IV

That night the vagabonds, who had taken refuge in the neighborhood of

the Poivriere, had a very bad time of it; for while those who managed

to sleep were disturbed by frightful dreams of a police raid, those who

remained awake witnessed some strange incidents, well calculated to

fill their minds with terror. On hearing the shots fired inside Mother

Chupin’s drinking den, most of the vagrants concluded that there had

been a collision between the police and some of their comrades, and they

immediately began prowling about, eagerly listening and watching, and

ready to take flight at the least sign of danger. At first they could

discover no particular reasons for alarm. But later on, at about two

o’clock in the morning, just as they were beginning to feel secure

again, the fog lifted a little, and they witnessed a phenomenon well

calculated to arouse anxiety.

Upon the unoccupied tract of land, which the people of the neighborhood

called the “plain,” a small but very bright light was seen describing

the most capricious evolutions. It moved here and there without any

apparent aim, tracing the most inexplicable zigzags, sometimes sinking

to the earth, sometimes rising to a height of four or five feet, at

others remaining quite motionless, and the next second flying off like

a ball. In spite of the place and the season of the year, the less

ignorant among vagabonds believed the light to be some ignis fatuus, one

of those luminous meteors that raise from the marshes and float about

in the atmosphere at the bidding of the wind. In point of fact, however,

this ignis fatuus was the lantern by the light of which the two police

agents were pursuing their investigations.

After thus suddenly revealing his capacity to his first disciple, Lecoq

found himself involved in a cruel perplexity. He had not the boldness

and promptness of decision which is the gift of a prosperous past, and

was hesitating between two courses, both equally reasonable, and both

offering strong probabilities of success. He stood between two paths,

that made by the two women on the one side, and that made by the

accomplice on the other. Which should he take? For he could not hope

to follow both. Seated upon the log where the women had rested a few

moments before, with his hand pressed upon his forehead, he reflected

and weighed the chances.

“If I follow the man I shall learn nothing that I do not know already.

He has gone to hover round the party; he has followed them at a

distance, he has seen them lock up his accomplice, and he is undoubtedly

prowling round about the station house. If I hurried in pursuit, could I

hope to overtake and capture him? No; too long a time has elapsed.”

Father Absinthe listened to this monologue with intense curiosity,

as anxious as an unsophisticated person who, having questioned a

clairvoyant in regard to some lost articles, is waiting the oracle’s

response.

“To follow the women,” continued the young man, “to what would that

lead? Perhaps to an important discovery, perhaps to nothing.”

However, he preferred the unknown, which, with all its chances of

failure, had chances of success as well. He rose, his course was

decided.

“Father Absinthe,” said he, “we are going to follow the footprints of

these two women, and wherever they lead us we will go.”

Inspired with equal ardor they began their walk. At the end of the path

upon which they had entered they fancied they observed, as in some magic

glass, the one the fruits, the other the glory of success. They hurried

forward. At first it was only play to follow the distinct footprints

that led toward the Seine. But it was not long before they were obliged

to proceed more slowly.

On leaving the waste ground they arrived at the outer limits of

civilization, so to speak; and strange footprints mingled constantly

with the footprints of the fugitives, at times even effacing them. In

many spots, either on account of exposure or the nature of the soil,

the thaw had completed its work, and there were large patches of ground

entirely free from snow. In such cases they lost the trail, and it

required all Lecoq’s sagacity and all his companion’s good-will to find

it again.

On such occasions Father Absinthe planted his cane in the earth, near

the last footprint that had been discovered, and Lecoq and himself

hunted all over the ground around this point, much after the fashion

of a couple of bloodhounds thrown off the scent. Then it was that the

lantern moved about so strangely. More than a dozen times, in spite of

all their efforts, they would have lost the clue entirely had it not

been for the elegant shoes worn by the lady with the little feet. These

had such small and extremely high heels that the impression they left

could not be mistaken. They sank down three or four inches in the snow,

or the mud, and their tell-tale impress remained as clear and distinct

as that of a seal.

Thanks to these heels, the pursuers were able to discover that the two

fugitives had not gone up the Rue de Patay, as might have been supposed.

Probably they had considered this street too frequented, and too well

lighted. They had only crossed it, just below the Rue de la Croix-Rouge,

and had profited by an empty space between two houses to regain the open

ground.

“Certainly these women were well acquainted with the locality,” murmured

Lecoq.

Indeed, the topography of the district evidently had no secrets for

them, for, on quitting the Rue de Patay, they had immediately turned

to the right, so as to avoid several large excavations, from which a

quantity of brick clay had been dug.

But at last the trail was recovered, and the detectives followed it as

far as the Rue du Chevaleret. Here the footprints abruptly ceased. Lecoq

discovered eight or ten footmarks left by the woman who wore the broad

shoes, but that was all. Hereabout, moreover, the condition of the

ground was not calculated to facilitate an exploration of this nature.

