THE COMBAT WITH CRIME
How French justice secures convictions--Services of spies and
informers utilised--The “coqueurs” or “moutons” largely found
in French prisons--Baseness of the average “mouton”--One youth
plans the murder of his own father--Another offers to murder
his cell-companion to save him from the scaffold--The skeleton
of Madame Houet brought to light after thirteen years--Clever
detection in the case of Lacenaire--A whole series of murders
exposed, committed by this bloodthirsty assassin--Some
remarkable cases--Detection often follows--The difficulty of
disposing of the remains--L’Huissier, Prevost, the “woman of
Clichy” and Voirbo.
French justice has always been open to the reproach of using unworthy
means to arrive at its end, commendable enough in itself--the
conviction of the criminal. The services of spies and informers
have always been utilised in a clandestine fashion. The rule has
long obtained, and indeed is still in force, of employing an agent
to insinuate himself into the confidence of accused persons to worm
out secrets and betray them to the authorities. The most favorable
opportunity is offered by the intimacy of cell association, and it is
seldom that the spy fails to come upon the secret, however carefully
concealed. The system is still in force, and has been tried in notable
recent cases, such as that of the truculent and mysterious Campi,
the murderer. The _coqueurs_, the unofficial attachés of the police,
are as old as the hills, and are to be found in every country; but
their ignoble business is perhaps more widely followed in France
than elsewhere. They are of two classes, those at large and those
in confinement,--the latter being very generally found in French
prisons. The first class live with and on the criminal class, in whose
operations they ostensibly take part, so as to gather the knowledge
that makes them useful to the police; but they are actively engaged in
them when they find it safe and profitable. More often they prefer to
inform and take the reward, but when times are bad they have been known
to invent imaginary schemes and persuade their friends to undertake
them, betraying the dupes when they were compromised and fully
committed.
The treacherous business of provocation is said to have been carried
further in the troublous times of the second Revolution. The police
were then directly charged with having invented a serious disturbance
in order to make short work of a number of political prisoners. In 1832
St. Pélagie was full of such prisoners. There was great unrest within
the prison, mutiny was constantly imminent, and the discontent was
encouraged by an absurd rumor circulated that they were being poisoned
by the authorities. It was a period of great effervescence in
Paris, for the cholera, then a new and fearful epidemic, was raging,
and the story was spread that the government was actually propagating
it in order to reduce the number of its political foes. At last the
disturbance came to a head, and there was a serious outbreak. The
prisoners rose in revolt, smashed the furniture, ill-used their keepers
and by degrees gained possession of the inner gates. At the same time
an insurgent band, consisting of a couple of hundred Republicans,
had assembled and were bent upon breaking open the prison to release
their friends. It was believed to be a concerted movement, and was
on the point of success, when the troops arrived. A large body of
the municipal guard advanced, and, dispersing the crowd, entered
the prison, where their attack was violently resisted. The revolted
prisoners were formally ordered to surrender, but sturdily refused.
The troops felt compelled to open fire, and many casualties resulted.
When peace was restored, the ringleaders were arrested and removed, and
brought to trial at the Assizes, where many were sentenced to _travaux
forcés_. The authorities were then charged, as has been said, with
having instigated the disturbance, but no proof of this accusation was
ever produced, and the Prefect of Police indignantly repudiated the
charge.
[Illustration: _Sainte Pélagie_
Famous as a place of detention in Paris for political prisoners on
their way to the guillotine during the French Revolution, holding at
one time as many as three hundred and sixty persons.]
The business of the _mouton_ is one of great danger, and calls for
considerable address. Detection or even suspicion that a man is
so employed enforces him to vindictive retaliation. He may expect
sooner or later to be roughly handled, probably murdered. These are
the individuals who share the cell of the accused on purpose and
draw him into conversation and unguarded admissions, which will be
brought in evidence against him, or they help the judge in his line of
interrogatories, the French method of prosecution. There is a larger
class of _moutons_ known in prisons as the _musique_, composed of all
who from the moment of arrest are prepared to confess their evil deeds,
name their associates and reveal their whereabouts and how they might
be taken. Often the _musiciens_ are retained on the service of the
police, and inhabit a prison for months together, or so long as they
can be useful during a protracted trial.
The baseness of the average _mouton_ is almost inconceivable. No ties
of blood or association are respected. Brother will denounce brother, a
father his son. Cauler tells a story of a young thief, who interested
him and whom, after receiving much valuable information from him, he
permanently engaged as a _musicien_. One day another prisoner came to
the chief of police to give him some facts about his young protégé. The
latter had confided to him that he knew a certain way to effect his
escape, if he could only lay his hands on a substantial sum of money.
