The two last depositions awakened in M. Daburon’s mind some slight
gleams of hope. In the midst of darkness, the humblest rush-light
acquires brilliancy.
“I will go at once to Bougival, sir, if you approve of this step,”
suggested Gevrol.
“Perhaps you would do well to wait a little,” answered M. Daburon. “This
man was seen on Sunday morning; we will inquire into Widow Lerouge’s
movements on that day.”
Three neighbours were called. They all declared that the widow had
kept her bed all Sunday. To one woman who, hearing she was unwell,
had visited her, she said, “Ah! I had last night a terrible accident.”
Nobody at the time attached any significance to these words.
“The man with the rings in his ears becomes more and important,” said
the magistrate, when the woman had retired. “To find him again is
indispensable: you must see to this, M. Gevrol.”
“Before eight days, I shall have him,” replied the chief of detective
police, “if I have to search every boat on the Seine, from its source
to the ocean. I know the name of the captain, Gervais. The navigation
office will tell me something.”
He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed into the house breathless. “Here
is old Tabaret,” he said. “I met him just as he was going out. What a
man! He wouldn’t wait for the train, but gave I don’t know how much to a
cabman; and we drove here in fifty minutes!”
Almost immediately, a man appeared at the door, whose aspect it must be
admitted was not at all what one would have expected of a person who had
joined the police for honour alone. He was certainly sixty years old and
did not look a bit younger. Short, thin, and rather bent, he leant
on the carved ivory handle of a stout cane. His round face wore that
expression of perpetual astonishment, mingled with uneasiness, which
has made the fortunes of two comic actors of the Palais-Royal theatre.
Scrupulously shaved, he presented a very short chin, large and good
natured lips, and a nose disagreeably elevated, like the broad end of
one of Sax’s horns. His eyes of a dull gray, were small and red at the
lids, and absolutely void of expression; yet they fatigued the observer
by their insupportable restlessness. A few straight hairs shaded his
forehead, which receded like that of a greyhound, and through their
scantiness barely concealed his long ugly ears. He was very comfortably
dressed, clean as a new franc piece, displaying linen of dazzling
whiteness, and wearing silk gloves and leather gaiters. A long and
massive gold chain, very vulgar-looking, was twisted thrice round his
neck, and fell in cascades into the pocket of his waistcoat.
M. Tabaret, surnamed Tirauclair, stood at the threshold, and bowed
almost to the ground, bending his old back into an arch, and in the
humblest of voices asked, “The investigating magistrate has deigned to
send for me?”
“Yes!” replied M. Daburon, adding under his breath; “and if you are a
man of any ability, there is at least nothing to indicate it in your
appearance.”
“I am here,” continued the old fellow, “completely at the service of
justice.”
“I wish to know,” said M. Daburon, “whether you can discover some clue
that will put us upon the track of the assassin. I will explain the--”
“Oh, I know enough of it!” interrupted old Tabaret. “Lecoq has told me
the principal facts, just as much as I desire to know.”
“Nevertheless--” commenced the commissary of police.
“If you will permit me, I prefer to proceed without receiving any
details, in order to be more fully master of my own impressions. When
one knows another’s opinion it can’t help influencing one’s judgment.
I will, if you please, at once commence my researches, with Lecoq’s
assistance.”
As the old fellow spoke, his little gray eyes dilated, and became
brilliant as carbuncles. His face reflected an internal satisfaction;
even his wrinkles seemed to laugh. His figure became erect, and his step
was almost elastic, as he darted into the inner chamber.
He remained there about half an hour; then came out running, then
re-entered and then again came out; once more he disappeared and
reappeared again almost immediately. The magistrate could not help
comparing him to a pointer on the scent, his turned-up nose even moved
about as if to discover some subtle odour left by the assassin. All
the while he talked loudly and with much gesticulation, apostrophising
himself, scolding himself, uttering little cries of triumph or
self-encouragement. He did not allow Lecoq to have a moment’s rest. He
wanted this or that or the other thing. He demanded paper and a pencil.
Then he wanted a spade; and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris,
some water and a bottle of oil.
When more than an hour had elapsed, the investigating magistrate began
to grow impatient, and asked what had become of the amateur detective.