There had been a great deal of passing to and fro in the Rue du

Chevaleret, and not merely was there scarcely any snow left on the

footpaths, but the middle of the street was transformed into a river of

slush.

“Did these people recollect at last that the snow might betray them? Did

they take the middle of the road?” grumbled the young police agent.

Certainly they could not have crossed to a vacant space as they had done

just before, for on the other side of the street extended a long factory

wall.

“Ah!” sighed Father Absinthe, “we have our labor for our pains.”

But Lecoq possessed a temperament that refused to acknowledge defeat.

Animated by the cold anger of a man who sees the object which he was

about to seize disappear from before his eyes, he recommenced his

search, and was well repaid for his efforts.

“I understand!” he cried suddenly, “I comprehend--I see!”

Father Absinthe drew near. He did not see nor divine anything! but he no

longer doubted his companion’s powers.

“Look there,” said Lecoq; “what are those marks?”

“Marks left by the wheels of some carriage that plainly turned here.”

“Very well, papa, these tracks explain everything. When they reached

this spot, our fugitives saw the light of an approaching cab, which

was returning from the centre of Paris. It was empty, and proved their

salvation. They waited, and when it came nearer they hailed the driver.

No doubt they promised him a handsome fare; this is indeed evident,

since he consented to go back again. He turned round here; they got into

the vehicle, and that is why the footprints go no further.”

This explanation did not please Lecoq’s companion. “Have we made any

great progress now that we know that?” he asked.

Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to shrug his shoulders. “Did you

expect that the tracks made by the fugitives would lead us through Paris

and up to their very doors?” he asked.

“No; but--”

“Then what would you ask more? Do you think that I shall not know how to

find this driver to-morrow? He was returning with his empty vehicle, his

day’s work was ended; hence, his stable is in the neighborhood. Do you

suppose that he will have forgotten that he took up two persons in the

Rue du Chevaleret? He will tell us where he drove them; but that will

not do us any good, for, of course, they will not have given him their

real address. But at all events he can probably give us a description

of them, tell us how they were dressed, describe their appearance, their

manner, and their age. And with that, and what we already know--”

An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder of his thought, then he

added: “We must now go back to the Poivriere, and go quickly. And you,

my friend, may now extinguish your lantern.”

While doing his best to keep pace with his companion, who was in such

haste to get back to the Poivriere that he almost ran, Father Absinthe’s

thoughts were as busy as his legs, and an entirely new train of ideas

was awakened in his mind.

During the twenty-five years that he had been connected with the police

force, the good man--to use his own expression--had seen many of his

colleagues walk over him and win, after only a few months’ work, a

promotion that his long years of service had not gained for him. In

these cases he had not failed to accuse his superiors of injustice, and

his fortunate rivals of gross flattery. In his opinion, seniority was

the only claim to advancement--the only, the best, the most respectable

claim; and he was wont to sum up all his opinions, all his grief and

bitterness of mind in one phrase: “It is infamous to pass over an old

member of the service.”

To-night, however, Father Absinthe discovered that there is something

else in the world besides seniority, and sufficient reasons for what

he had formerly regarded as favoritism. He secretly confessed that this

newcomer whom he had treated so carelessly had just followed up a clue

as he, veteran though he was, would never have succeeded in doing.

But communing with himself was not this good man’s forte; he soon grew

weary of reflection; and on reaching a place where they were obliged to

proceed more slowly on account of the badness of the road, he deemed

it a favorable opportunity to resume the conversation. “You are silent,

comrade,” he ventured to remark, “and one might swear that you were not

exactly pleased.”

This surprising result of the old man’s reflections would have amazed

Lecoq, if his mind had not been a hundred leagues away. “No, I am not

pleased,” he responded.

“And why, pray? Only ten minutes ago you were as gay as a lark.”

“Then I did not see the misfortune that threatens us.”

“A misfortune!”

“A very great misfortune. Do you not perceive that the weather has

undesirably changed. It is evident that the wind is now coming from the

south. The fog has disappeared, but the sky is cloudy and threatening.

It will rain in less than an hour.”

“A few drops are falling now; I just felt one.”

These words produced on Lecoq much the same effect as a whip-up on a

spirited horse. He sprang forward, and, adopting a still more hurried

pace, exclaimed: “Let us make haste! let us make haste!”

The old police agent followed him as in duty bound; but his mind was, if

possible, still more troubled by the replies of his young companion. A

great misfortune! The wind from the south! Rain! He did not, he could

not see the connection.

Greatly puzzled, and not a little anxious, Father Absinthe asked for an

explanation, although he had but little more breath than was absolutely

necessary to enable him to continue the forced march he was making.

“Upon my word,” said he, “I have racked my brains--”

His companion took pity on his anxiety. “What!” he exclaimed, as he

still hastened forward, “you do not understand that our investigation,

my success, and your reward, are dependent upon those black clouds which

the wind is driving toward us!”

“Oh!”

“Twenty minutes of merely gentle rain, and our time and labor will be

lost. If it rains, the snow will melt, and then farewell to our proofs.