“You can get it for me, if you choose. When you are released go to the
banking house of Monsieur ----. My father is the cashier, and keeps
his safe on the entresol, first door to the right. He is always alone
between four and five of an afternoon, making up his accounts. Ring the
bell, and when he opens the window say you came from me, and have a
particular message for him. He will be sure to admit you, and directly
you enter stab him in the heart. You will find his keys in his inner
breast pocket. Open the safe, take out all the cash, keep half, and let
me have the rest when next we meet.” M. Cauler was greatly horrified,
and sent at once for his _musicien_, whom he taxed with this supposed
crime. The lad tried to deny it, but was confronted with his intended
accomplice, and confessed. “Take him away,” cried the indignant police
officer, “never let me see him again.”
Another story is told that may well be placed along with the above, in
proof of the base ingratitude of which a convict may be guilty. A man
had been sentenced to death, and was awaiting execution with horror,
not so much from dread of the guillotine as of the disgrace that would
fall upon his family from such a case in its records. A fellow convict
also sentenced to death sought to console him. “You dread the dishonor
of the public execution,” said he. “I’ll tell you how you can avoid it,
and die in another way.” “Suicide, do you mean?” “Not at all,” was the
reply. “Listen to me. I have not the smallest hope of a reprieve; the
proofs are overwhelming. Now, no one can be executed twice, so I may
safely kill as many people as I choose. I will tell you what I will
do for you. I have a knife concealed in a safe place, and some night
when you are sound asleep, I will come and make short work of you. It
need not hurt you, for I will do it with one blow.” Strange to say the
man, over whom death hung with absolute certainty, disliked the idea
of losing his life a day or two before the inevitable time. He went at
once to the governor of the Conciergerie, where he was lodged at that
time, and told the whole story, saying he went in fear of his life, and
wished to be put in another part of the prison. The friendly murderer
was highly indignant when he heard of this treachery, and next time a
man complained to him of his impending disgraceful death, advised him
to throw himself over the staircase and take his own life.
The origin of the word _musique_ may interest the curious reader. It
arose from the practice of collecting together all the _coqueurs_ and
spies having secret information in a circle, when the recognition of
some unknown new arrival was considered essential. The latter was then
placed in the middle of the circle, very much as a bandmaster stands
when surrounded by the musicians. An objection to this custom was that
the quality of these informers was thus revealed, and exposed them all
to the vengeance of their victims and their friends. Strange means were
adopted for circulating the news. The same Chenu mentioned above tells
us how, when he was in the exercising yard, a projectile dropped at his
feet, launched by some hand beyond the walls. When picked up it proved
to be a small pellet made of chewed bread. “_Un postillon_,” cried
someone, and all gathered round in a group to hear the message, which
was known by that name, contained in the piece of bread: “Avril, who is
now in Bicêtre through the treachery of Lacenaire, wishes all friends
to know.”
The revelations of an ancient comrade served in a rather remarkable
case to bring home a great crime, which for nearly thirteen years had
remained undiscovered. An old convict, named C----, in 1833, came
to the police, and offered at the price of 500 francs to give them
full information concerning the murder of the Widow Houet, and to
indicate how the body might still be found. This murder had occurred
in 1821, in the rue Saint Jacques, and was that of an aged woman of
seventy, possessed of a considerable fortune. She was the mother of two
children, a boy and a girl. The latter was married to a certain Robert,
who had been a wine merchant, and who was not on the best of terms with
his mother-in-law. One day a stranger, whose identity was not fixed
till much later, called on the Widow Houet, who was alone, having sent
her servant out some distance. The visitor after a short parley left,
taking the old woman with him, and she was never seen again. After
this disappearance suspicion fixed on the son-in-law, Robert, who
was arrested, and with him a friend named Bastien, who had also been
in the wine trade. Nothing came of the inquiry which followed, and
both the accused men were released. Three years later they were again
arrested on supposed fresh evidence, but were again released. At last
the man C---- came forward with full particulars. Robert, it appeared,
had approached Bastien with proposals to murder the old woman, whom
he hated. As Robert had never paid over the share promised, Bastien
confided the whole story to C----, and showed him the copy of a letter
he had written his accomplice, in which were the following words:
“Do not forget the garden of the rue de Vaugirard 81, you know. Fifteen
feet from the end wall and fourteen from the side one. The dead
sometimes come back.” Bastien had carefully preserved the plan of the
garden, on which was marked the spot where the corpse had been buried.