“He is on the road,” replied the corporal, “lying flat in the mud, and
mixing some plaster in a plate. He says he has nearly finished, and that
he is coming back presently.”
He did in fact return almost instantly, joyous, triumphant, looking at
least twenty years younger. Lecoq followed him, carrying with the utmost
precaution a large basket.
“I have solved the riddle!” said Tabaret to the magistrate. “It is all
clear now, and as plain as noon-day. Lecoq, my lad, put the basket on
the table.”
Gevrol at this moment returned from his expedition equally delighted.
“I am on the track of the man with the earrings,” said he; “the boat
went down the river. I have obtained an exact description of the master
Gervais.”
“What have you discovered, M. Tabaret!” asked the magistrate.
The old fellow carefully emptied upon the table the contents of the
basket,--a big lump of clay, several large sheets of paper, and three
or four small lumps of plaster yet damp. Standing behind this table, he
presented a grotesque resemblance to those mountebank conjurers who in
the public squares juggle the money of the lookers-on. His clothes had
greatly suffered; he was covered with mud up to the chin.
“In the first place,” said he, at last, in a tone of affected modesty,
“robbery has had nothing to do with the crime that occupies our
attention.”
“Oh! of course not!” muttered Gevrol.
“I shall prove it,” continued old Tabaret, “by the evidence. By-and-by
I shall offer my humble opinion as to the real motive. In the second
place, the assassin arrived here before half-past nine; that is to
say, before the rain fell. No more than M. Gevrol have I been able to
discover traces of muddy footsteps; but under the table, on the spot
where his feet rested, I find dust. We are thus assured of the hour.
The widow did not in the least expect her visitor. She had commenced
undressing, and was winding up her cuckoo clock when he knocked.”
“These are absolute details!” cried the commissary.
“But easily established,” replied the amateur. “You see this cuckoo
clock above the secretary; it is one of those which run fourteen or
fifteen hours at most, for I have examined it. Now it is more than
probable, it is certain, that the widow wound it up every evening before
going to bed. How, then, is it that the clock has stopped at five?
Because she must have touched it. As she was drawing the chain, the
assassin knocked. In proof, I show this chair standing under the clock,
and on the seat a very plain foot-mark. Now look at the dress of the
victim; the body of it is off. In order to open the door more quickly,
she did not wait to put it on again, but hastily threw this old shawl
over her shoulders.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the corporal, evidently struck.
“The widow,” continued the old fellow, “knew the person who knocked.
Her haste to open the door gives rise to this conjecture; what follows
proves it. The assassin then gained admission without difficulty. He
is a young man, a little above the middle height, elegantly dressed. He
wore on that evening a high hat. He carried an umbrella, and smoked a
trabucos cigar in a holder.”
“Ridiculous!” cried Gevrol. “This is too much.”
“Too much, perhaps,” retorted old Tabaret. “At all events, it is the
truth. If you are not minute in your investigations, I cannot help it;
anyhow, I am, I search, and I find. Too much, say you? Well deign to
glance at these lumps of damp plaster. They represent the heels of the
boots worn by the assassin, of which I found a most perfect impression
near the ditch, where the key was picked up. On these sheets of paper,
I have marked in outline the imprint of the foot which I cannot take
up, because it is on some sand. Look! heel high, instep pronounced, sole
small and narrow,--an elegant boot, belonging to a foot well cared for
evidently. Look for this impression all along the path; and you will
find it again twice. Then you will find it five times repeated in the
garden where no one else had been; and these footprints prove, by
the way, that the stranger knocked not at the door, but at the
window-shutter, beneath which shone a gleam of light. At the entrance to
the garden, the man leapt to avoid a flower bed! the point of the foot,
more deeply imprinted than usual, shows it. He leapt more than two yards
with ease, proving that he is active, and therefore young.”
Old Tabaret spoke in a low voice, clear and penetrating: and his eye
glanced from one to the other of his auditors, watching the impression
he was making.
“Does the hat astonish you, M. Gevrol?” he pursued. “Just look at the
circle traced in the dust on the marble top of the secretary. Is it
because I have mentioned his height that you are surprised? Take the
trouble to examine the tops of the wardrobes and you will see that the
assassin passed his hands across them. Therefore he is taller than I am.
