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.”