This garden belonged to an isolated house, which had been rented by
Robert, and Bastien was engaged in digging a deep pit in it. He bought
a cord, provided himself with quicklime; then one Sunday morning he
called upon the Widow Houet, with a message from her daughter and
son-in-law, that they expected her to lunch in the new house. Here let
Bastien speak for himself: “The old woman knew me well as a friend of
her children, and accompanied me in a cart to the rue de Vaugirard. On
entering the garden and reaching a quiet corner, I slipped my rope
round her neck and strangled her. When certainly dead I buried her,
threw in quicklime, covered up the grave and went to breakfast. There
was one guest short, but Robert asked no questions. I knew he was
satisfied with me. I had done my part in the business, but he would
not perform his, and never yet has he paid me my price, the half share
of the widow’s fortune. After waiting patiently all these years and
finding him ever after deaf to my demand and unmindful of my threats, I
resolved to denounce him, through you.”
This was the message brought by C----, and in response, warrants
to arrest the Roberts, man and wife, were issued by the police.
The culprits had already left Paris, but were followed and brought
back. Meanwhile Bastien was taken into custody after a hand to hand
encounter. He was searched, and in a pocketbook found upon him were the
plan of the garden and the compromising papers relating to the Widow
Houet’s estate. The case was clear. Nothing remained but to verify
the facts by disinterring the corpse. It was necessary to proceed
with great caution, lest the body should be removed by friends of
the accused. A watch was set upon the house now occupied by a master
pavier, and his sympathies were enlisted by warning him that he was
to be the victim of a midnight robbery. He consented to allow two
agents of the police to be stationed in the garden, and they took post
there for several nights in succession, but nothing happened. At last
after careful examination the position of the buried body was fixed
by Bastien’s plan, and a party of diggers from the great cemetery of
Père La Chaise came, accompanied by a doctor, to open the ground.
The body of a woman was come upon at considerable depth, in fair
preservation thanks to the quicklime. The rope was still around her
neck, and she still wore a gold ring. The evidence was conclusive as to
the murder, but the criminals were allowed the benefit of extenuating
circumstances, and the capital sentence was commuted to _travaux
forcés_ for life.
About this same date a murder was committed in Paris, which will always
fill a prominent place in French criminal records, from the hideous
personality of the principal performer. Few members of the race of Cain
are more widely known than the bloodthirsty monster, Lacenaire, of whom
the saying is preserved: “I think no more of slaying a man than of
taking a drink of water.” His detection and delivery to justice were
due to the help afforded by treacherous confederates, who played the
_musique_. The circumstances, with some account of the central figure,
and the methods pursued, may well find a place here.
On December 14, 1834, an old woman, the Widow Chardon, residing in the
passage Cheval Rouge of the rue St. Martin, was brutally done to death,
and her son, who lived with her, was also killed. Both had been struck
down with the same hatchet. The state of the premises, locks forced,
furniture smashed, their contents strewed about the room, showed
plainly that robbery had been the motive of the murder. A fortnight
later another murder was attempted, and was all but successful, upon
a banker’s clerk, who called, in the French fashion, to collect money
on a bill or note of hand, which had been due, and was payable at
the private address given by the acceptor, by name Mabrossier, No.
66, rue Montorgueil. The clerk climbed to the fourth floor, where he
found the name Mabrossier inscribed in white chalk upon the outer
door. He knocked, and was admitted into an empty room, where two men
were evidently awaiting him. The door was slammed, and he was attacked
murderously. The clerk was young and muscular, and fought sturdily for
his life, uttering such loud cries for help that the miscreants were
alarmed, and fled down-stairs out of the house.
The only clue to the outrage was the name Mabrossier, and he was known
sufficiently well to the concierge, who gave a description of him.
The machinery of the police was set in motion, by which the names
of all who pass the night in hotels and common lodging-houses are
inscribed day by day on the register, and the name Mabrossier was found
finally in a low den kept by one Pageot. Close to it was another name,
Ficellier, recorded the same day, and the landlord remembered and
described his visitor. The portrait exactly fitted a certain François,
at the time in custody, having been arrested within the last few days
for fraud. The landlady, when pressed, also admitted that Mabrossier
had previously been a lodger under the name of Baton.
The police pieced together the scraps that were coming to hand. M.