Do not say that he got on a chair, for in that case, he would have seen
and would not have been obliged to feel. Are you astonished about the
umbrella? This lump of earth shows an admirable impression not only of
the end of the stick, but even of the little round piece of wood which
is always placed at the end of the silk. Perhaps you cannot get over the
statement that he smoked a cigar? Here is the end of a trabucos that
I found amongst the ashes. Has the end been bitten? No. Has it been
moistened with saliva? No. Then he who smoked it used a cigar-holder.”
Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusiastic admiration, and noiselessly
rubbed his hands together. The commissary appeared stupefied, while
M. Daburon was delighted. Gevrol’s face, on the contrary, was sensibly
elongated. As for the corporal, he was overwhelmed.
“Now,” continued the old fellow, “follow me closely. We have traced the
young man into the house. How he explained his presence at this hour, I
do not know; this much is certain, he told the widow he had not dined.
The worthy woman was delighted to hear it, and at once set to work to
prepare a meal. This meal was not for herself; for in the cupboard I
have found the remains of her own dinner. She had dined off fish; the
autopsy will confirm the truth of this statement. Besides you can see
yourselves, there is but one glass on the table, and one knife. But
who is this young man? Evidently the widow looked upon him as a man of
superior rank to her own; for in the cupboard is a table-cloth still
very clean. Did she use it? No. For her guest she brought out a clean
linen one, her very best. It is for him this magnificent glass, a
present, no doubt, and it is evident she did not often use this knife
with the ivory handle.”
“That is all true,” murmured M. Daburon, “very true.”
“Now, then we have got the young man seated. He began by drinking a
glass of wine, while the widow was putting her pan on the fire. Then,
his heart failing him, he asked for brandy, and swallowed about five
small glassfuls. After an internal struggle of ten minutes (the time it
must have taken to cook the ham and eggs as much as they are), the young
man arose and approached the widow, who was squatting down and leaning
forward over her cooking. He stabbed her twice on the back; but she was
not killed instantly. She half arose seizing the assassin by the hands;
while he drew back, lifting her suddenly, and then hurling her down in
the position in which you see her. This short struggle is indicated by
the posture of the body; for, squatting down and being struck in the
back, it is naturally on her back that she ought to have fallen. The
murderer used a sharp narrow weapon, which was, unless I am deceived,
the end of a foil, sharpened, and with the button broken off. By
wiping the weapon upon his victim’s skirt, the assassin leaves us this
indication. He was not, however, hurt in the struggle. The victim must
have clung with a death-grip to his hands; but, as he had not taken off
his lavender kid gloves,--”
“Gloves! Why this is romance,” exclaimed Gevrol.
“Have you examined the dead woman’s finger-nails, M. Gevrol? No. Well,
do so, and then tell me whether I am mistaken. The woman, now dead,
we come to the object of her assassination. What did this well-dressed
young gentleman want? Money? Valuables? No! no! a hundred times no! What
he wanted, what he sought, and what he found, were papers, documents,
letters, which he knew to be in the possession of the victim. To find
them, he overturned everything, upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen,
broke open the secretary, of which he could not find the key, and even
emptied the mattress of the bed. At last he found these documents. And
then do you know what he did with them? Why, burned them, of course; not
in the fire-place, but in the little stove in the front room. His end
accomplished, what does he do next? He flies, carrying with him all
that he finds valuable, to baffle detection, by suggesting a robbery. He
wrapped everything he found worth taking in the napkin which was to have
served him at dinner, and blowing out the candle, he fled, locking the
door on the outside, and throwing the key into a ditch. And that is
all.”
“M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate, “your investigation is admirable; and
I am persuaded your inferences are correct.”
“Ah!” cried Lecoq, “is he not colossal, my old Tirauclair?”
“Pyramidal!” cried Gevrol ironically. “I fear, however, your
well-dressed young man must have been just a little embarrassed in
carrying a bundle covered with a snow white napkin, which could be so
easily seen from a distance.
