JACQUES DANTIN, moreover, was not difficult to find in the crowd. He
stood near the funeral car; his air was very sad. Bernardet had a fine
opportunity to examine him at his ease. He was an elegant looking man,
slender, with a resolute air, and frowning eyebrows which gave his face
a very energetic look. His head bared to the cold wind, he stood like a
statue while the bearers placed the casket in the funeral car, and
Bernardet noticed the shaking of the head--a distressed shaking. The
longer the police officer looked at him, studied him, the stronger grew
the resemblance to the image in the photograph. Bernardet would soon
know who this Jacques Dantin was, and even at this moment he asked a
question or two of some of the assistants.
"Do you know who that gentleman is standing near the hearse?"
"No."
"Do you know what Jacques Dantin does? Was he one of M. Rovere's
intimate friends?"
"Jacques Dantin?"
"Yes; see, there, with the pointed beard."
"I do not know him."
Bernardet thought that if he addressed the question to M. Dantin himself
he might learn all he wished to know at once, and he approached him at
the moment the procession started, and walked along with him almost to
the cemetery, striving to enter into conversation with him. He spoke of
the dead man, sadly lamenting M. Rovere's sad fate. But he found his
neighbor very silent. Upon the sidewalk of the Boulevard the dense crowd
stood in respectful silence and uncovered as the cortege passed, and the
officer noticed that some loose petals from the flowers dropped upon the
roadway.
"There are a great many flowers," he remarked to his neighbor. "It is
rather surprising, as M. Rovere seemed to have so few friends."
"He has had many," the man brusquely remarked. His voice was hoarse, and
quivered with emotion. Bernardet saw that he was strongly moved. Was it
sorrow? Was it bitterness of spirit? Remorse, perhaps! The man did not
seem, moreover, in a very softened mood. He walked along with his eyes
upon the funeral car, his head uncovered in spite of the cold, and
seemed to be in deep thought. The police officer studied him from a
corner of his eye. His wrinkled face was intelligent, and bore an
expression of weariness, but there was something hard about the set of
the mouth and insolent in the turned-up end of his mustache.
As they approached the cemetery at Montmartre--the journey was not a
long one in which to make conversation--Bernardet ventured a decisive
question: "Did you know M. Rovere very well?"
The other replied: "Very well."
"And whom do you think could have had any interest in this matter?" The
question was brusque and cut like a knife. Jacques Dantin hesitated in
his reply, looking keenly as they walked along at this little man with
his smiling aspect, whose name he did not know and who had questioned
him.
"It is because I have a great interest in at once commencing my
researches," said Bernardet, measuring his words in order to note the
effect which they would produce on this unknown man. "I am a police
detective."
Oh! This time Bernardet saw Dantin shiver. There was no doubt of it;
this close contact with a police officer troubled him, and he turned
pale and a quick spasm passed over his face. His anxious eyes searched
Bernardet's face, but, content with stealing an occasional glance of
examination toward his neighbor, the little man walked along with eyes
cast toward the ground. He studied Jacques Dantin in sudden, quick turns
of the eye.
The car advanced slowly, turned the corner of the Boulevard and passed
into the narrow avenue which led to God's Acre. The arch of the iron
bridge led to the Campo-Santo like a viaduct of living beings, over to
the Land of Sleep, for it was packed with a curious crowd; it was a
scene for a melodrama, the cortege and the funeral car covered with
wreaths. Bernardet, still walking by Dantin's side, continued to
question him. The agent noticed that these questions seemed to embarrass
M. Rovere's pretended friend.
"Is it a long time since M. Rovere and Jacques Dantin have known each
other?"
"We have been friends since childhood."
"And did you see him often?"
"No. Life had separated us."
"Had you seen him recently? Mme. Moniche said that you had."
"Who is Mme. Moniche?"
"The concierge of the house, and a sort of housekeeper for M. Rovere."
"Ah! Yes!" said Jacques Dantin, as if he had just remembered some
forgotten sight. Bernardet, by instinct, read this man's thoughts; saw
again with him also the tragic scene when the portress, suddenly
entering M. Rovere's apartments, had seen him standing, face to face
with Dantin, in front of the open safe, with a great quantity of papers
spread out.
"Do you believe that he had many enemies?" asked the police agent, with
deliberate calculation.
"No," Dantin sharply replied, without hesitation. Bernardet waited a
moment, then in a firm voice he said: "M. Ginory will no doubt count a
good deal on you in order to bring about the arrest of the assassin."
"M. Ginory?"
"The Examining Magistrate."
"Then he will have to make haste with his investigation," Jacques Dantin
replied. "I shall soon be obliged to leave Paris." This reply astonished
Bernardet. This departure, of which the motive was probably a simple
one, seemed to him strange under the tragic circumstances. M. Dantin,
moreover, did not hesitate to give him, without his asking for it, his
address, adding that he would hold himself in readiness from his return
from the cemetery at the disposition of the Examining Magistrate.
