THE MOUSETRAP.
"Well," said the judge, when he had finished reading, "you see what
your wife thinks of you. What do you say now?"
"There is not a word of truth in that letter. It is a tissue of
misstatements from beginning to end. You must place no reliance upon
it."
"There you must allow me to differ from you. This letter is, in my
belief, perfectly genuine. It supplies a most important link in the
chain of evidence, and I shall give it the weight it deserves. But
enough--will you still deny your guilt?"
"It is Ledantec's doing," said Gascoigne, following out a line of
thought of his own. "She was nothing loth, perhaps, for he has been
instilling insidious poison into her ears for these weeks past. I had
my suspicions, but could prove nothing; now I know. It was for this,
to put money in his purse for her extravagance, that he first robbed,
then struck down the baron."
"Why do you still persist in this shallow line of defence? You cannot
deceive me; it would be far better to make a clean breast of it at
once."
"I have already told you all I know. I repeat, I saw Ledantec strike
the blow."
"Psha! this is puerile. I will be frank with you. We have the fullest
and strongest evidence of your guilt--why, then, will you not confess
it?"
"I have nothing to confess; I am perfectly innocent. I was the poor
man's friend, not his murderer. I tried hard to save him, but,
unhappily, I was too late."
"You will not confess?"
A flush of anger rose to Gascoigne's cheek; his eyes flashed with the
indignation he felt at being thus bullied and browbeaten; his lips
quivered, but still he made no reply.
"Come! you have played this comedy long enough," said the judge, his
manner growing more insolent, his look more threatening. "Will you, or
will you not, confess?"
Gascoigne met his gaze resolutely, but with a dogged, obstinate
silence, the result of a firm determination not to utter a word.
"This is unbearable," said the judge, angrily, after having repeated
his question several times without eliciting any reply. "Take him
away! Let him be kept in complete isolation, in one of the separate
cells of the Mousetrap--the Souricière."
At a signal from within the police entered, resumed charge of the
prisoner, and escorted him, by many winding passages, down a steep
staircase to an underground passage, ending in a dungeon-like room,
badly lighted by one small, heavily-barred window, through which no
glimpse of the sky was seen.
Here he was left alone, and for a long time utterly neglected. No one
came near him till late in the day, when he was brought a basin of
thin soup and a hunch of coarse ammunition bread. He spoke to his
jailers, asking for more and better food, but obtained no reply. He
asked them for paper, pens, and ink; he wished, he said, to make a
full statement of his case to the British Embassy, and demand its
protection. Still no reply. Maddened by this contemptuous treatment,
and despairing almost of justice, he begged, entreated the warder to
take pity on him, to tell him at least how long they meant to keep him
there in such terrible solitude, cut off altogether from the advice
and assistance of friends. The warder shook his head stolidly, and at
length broke silence, but only to say, "It is by superior order," then
left him.
Gascoigne passed a terrible night, the second night in durance, but
far worse than the first. He was torn now with apprehensions as to his
fate; circumstances seemed so much against him; the facts, as stated
by the judge, might be grossly misrepresented; but how was he to
dispute them? There was no justice in this miserable country, with
such a partial and one-sided system of law. He began to fear that his
life was in their hands; already he felt his head on the block, under
the shadow of the awful guillotine.
Nor were his personal terrors the only nightmare that visited and oppressed
him. He was harassed, tortured, by the shameless conduct of his wife; of
the woman for whom he had sacrificed everything--profession, fortune, name,
the affection of relatives, the respect of friends. With base,
black-hearted perfidy, she had deserted him for another, had plotted
against him, had helped to bring him into his present terrible straits.
Once again they awoke him, unrefreshed, from the deep sleep haunted by
such hideous dreams. He was told to dress himself and come out. At the
door of his cell the same escort--two police-agents--awaited him.
"Where are you taking me? Again before that hateful judge?"
"Monsieur had better speak more respectfully," replied one of them, in
a warning voice.
"It is no use, I tell you, his interrogating me. I have nothing more
to say."
"Silence!" cried the other, "and march."
They led him along the passage and upstairs, but not, as before, to
the judge's cabinet. Turning aside, they passed on one side of it, and
out into the open air. There was a cab drawn up close to the door, the
prisoner was ordered to get in, one police-agent taking his seat
alongside, the other mounting on the box. The glasses were drawn up,
and the cab drove rapidly away.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Gascoigne.
"You will see," replied his conductor, coldly.
"To another prison?"
"Silence! A prisoner is not permitted to enter into conversation with
his guard."
Thus rebuffed, Gascoigne resigned himself to gazing mournfully through
the windows as the cab rattled along. He did not know this quarter of
Paris well, but he could see that they were passing along one of the
quays of the Ile de la Cité. He could see the houses on the opposite
bank, and knew from the narrowness of the river that it was not the
main stream of the Seine. It was still early morning; the streets were
not as yet very crowded, but as the cab entered a wide square it came
upon a throng issuing from the portals of a large church, the
congregation that had been attending some celebration at Notre Dame.
He recognised the church as he passed it, still driving, however, by
the quays. Then they came to a low building, with a dirty, ill-kept,
unpretentious doorway. The cab passed through into an inner court,
stopped, and Gascoigne was ordered to alight.
The police-agents, one on each side of him, took him to a rather large
but dirty, squalid-looking room, which might have been part of an
old-clothes shop. All round, hanging from pegs, each neatly ticketed
with its own number, were sets of garments, male and female, of every
description: rags and velvets, a common blouse and good broadcloth,
side by side.
At a small common table in the centre of the room sat Gascoigne's
judge, with the same cold face, only darkened now by a frown.
"Once more," he said, abruptly--"will you confess your crime?"
Gascoigne looked at him contemptuously, but held his tongue.