“He did not carry it a hundred leagues,” responded old Tabaret. “You may
well believe, that, to reach the railway station, he was not fool enough
to take the omnibus. No, he returned on foot by the shortest way, which
borders the river. Now on reaching the Seine, unless he is more knowing
than I take him to be, his first care was to throw this tell-tale bundle
into the water.”
“Do you believe so, M. Tirauclair?” asked Gevrol.
“I don’t mind making a bet on it; and the best evidence of my belief
is, that I have sent three men, under the surveillance of a gendarme, to
drag the Seine at the nearest spot from here. If they succeed in finding
the bundle, I have promised them a recompense.”
“Out of your own pocket, old enthusiast?”
“Yes, M. Gevrol, out of my own pocket.”
“If they should however find this bundle!” murmured M. Daburon.
He was interrupted by the entrance of a gendarme, who said: “Here is a
soiled table-napkin, filled with plate, money, and jewels, which these
men have found; they claim the hundred francs’ reward, promised them.”
Old Tabaret took from his pocket-book a bank note, which he handed to
the gendarme. “Now,” demanded he, crushing Gevrol with one disdainful
glance, “what thinks the investigating magistrate after this?”
“That, thanks to your remarkable penetration, we shall discover--”
He did not finish. The doctor summoned to make the post-mortem
examination entered the room. That unpleasant task accomplished, it
only confirmed the assertions and conjectures of old Tabaret. The doctor
explained, as the old man had done, the position of the body. In his
opinion also, there had been a struggle. He pointed out a bluish circle,
hardly perceptible, round the neck of the victim, produced apparently
by the powerful grasp of the murderer; finally he declared that Widow
Lerouge had eaten about three hours before being struck.
Nothing now remained except to collect the different objects which would
be useful for the prosecution, and might at a later period confound
the culprit. Old Tabaret examined with extreme care the dead woman’s
finger-nails; and, using infinite precaution, he even extracted from
behind them several small particles of kid. The largest of these pieces
was not above the twenty-fifth part of an inch in length; but all the
same their colour was easily distinguishable. He put aside also the part
of the dress upon which the assassin had wiped his weapon. These with
the bundle recovered from the Seine, and the different casts taken by
the old fellow, were all the traces the murderer had left behind him.
It was not much; but this little was enormous in the eyes of M. Daburon;
and he had strong hopes of discovering the culprit. The greatest
obstacle to success in the unravelling of mysterious crimes is in
mistaking the motive. If the researches take at the first step a false
direction, they are diverted further and further from the truth, in
proportion to the length they are followed. Thanks to old Tabaret, the
magistrate felt confident that he was in the right path.
Night had come on. M. Daburon had now nothing more to do at La Jonchere;
but Gevrol, who still clung to his own opinion of the guilt of the man
with the rings in his ears, declared he would remain at Bougival. He
determined to employ the evening in visiting the different wine shops,
and finding if possible new witnesses. At the moment of departure, after
the commissary and the entire party had wished M. Daburon good-night,
the latter asked M. Tabaret to accompany him.
“I was about to solicit that honour,” replied the old fellow. They set
out together; and naturally the crime which had been discovered, and
with which they were mutually preoccupied, formed the subject of their
conversation.
“Shall we, or shall we not, ascertain the antecedents of this woman!”
repeated old Tabaret. “All depends upon that now!”
“We shall ascertain them, if the grocer’s wife has told the truth,”
replied M. Daburon. “If the husband of Widow Lerouge was a sailor, and
if her son Jacques is in the navy, the minister of marine can furnish
information that will soon lead to their discovery. I will write to the
minister this very night.”
They reached the station at Rueil, and took their places in the train.
They were fortunate enough to secure a 1st class carriage to themselves.
But old Tabaret was no longer disposed for conversation. He reflected,
he sought, he combined; and in his face might easily be read the working
of his thoughts. M. Daburon watched him curiously and felt singularly
attracted by this eccentric old man, whose very original taste had led
him to devote his services to the secret police of the Rue de Jerusalem.
“M Tabaret,” he suddenly asked, “have you been long associated with the
police?”
“Nine years, M. Daburon, more than nine years; and permit me to confess
I am a little surprised that you have never before heard of me.”