"The misfortune is that I can tell nothing, as I know nothing. I do not
even suspect who could have any interest in killing that unfortunate
man. A professional criminal, without doubt."
"I do not believe so."
The cortege had now reached one of the side avenues; a white fog
enveloped everything, and the marble tombs shone ghostly through it. The
spot chosen by M. Rovere himself was at the end of the Avenue de la
Cloche. The car slowly rolled toward the open grave. Mme. Moniche,
overcome with grief, staggered as she walked along, but her husband,
the tailor, seemed to be equal to the occasion and his role. They both
assumed different expressions behind their dead. And Paul Rodier walked
along just in front of them, note book in hand. Bernardet promised
himself to keep close watch of Dantin and see in what manner he carried
himself at the tomb. A pressure of the crowd separated them for a
moment, but the officer was perfectly satisfied. Standing on the other
side of the grave, face to face with him, was Dantin; a row of the most
curious had pushed in ahead of Bernardet, but in this way he could
better see Dantin's face, and not miss the quiver of a muscle. He stood
on tiptoe and peered this way and that, between the heads, and could
thus scrutinize and analyze, without being perceived himself.
Dantin was standing on the very edge of the grave. He held himself very
upright, in a tense, almost aggressive way, and looked, from time to
time, into the grave with an expression of anger and almost defiance. Of
what was he thinking? In that attitude, which seemed to be a revolt
against the destiny which had come to his friend, Bernardet read a kind
of hardening of the will against an emotion which might become excessive
and telltale. He was not, as yet, persuaded of the guiltiness of this
man, but he did not find in that expression of defiance the tenderness
which ought to be shown for a friend--a lifelong friend, as Dantin had
said that Rovere was. And then the more he examined him--there, for
example, seeing his dark silhouette clearly defined in front of the
dense white of a neighboring column--the more the aspect of this man
corresponded with that of the vision transfixed in the dead man's eye.
Yes, it was the same profile of a trooper, his hand upon his hip, as if
resting upon a rapier. Bernardet blinked his eyes in order to better see
that man. He perceived a man who strongly recalled the vague form found
in that retina, and his conviction came to the aid of his instinct,
gradually increased, and became, little by little, invincible,
irresistible. He repeated the address which this man had given him:
"Jacques Dantin, Rue de Richelieu, 114." He would make haste to give
that name to M. Ginory, and have a citation served upon him. Why should
this Dantin leave Paris? What was his manner of living? his means of
existence? What were the passions, the vices, of the man standing there
with the austere mien of a Huguenot, in front of the open grave?
Bernardet saw that, despite his strong will and his wish to stand there
impassive, Jacques Dantin was troubled when, with a heavy sound, the
casket glided over the cords down into the grave. He bit the ends of his
mustache and his gloved hand made several irresistible, nervous
movements. And the look cast into that grave! The look cast at that
casket lying in the bottom of that grave! On that casket was a plate
bearing the inscription: "Louis Pierre Rovere." That mute look, rapid
and grief-stricken, was cast upon that open casket, which contained the
body--the gash across its throat, dissected, mutilated; the face with
those dreadful eyes, which had been taken from their orbits, and, after
delivering up their secret, replaced!
They now defiled past the grave, and Dantin, the first, with a hand
which trembled, sprinkled upon the casket those drops of water which are
for our dead the last tears. Ah! but he was pale, almost livid; and how
he trembled--this man with a stern face! Bernardet noticed the slightest
trace of emotion. He approached in his turn and took the holy water
sprinkler; then, as he turned away, desirous of catching up with M.
Dantin, he heard his name called, and, turning, saw Paul Rodier, whose
face was all smiles.
"Well! Monsieur Bernardet, what new?" he asked. The tall young man had a
charming air.
"Nothing new," said the agent.
"You know that this murder has aroused a great deal of interest?"
"I do not doubt it."
"Leon Luzarche is enchanted. Yes, Luzarche, the novelist. He had begun a
novel, of which the first instalment was published in the same paper
which brought out the first news of 'The Crime of the Boulevard de
Clichy,' and as the paper has sold, sold, sold, he thinks that it is his
story which has caused the immense and increased sales. No one is
reading 'l'Ange-Gnome,' but the murder. All novelists ought to try to
have a fine assassination published at the same time as their serials,
so as to increase the sales of the paper. What a fine collaboration,
Monsieur! Pleasantry, Monsieur! Have you any unpublished facts?"
"No."
"Not one? Not a trace?"
"Nothing," Bernardet replied.
"Oh, well! I--I have some, Monsieur--but it will surprise you. Read my
paper! Make the papers sell."
"But"--began the officer.