Cauler, who was in charge of the case, openly taxed François with being
Ficellier, and, on the shrewd suspicion that Baton was Mabrossier,
arrested him, but was forced to release him for want of more definite
evidence. Then a prisoner in La Force volunteered the fact that Baton
was the intimate of one Gaillard, who sometimes passed under the name
of Baton, but who, in one of his disguises, corresponded exactly with
the much wanted Mabrossier. The next step was a hunt for Gaillard,
and the name was soon found on another hotel register. They knew him
well, there, and when asked whether he came often, or had left any
traces, a bundle of songs was produced and a letter, said to be in his
handwriting, containing an offensive diatribe on the prefect of police.
Suddenly a light broke in on the police. The writing of the word
“Mabrossier,” chalked upon the door in the house, where the assault was
committed, was identically the same as in this letter.
It was now well known that Gaillard was wanted, and assistance was
offered by another inmate of La Force, Avril by name, who declared
that if let out for a week he would put Gaillard into the hands of
the police. Nothing came of this boast, and Avril went back to gaol.
Recourse was again had to François, who was fetched from the prison
to be interrogated at the Prefecture. In the cab, en route, François
made a clean breast of everything. He knew all about the murder of
Mother Chardon; he had heard the whole story from the principal actor,
Gaillard, who had thus a second and more serious crime to his charge
than the attack on the bank clerk.
Gaillard’s identity was next placed beyond all doubt. Avril, the same
prisoner who had fruitlessly sought Gaillard through Paris, confided
to the police that the murderer had an aunt of the same name, a
well-to-do person, who lived in great retirement. A visit was paid to
her, and inquiries made as to her nephew, “Gaillard.” “His real name is
Lacenaire,” she replied, “and I never wish to see or hear of him again.
He is a miscreant, and I constantly go in fear of my life for him.” So
the search was narrowed down to the real man Lacenaire, who fortunately
was arrested at this very moment under the name of Levi Jacob, on
attempting to pass a forged bill of exchange. He was brought at once to
Paris, and, when visited in his cell by the head of the police, readily
confessed himself the author of the crimes, of which he was suspected.
When asked to name his accomplices, he refused until he heard that both
François and Avril had informed against him, when he turned upon them
and gave them completely away. They had betrayed him, and he would not
spare them! It served him right for taking accomplices!
This was the burden of his recital in the many interviews he had with
the police. “Always work alone, it is the only safe method. Partners
and comrades can never be trusted.” Lacenaire gave many proofs of this
from his own personal experience. Once at Lyons he was returning home
from an orgie, when he met on the bridge of Morand a well-dressed
gentleman, upon whose white waistcoat glittered a fat gold chain. The
man staggered slightly, and was clearly under the influence of drink.
They were quite alone together upon the bridge, and Lacenaire fell upon
him, seizing his throat with one hand and emptying his pockets with the
other. Then, after he had secured the watch and chain and well-filled
pocketbook, he lifted the victim in his arms and threw him bodily into
the river Rhone, which flowed rapidly beneath. “I never heard who this
man was, nor did I think of the incident again,” said he. “Having
worked alone, I was never discovered.” Again, when residing in Paris,
just after his release from prison, he frequented the gaming-house,
Palais-Royal, and watched the lucky players with the idea of following
them in the street to rob and murder them. He followed a man, who had
won 30,000 francs, and, catching him in a lonely place, threatened
him with his life unless he surrendered at once the contents of his
pockets. The approach of a passing patrol frightened Lacenaire, who
took to his heels without the plunder. He escaped because he was alone.
Had he been trammelled with an accomplice they would probably have got
into each other’s way, or at least Lacenaire would have been obliged to
think of some one beside himself. “Had I not worked with Avril in the
murder of Mother Chardon, he would never have been able to betray me.”
The life and death of Lacenaire attracted considerable attention. There
was much to interest the public, albeit unhealthily, in the personal
record of this remarkable criminal, who came of decent parents, had
been well educated, and yet yielded to the most ignoble passions; who
from petty thief passed through all the phases of commonplace crime
until he threw off all restraint and became a wholesale murderer.
While honest society viewed him with horror, he became a hero to his
fellows, who would have imitated him had they dared, but were satisfied
to glorify him, to tattoo his name upon their breasts and to accept
him as their chief and model. He was born in a village near Lyons, and
graduated with honors at the college. Then he went to Paris and read
law. When his father’s failure in business left him without resources,
he enlisted, served for a time, came back to Paris and soon lapsed into
crime. He could not bear the idea of an empty pocket, and was ready
for any evil deed, that would fill it. The first committal to prison
introduced him to friends, by whom he was willingly led astray, and
prepared him for the criminal designs that took possession of him.
When finally tried for his life, he was no more than thirty-five, and
had been guilty of at least thirty heinous offences. His execution
undoubtedly rid the world of a monster.