"Do you still refuse? Do you still obstinately persist in remaining
dumb? Very well, we shall see."
The judge got up from his chair, and disappeared through a side-door.
After a short pause, Gascoigne's escort bade him march, and the three
followed through the same door.
They entered a second chamber, smaller than the first, the uses of
which were at once obvious to Gascoigne, although he had never been
there before. It was like a low shed or workroom, lighted from above,
perfectly plain--even bald--in its decoration, but in the centre,
occupying the greater part of the space, and leaving room only for a
passage around, was a large flat slab of marble, something like that
seen in fishmongers' shops. The similarity was maintained by the sound
of water constantly flowing and falling upon the marble slab, as
though to keep it and its burden always fresh and cool.
But that burden! Three corpses, stark naked but for a decent
waistband, were laid out upon the marble table. One was that of a
child who had been fished up from the Seine that morning; the second
that of a stonemason who had fallen from a scaffolding and broken his
neck and both legs; the third was the murdered man of the Hôtel
Paradis, the Baron d'Enot, stripped of his well-made clothes, lying
stark and stiff on his back, with the great knife-wound gaping red and
festering in his breast.
"There!" cried the judge, triumphantly, leaning forward to scrutinise
narrowly the effect of this hideous confrontation upon the prisoner.
To his bitter disappointment, this carefully prepared theatrical
effect, so frequently practised and so often successful with French
criminals, altogether failed with Gascoigne. The Englishman certainly
had started at the first sight of the corpse, but it was a natural
movement of horror which might have escaped any unconcerned spectator
at being brought into the presence of death in such a hideous form.
After betraying this first and not unnatural sign of emotion,
Gascoigne remained perfectly cool, self-possessed, and unperturbed.
"You see your victim there; now will you confess?" cried the judge,
almost passionately.
"Ledantec's victim, not mine," replied Gascoigne, quietly. Then, as if
in apology to himself, he added, "I could not help speaking, but I
shall say nothing more."
"He is very strong, extraordinarily strong!" cried the judge, his rage
giving place to admiration at the obstinate fortitude of his
prisoner. "In all my experience"--this was to the police and the chief
custodian of the Morgue--"I have never come across a more
cold-blooded, cynical wretch; but he shall not beat me; he shall not
outrage and set the law at defiance; we will bend his spirit yet. Take
him back to the Mousetrap; he shall stay there until he chooses to
speak."
With this unfair threat, which was tantamount to a sentence of
unlimited imprisonment, the judge dismissed his prisoner.
Gascoigne was marched back to the cab; the police-agents ordered him
to re-enter it; one of them took his seat by his side as before, the
other remounted the box. Then the cab started on its journey back to
the Préfecture.
Gascoigne, silent, pre-occupied, and outwardly calm, was yet inwardly
consumed with a fierce though impotent rage. He was indignant at the
shameful treatment he had received. To be arraigned as a criminal
prematurely, his guilt taken for granted on the testimony of unseen
witnesses whose evidence he had no chance of rebutting--all this, so
intolerable to the spirit of British justice, revolted him and
outraged his sense of fair play.
Yet what could he do? He was without redress. They had denied him his
right of appeal to his ambassador; he was forbidden to communicate
with his friends. There seemed no hope for him, no chance of justice,
no loophole of escape.
Stay! Escape?
As the thought flashed quickly across his brain it lingered, taking
practical shape. Surely it was worth his while to make an effort, to
strike one bold blow for liberty now, before it was too late!
He quickly cast up the chances for and against. The cab was following
the line of quays as before, but along the northern bank of the
island, that bordering the main stream. It was going at little better
than a foot's pace; the door next which he sat was on the side of the
river. What if he knocked his guardian senseless, striking him a
couple of British blows--one, two, straight from the shoulder--then,
flinging open the door, spring out, and over the parapet into the
swift-flowing Seine? He was an excellent swimmer; once in the water,
surely he might trust to his luck!
These were the arguments in his favour. Against him were the chances
that his companion might show fight; that he might check his
prisoner's exit until his comrade on the box could come to the rescue;
or that some officious bystander might act on the side of the law; or
that a shot might drop him as he fled; or, finally, and most probably
of all, that he might be drowned in the turbulent stream.
Gascoigne was not long in coming to a decision. "Nothing venture,
nothing have," was his watchword. At this moment the cab was near the
end of the Quai aux Fleurs, near the Pont d'Arcole. There was no time
to be lost; at any moment it might turn down from the river, taking
one of the cross streets. Setting his teeth firmly, and nerving
himself for a supreme effort, Gascoigne sprang suddenly upon the
police-agent, twisted his hands inside the stiff stock, and, having
thus nearly throttled him, felled him with two tremendous blows.
With a groan, the man fell to the bottom of the cab; the next instant
Gascoigne had opened the door and dropped into the roadway.
The escape was observed by one or two passers-by; but they were
evidently people who owed the police no good-will, for, although they
stood still to watch the fugitive, they did not give the alarm. This
came first from the policeman who had been assaulted, who, recovering
quickly from the attack, roared lustily to his fellow for help. The
cab stopped, the officials alighted hurriedly, and looking to right
and left caught sight of Gascoigne as he stood upon the parapet and
made his plunge into the river. Both rushed to the spot, pistol in
hand.
Down below was the figure of their escaped prisoner battling with the
rapid stream. Both fired, almost simultaneously, and one at least must
have hit the mark.
Gascoigne's body turned over and then sank, leaving a small crimson
stain upon the water.
Was he killed? Drowned? That is what no one could tell; but it was
certain that no corpse answering the Englishman's description was ever
recovered from the river; nor, on the other hand, did the police, in
spite of an active pursuit, lay hands on their prisoner again alive.