“I certainly knew you by reputation,” answered M. Daburon; “but your
name did not occur to me, and it was only in consequence of hearing you
praised that I had the excellent idea of asking your assistance.
But what, I should like to know, is your reason for adopting this
employment?”
“Sorrow, sir, loneliness, weariness. Ah! I have not always been happy!”
“I have been told, though, that you are rich.”
The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, which revealed the most cruel
deceptions. “I am well off, sir,” he replied; “but I have not always
been so. Until I was forty-five years old, my life was a series of
absurd and useless privations. I had a father who wasted my youth,
ruined my life, and made me the most pitiable of human creatures.”
There are men who can never divest themselves of their professional
habits. M. Daburon was at all times and seasons more or less an
investigating magistrate.
“How, M. Tabaret,” he inquired, “your father the author of all your
misfortunes?”
“Alas, yes, sir! I have forgiven him at last; but I used to curse him
heartily. In the first transports of my resentment, I heaped upon his
memory all the insults that can be inspired by the most violent hatred,
when I learnt,--But I will confide my history to you, M. Daburon. When
I was five and twenty years of age. I was earning two thousand francs a
year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete. One morning my father entered
my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without
food or shelter. He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself.
I loved my father. Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my
situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned
the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I
insisted that henceforth we should live together. No sooner said than
done, and during twenty years I was encumbered with the old--”
“What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?”
“Do I repent of it! That is to say he deserved to be poisoned by the
bread I gave him.”
M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise, which did not
escape the old fellow’s notice.
“Hear, before you condemn me,” he continued. “There was I at
twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest privations for the sake
of my father,--no more friends, no more flirtations, nothing. In the
evenings, to augment our scanty revenues, I worked at copying law
papers for a notary. I denied myself even the luxury of tobacco.
Notwithstanding this, the old fellow complained without ceasing; he
regretted his lost fortune; he must have pocket-money, with which to
buy this, or that; my utmost exertions failed to satisfy him. Ah, heaven
alone knows what I suffered! I was not born to live alone and grow old,
like a dog. I longed for the pleasures of a home and a family. My dream
was to marry, to adore a good wife, by whom I might be loved a little,
and to see innocent healthy little ones gambolling about my knees. But
pshaw! when such thoughts entered my heart and forced a tear or two from
my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I said: ‘My lad, when you earn but
three thousand francs a year, and have an old and cherished father to
support, it is your duty to stifle such desires, and remain a bachelor.’
And yet I met a young girl. It is thirty years now since that time;
well! just look at me, I am sure I am blushing as red as a tomato.
Her name was Hortense. Who can tell what has become of her? She was
beautiful and poor. Well, I was quite an old man when my father died,
the wretch, the--”
“M. Tabaret!” interrupted the magistrate, “for shame, M. Tabaret!”
“But I have already told you, I have forgiven him, sir. However, you
will soon understand my anger. On the day of his death, looking in his
secretary, I found a memorandum of an income of twenty thousand francs!”
“How so! was he rich?”
“Yes, very rich; for that was not all: he owned near Orleans a property
leased for six thousand francs a year. He owned, besides, the house I
now live in, where we lived together; and I, fool, sot, imbecile,
stupid animal that I was, used to pay the rent every three months to the
concierge!”
“That was too much!” M. Daburon could not help saying.
“Was it not, sir? I was robbing myself of my own money! To crown his
hypocrisy, he left a will wherein he declared, in the name of Holy
Trinity, that he had no other aim in view, in thus acting, than my own
advantage. He wished, so he wrote, to habituate me to habits of good
order and economy, and keep me from the commission of follies. And I was
forty-five years old, and for twenty years I had been reproaching myself
if ever I spent a single sou uselessly. In short, he had speculated on
my good heart, he had ... Bah! on my word, it is enough to disgust the
human race with filial piety!”
M. Tabaret’s anger, albeit very real and justified, was so highly
ludicrous, that M. Daburon had much difficulty to restrain his laughter,
in spite of the real sadness of the recital.
“At least,” said he, “this fortune must have given you pleasure.”