Some of the more atrocious and abominable crimes of French evil-doers
will fitly find a passing reference here. They are mostly characterised
by the traits peculiar to the worst side of the Frenchman,--of devilish
ingenuity in design, savage resolution in performance, cynical apathy
and indifference in the face of the forthcoming results, alternating
often with sham emotion and hypocritical grief. Types re-appear
constantly, crimes are repeatedly reproduced, generation after
generation, by criminals who lack all originality in their actions,
generally inspired by the same motives. The greed for gold, the craving
for sensual self-indulgence, consuming passion and bitter jealousy
and an unappeasable thirst for revenge, have at all times influenced
the weakly moral sense and accomplished the most diabolical deeds. In
murder cases, the disposal of the body is one of the chief difficulties
that faces the perpetrator of the crime. It may be possible sometimes
to leave the tell-tale evidence upon the theatre of the crime, but the
danger of detection is greatly enhanced thereby, and murderers have
therefore usually adopted some other plan of concealing or removing the
corpse. There is nothing new under the sun, and some of these methods
of disposal are to be met with in the earliest criminal records, and
have found imitators down to the present day. One case may be quoted
in which a number of workmen repairing the Pont de la Concorde fished
a large parcel out of the water, and on opening it found it contained
human remains. The bundle had been cleverly packed and tied in a common
corn-sack, with an outer cover of packing-cloth. Shortly afterwards a
second parcel, exactly similar in form and contents, was found at no
great distance from the first. It was presently learned that a woman
named Ferraud, otherwise Renaudin, who had lived in the street des
Egout Saint Martin, had recently changed her domicile, and had been
helped in the move by a certain L’Huissier, a furniture maker. Nothing
more had been heard of him until a near neighbor vouchsafed his new
address. L’Huissier was found there, in bed, surrounded by the effects
of the murdered woman. He had let her an apartment in the same house,
and accompanied her there; had secured her property and promptly killed
her. Then he had made up his parcels, and, hiring a hand-barrow,
wheeled his burden to the river, to which he consigned it. The case is
interesting as one of the first instances of dismemberment as a means
of disposal.
Forty years later human remains were found in the bedroom of a hotel
in the rue de Poliveau, and were presently discovered to be those of a
milkwoman, who employed Barré, a notary’s clerk, who concerned himself
with the investments of any one who would trust him. The milkwoman
was one of the number. She had come to Barré’s rooms to charge him
with the sale of certain scrip, but was murdered when off her guard.
Other similar cases were those of the “Woman of Clichy,” whose husband
murdered her and buried her on the banks of the Seine. The criminal
here was an old soldier, wearing the military medal, and nicknamed the
“decoré.” A third case was that of Prévost, a police sergeant, who had
killed a tailor’s traveller, who had called upon him in the hopes of
disposing of some of his stock. When arrested and brought to trial it
was proved that this was the second murder of which Prévost had been
guilty. His first victim had been a housekeeper to a gentleman, who
had made her his heir. She desired to buy the good-will of a small
business, and consulted Prévost, at whose advice she realised part of
her property, and brought it to him to complete the purchase. She dined
with Prévost, having the money in her pocket, and was put out of the
way that he might secure it.
The most famous case of all is one of the most recent, and made the
reputation of M. Macé, the well-known chief of the French detective
police. Here a suspicious parcel had been found in a well in the
centre of an apartment house. A second parcel was presently recovered,
with identical contents. Both parcels were tied up in black glazed
calico, the ends of both were knotted in a peculiar way, and both
were stitched with black cotton. These facts threw suspicion upon
some journeyman tailor. It was soon discovered that an inmate of the
apartment house, who was a working sempstress, received the visits
of a tailor, who brought her work. Attention was thus directed to
this man Voirbo. His antecedents were investigated, and it was found
that an aged man, a miser with means, often in Voirbo’s company, had
disappeared. The crowning point in this case was the cleverness shown
by M. Macé in discovering that the dismemberment had taken place in
Voirbo’s own rooms. The tiled floor in the living room sloped in
one direction, and M. Macé, readily judging that if a body had been
disposed of in the room, the blood would have flowed that way, at once
emptied a decanter upon the floor. The running water led him to a spot
under which, when laid bare, a quantity of dark matter, proved later
to be dry human blood, was disinterred. Voirbo was challenged with the
crime, and confessed, but before execution committed suicide.
Crimes of the character indicated above are numerous enough in the
criminal annals of France, but they by no means constitute the whole of
her calendar of crime; and in the next chapter we pass on to others not
less fearsome.