"See here! Professional secret! Only, have you thought of the woman in
black who came occasionally to see the ex-Consul?"
"Certainly."
"Well, she must be made to come back--that woman in black. It is not an
easy thing to do. But I believe that I have ferreted her out. Yes, in
one of the provinces."
"Where?"
"Professional secret," repeated the reporter, laughing.
"And if M. Ginory asks for your professional secret?"
"I will answer him as I answer you. Read my paper! Read _Lutece_!"
"But the Judge, to him"----
"Professional secret," said Paul Rodier for the third time. "But what a
romance it would make! The Woman in Black!"
While listening, Bernardet had not lost sight of M. Dantin, who, in the
centre of one of the avenues, stood looking at the slowly moving crowd
of curiosity seekers. He seemed to be vainly searching for a familiar
face. He looked haggard. Whether it was grief or remorse, he certainly
showed violent emotion. The police officer divined that a sharp struggle
was taking place within that man's heart, and the sadness was great with
which he watched that crowd in order to discover some familiar face, but
he beheld only those of the curious. What Bernardet considered of the
greatest importance was not to lose sight of this person of whose
existence he was ignorant an hour before; and who, to him, was the
perpetrator of the deed or an accomplice. He followed Dantin at a
distance, who, from the cemetery at Montmartre went on foot directly to
the Rue de Richelieu, and stopped at the number he had given, 114.
Bernardet allowed some minutes to pass after the man on whose track he
was had entered. Then he asked the concierge if M. Jacques Dantin was
at home. He questioned him closely and became convinced that M.
Rovere's friend had really lived there two years and had no profession.
"Then," said the police agent, "it is not this Dantin for whom I am
looking. He is a banker." He excused himself, went out, hailed a fiacre,
and gave the order: "To the Prefecture."
His report to the Chief, M. Morel, was soon made. He listened to him
with attention, for he had absolute confidence in the police officer.
"Never any _gaff_ with Bernardet," M. Morel was wont to say. He, like
Bernardet, soon felt convinced that this man was probably the murderer
of the ex-Consul.
"As to the motive which led to the crime, we shall know it later."
He wished, above everything else, to have strict inquiries made into
Dantin's past life, in regard to his present existence; and the
inquiries would be compared with his answers to the questions which M.
Ginory would ask him when he had been cited as a witness.
"Go at once to M. Ginory's room, Bernardet," said the Chief. "During
this time I would learn a little about what kind of a man this is."
Bernardet had only to cross some corridors and mount a few steps to
reach the gallery upon which M. Ginory's room opened. While waiting to
be admitted he passed up and down; seated on benches were a number of
malefactors, some of whom knew him well, who were waiting examination.
He was accustomed to see this sight daily, and without being moved, but
this time he was overcome by a sort of agony, a spasm which contracted
even his fingers and left his nerves in as quivering a state as does
insomnia. Truly, in the present case he was much more concerned than in
an ordinary manhunt. The officer experienced the fear which an inventor
feels before the perfection of a new discovery. He had undertaken a
formidable problem, apparently insoluble, and he desired to solve it.
Once or twice he took out from the pocket of his redingote an old worn
case and looked at the proofs of the retina which he had pasted on a
card. There could be no doubt. This figure, a little confused, had the
very look of the man who had bent over the grave. M. Ginory would be
struck by it when he had Jacques Dantin before him. Provided the
Examining Magistrate still had the desire which Bernardet had incited in
him, to push the matter to the end. Fortunately M. Ginory was very
curious. With this curiosity anything might happen. The time seemed
long. What if this Dantin, who spoke of leaving Paris, should disappear,
should escape the examination? What miserable little affair occupied M.
Ginory? Would he ever be at liberty?
The door opened, a man in a blouse was led out; the registrar appeared
on the threshold and Bernardet asked if he could not see M. Ginory
immediately, as he had an important communication to make to him.
"I will not detain him long," he said.
Far from appearing annoyed, the Magistrate seemed delighted to see the
officer. He related to him all he knew, how he had seen the man at M.
Rovere's funeral. That Mme. Moniche had recognized him as the one whom
she had surprised standing with M. Rovere before the open safe. That he
had signed his name and took first rank in the funeral cortege, less by
reason of an old friendship which dated from childhood than by that
strange and impulsive sentiment which compels the guilty man to haunt
the scene of his crime, to remain near his victim, as if the murder, the
blood, the corpse, held for him a morbid fascination.
"I shall soon know," said M. Ginory. He dictated to the registrar a
citation to appear before him, rang the bell and gave the order to serve
the notice on M. Dantin at the given address and to bring him to the
Palais.
"Do not lose sight of him," he said to Bernardet, and began some other
examinations. Bernardet bowed and his eyes shone like those of a sleuth
hound on the scent of his prey.