quite so
grim as most of our gentlemen. A prisoner he had examined said one day:
‘That devil there has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my
head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he’s a good fellow!”

His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports, Lecoq went
and tapped at a door that was indicated to him, and which bore the
number--22.

“Come in!” called out a pleasant voice.

The young detective entered, and found himself face to face with a
man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpulent, who at once
exclaimed: “Ah! you are Lecoq. Very well--take a seat. I am busy just
now looking over the papers of the case, but I will attend to you in
five minutes.”

Lecoq obeyed, at the same time glancing furtively at the magistrate
with whom he was about to work. M. Segmuller’s appearance corresponded
perfectly with the description given by the doorkeeper. His plump face
wore an air of frankness and benevolence, and his blue eyes had a most
pleasant expression. Nevertheless, Lecoq distrusted these appearances,
and in so doing he was right.

Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller possessed that candid physiognomy
common to most of the natives of blonde Alsace--a deceitful mask, which,
behind seeming simplicity, not unfrequently conceals a Gascon cunning,
rendered all the more dangerous since it is allied with extreme caution.
He had a wonderfully alert, penetrating mind; but his system--every
magistrate has his own--was mainly good-humor. Unlike most of his
colleagues, who were as stiff and cutting in manner as the sword which
the statue of Justice usually holds in her hand, he made simplicity and
kindness of demeanor his leading trait, though, of course, without ever
losing sight of his magisterial duties.

Still, the tone of his voice was so paternal, and the subtle purport
of his questions so veiled by his seeming frankness, that most of those
whom he examined forgot the necessity of protecting themselves, and
unawares confessed their guilt. Thus, it frequently happened that while
some unsuspecting culprit was complacently congratulating himself upon
getting the best of the judge, the poor wretch was really being turned
inside out like a glove.

By the side of such a man as M. Segmuller a grave and slender clerk
would have excited distrust; so he had chosen one who was a caricature
of himself. This clerk’s name was Goguet. He was short but corpulent,
and his broad, beardless face habitually wore a silly smile, not out of
keeping with his intellect, which was none of the brightest.

As stated above, when Lecoq entered M. Segmuller’s room the latter was
busy studying the case which had so unexpectedly fallen into his hands.
All the articles which the young detective had collected, from the
flakes of wool to the diamond earring, were spread out upon the
magistrate’s desk. With the greatest attention, he perused the report
prepared by Lecoq, and according to the different phases of the affair,
he examined one or another of the objects before him, or else consulted
the plan of the ground.

“A good half-hour elapsed before he had completed his inspection, when
he threw himself back in his armchair. Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, slowly,
“Monsieur d’Escorval has informed me by a note on the margin of this
file of papers that you are an intelligent man, and that we can trust
you.”

“I am willing, at all events.”

“You speak too slightingly of yourself; this is the first time that an
agent has brought me a report as complete as yours. You are young, and
if you persevere, I think you will be able to accomplish great things in
your profession.”

Nervous with delight, Lecoq bowed and stammered his thanks.

“Your opinion in this matter coincides with mine,” continued M.
Segmuller, “and the public prosecutor informs me that M. d’Escorval
shares the same views. An enigma is before us; and it ought to be
solved.”

“Oh!--we’ll solve it, I am certain, sir,” exclaimed Lecoq, who at this
moment felt capable of the most extraordinary achievements. Indeed,
he would have gone through fire and water for the magistrate who had
received him so kindly, and his enthusiasm sparkled so plainly in his
eyes that M. Segmuller could not restrain a smile.

“I have strong hopes of it myself,” he responded; “but we are far
from the end. Now, what have you been doing since yesterday? Did
M. d’Escorval give you any orders? Have you obtained any fresh
information?”

“I don’t think I have wasted my time,” replied Lecoq, who at once
proceeded to relate the various facts that had come to his knowledge
since his departure from the Poivriere.

With rare precision and that happiness of expression which seldom fails
a man well acquainted with his subject, he recounted the daring feats
of the presumed accomplice, the points he had noted in the
supposed murderer’s conduct, the latter’s unsuccessful attempt at
self-destruction. He repeated the testimony given by the cab-driver, and
by the concierge in the Rue de Bourgogne, and then read the letter he
had received from Father Absinthe.

In conclusion, he placed on the magistrate’s desk some of the dirt he
had scraped from the prisoner’s feet; at the same time depositing beside
it a similar parcel of dust collected on the floor of the cell in which
the murderer was confined at the Barriere d’Italie.

When Lecoq had explained the reasons that had led him to collect this
soil, and the conclusions that might be drawn from a comparison of the
two parcels, M. Segmuller, who had been listening attentively, at once
exclaimed: “You are right. It may be that you have discovered a means to
confound all the prisoner’s denials. At all events, this is certainly a
proof of surprising sagacity on your part.”

So it must have been, for Goguet, the clerk, nodded approvingly.
“Capital!” he murmured. “I should never have thought of that.”

While he was talking, M. Segmuller had carefully placed all the
so-called “articles of conviction” in a large drawer, from which they
would not emerge until the trial. “Now,” said he, “I understand the case
well enough to examine the Widow Chupin. We may gain some information
from her.”

He was laying his hand upon the bell, when Lecoq stopped him with an
almost supplicating gesture. “I have one great favor to ask you, sir,”
 he observed.

“What is it?--speak.”

“I should very much like to be present at this examination. It takes so
little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration.”

Although the law says that the accused shall first of all be privately
examined by the investigating magistrate assisted by his clerk, it also
allows the presence of police agents. Accordingly, M. Segmuller told
Lecoq that he might remain. At the same time he rang his bell; which was
speedily answered by a messenger.

“Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, in compliance with my orders?”
 asked M. Segmuller.

“Yes, sir; she is in the gallery outside.”

“Let her come in then.”

An instant later the hostess of the Poivriere entered the room, bowing
to the right and to the left. This was not her first appearance before
a magistrate, and she was not ignorant of the respect that is due to
justice. Accordingly, she had arrayed herself for her examination with
the utmost care. She had arranged her rebellious gray locks in smooth
bandeaux, and her garments, although of common material, looked
positively neat. She had even persuaded one of the prison warders to buy
her--with the money she had about her at the time of her arrest--a black
crape cap, and a couple of white pocket-handkerchiefs, intending to
deluge the latter with her tears, should the situation call for a
pathetic display.

She was indeed far too knowing to rely solely on the mere artifices of
dress; hence, she had also drawn upon her repertoire of grimaces for an
innocent, sad, and yet resigned expression, well fitted, in her opinion,
to win the sympathy and indulgence of the magistrate upon whom her fate
would depend.

Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and honeyed voice, she looked so
unlike the terrible termagant of the Poivriere, that her cus

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