“Not at all, sir, it came too late. Of what avail to have the bread when
one has no longer the teeth? The marriageable age had passed. I resigned
my situation, however, to make way for some one poorer than myself. At
the end of a month I was sick and tired of life; and, to replace the
affections that had been denied me, I resolved to give myself a passion,
a hobby, a mania. I became a collector of books. You think, sir, perhaps
that to take an interest in books a man must have studied, must be
learned?”
“I know, dear M. Tabaret, that he must have money. I am acquainted with
an illustrious bibliomaniac who may be able to read, but who is most
certainly unable to sign his own name.”
“This is very likely. I, too, can read; and I read all the books I
bought. I collected all I could find which related, no matter how
little, to the police. Memoirs, reports, pamphlets, speeches, letters,
novels,--all suited me; and I devoured them. So much so, that little by
little I became attracted towards the mysterious power which, from the
obscurity of the Rue de Jerusalem, watches over and protects society,
which penetrates everywhere, lifts the most impervious veils, sees
through every plot, divines what is kept hidden, knows exactly the
value of a man, the price of a conscience, and which accumulates in its
portfolios the most terrible, as well as the most shameful secrets! In
reading the memoirs of celebrated detectives, more attractive to me
than the fables of our best authors I became inspired by an enthusiastic
admiration for those men, so keen scented, so subtle, flexible as steel,
artful and penetrating, fertile in expedients, who follow crime on
the trail, armed with the law, through the rushwood of legality, as
relentlessly as the savages of Cooper pursue their enemies in the depths
of the American forests. The desire seized me to become a wheel of this
admirable machine,--a small assistance in the punishment of crime
and the triumph of innocence. I made the essay; and I found I did not
succeed too badly.”
“And does this employment please you?”
“I owe to it, sir, my liveliest enjoyments. Adieu weariness! since I
have abandoned the search for books to the search for men. I shrug my
shoulders when I see a foolish fellow pay twenty-five francs for the
right of hunting a hare. What a prize! Give me the hunting of a man!
That, at least, calls the faculties into play, and the victory is not
inglorious! The game in my sport is equal to the hunter; they both
possess intelligence, strength, and cunning. The arms are nearly equal.
Ah! if people but knew the excitement of these games of hide and seek
which are played between the criminal and the detective, everybody
would be wanting employment at the office of the Rue de Jerusalem. The
misfortune is, that the art is becoming lost. Great crimes are now so
rare. The race of strong fearless criminals has given place to the mob
of vulgar pick-pockets. The few rascals who are heard of occasionally
are as cowardly as foolish. They sign their names to their misdeeds, and
even leave their cards lying about. There is no merit in catching them.
Their crime found out, you have only to go and arrest them,--”
“It seems to me, though,” interrupted M. Daburon, smiling, “that our
assassin is not such a bungler.”
“He, sir, is an exception; and I shall have greater delight in tracking
him. I will do everything for that, I will even compromise myself if
necessary. For I ought to confess, M. Daburon,” added he, slightly
embarrassed, “that I do not boast to my friends of my exploits; I even
conceal them as carefully as possible. They would perhaps shake hands
with me less warmly did they know that Tirauclair and Tabaret were one
and the same.”
Insensibly the crime became again the subject of conversation. It was
agreed, that, the first thing in the morning, M. Tabaret should install
himself at Bougival. He boasted that in eight days he should examine
all the people round about. On his side M. Daburon promised to keep him
advised of the least evidence that transpired, and recall him, if by any
chance he should procure the papers of Widow Lerouge.
“To you, M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate in conclusion, “I shall be
always at home. If you have any occasion to speak to me, do not hesitate
to come at night as well as during the day. I rarely go out, and you
will always find me either at my home, Rue Jacob, or in my office at the
Palais de Justice. I will give orders for your admittance whenever you
present yourself.”
The train entered the station at this moment. M. Daburon, having called
a cab, offered a seat to M. Tabaret. The old fellow declined.
“It is not worth while,” he replied, “for I live, as I have had the
honour of telling you, in the Rue St. Lazare, only a few steps from
here.”
“Till to-morrow, then!” said M. Daburon.
“Till to-morrow,” replied old Tabaret; and he added, “We shall succeed.”