Let us get on--let us get on more quickly! You know very well that in

such cases words don’t suffice. If we declare to the public prosecutor

that we have seen these footprints, he will ask, where? And what can we

say? If we swear by all the gods that we have seen the footprints of a

man and of two women, the investigating magistrate will say, ‘Let me

see them.’ And who will feel sheepish then? Father Absinthe and Lecoq.

Besides, Gevrol would not fail to declare that we were saying what was

not true, in order to enhance our own value, and humiliate him.”

“What an idea!”

“Faster, papa, faster; you will have all day to-morrow to be indignant.

Perhaps it will not rain. In that case, these perfect, clear, and

easily recognizable footprints will prove the culprits’ ruin. How can

we preserve them? By what process could we solidify them? I would deluge

them with my blood if that could only cause them to congeal.”

Father Absinthe was just then thinking that his share of the labor had

hitherto been the least important; for he had merely held the lantern.

But here was a chance for him to acquire a real and substantial right to

the prospective reward. “I know a method,” said he, “by which one could

preserve these marks in the snow.”

At these words the younger man stopped short. “You know--you?” he

interrupted.

“Yes, I know,” replied the old detective, with the evident satisfaction

of a man who has gained his revenge. “They invented a way at the time of

that affair at the Maison Blanche, last December.”

“I recollect.”

“Ah! well, on the snow in the courtyard there was a footprint that

attracted a detective’s attention. He said that the whole evidence

depended on that mark alone, that it was worth more than ten years’ hard

work in following up the case. Naturally, he desired to preserve it.

They sent for a great chemist--”

“Go on, go on.”

“I have never seen the method put into practise, but an expert told me

all about it, and showed me the mold they obtained. He explained it to

me precisely, on account of my profession.”

Lecoq was trembling with impatience. “And how did they obtain the mold?”

he asked abruptly.

“Wait: I was just going to explain. They take some of the best gelatine,

and allow it to soak in cold water. When it becomes thoroughly softened,

they heat it until it forms a liquid, of moderate consistency. Then when

it is just cool enough, they pour a nice little covering of it upon the

footprint.”

Lecoq felt the irritation that is natural to a person who has just heard

a bad joke, or who has lost his time in listening to a fool.

“Enough!” he interrupted, angrily. “That method can be found in all the

manuals. It is excellent, no doubt, but how can it serve us? Have you

any gelatine about you?”

“No.”

“Nor have I. You might as well have counseled me to pour melted lead

upon the footprints to fix them.”

They continued their way, and five minutes later, without having

exchanged another word, they reentered the Widow Chupin’s hovel. The

first impulse of the older man would have been to rest to breathe, but

Lecoq did not give him time to do so.

“Make haste: get me a dish--a plate--anything!” cried the young

detective, “and bring me some water; gather together all the boards and

old boxes you can find lying about.”

While his companion was obeying him, Lecoq armed himself with a fragment

of one of the broken bottles, and began scraping away furiously at the

plastered wall that separated the two rooms.

His mind, disconcerted at first by the imminence of this unexpected

catastrophe, a fall of rain, had now regained its equilibrium. He had

reflected, he had thought of a way by which failure might possibly be

averted--and he hoped for ultimate success. When he had accumulated some

seven or eight handfuls of fine plaster dust, he mixed one-half with a

little water so as to form a thin paste, leaving the rest untouched on

the side of the plate.

“Now, papa,” said he, “come and hold the light for me.”

When in the garden, the young man sought for the deepest and most

distinct of the footprints, knelt beside it, and began his experiment,

trembling with anxiety. He first sprinkled upon the impression a fine

coating of dry plaster, and then upon this coating, with infinite care,

he poured his liquid solution drop by drop.

What luck! the experiment was successful! The plaster united in a

homogeneous mass, forming a perfect model of the impression. Thus, after

an hour’s labor, Lecoq possessed half a dozen of these casts, which

might, perhaps, be a little wanting in clearness of outline, but which

were quite perfect enough to be used as evidence.

The young detective’s alarm had been well founded, for it was already

beginning to rain. Still, he had plenty of time to cover a number of the

footprints with the boxes and pieces of board which Father Absinthe had

collected, thus placing them, as it were, beyond the reach of a thaw.

Now he could breathe. The authorities might come, for the most important

part of his task was completed.

V

It was some distance from the Poivriere to the Rue de Chevaleret, even

by way of the plain, and fully four hours had been occupied by Lecoq and

his colleague in collecting their elements of information.

All this while, the Widow Chupin’s abode had remained open, accessible

to any chance visitor. Still, when, on his return, the young police

agent remembered this neglect of elementary precautions, he did not feel

alarmed. Considering all the circumstances, it was very difficult

to believe that any serious harm could have resulted from this

carelessness.

For who would have been likely to visit this drinking-den after

midnight? Its bad name served the purpose of a bulwark. The most daring

vagrants did not drink there without some disquietude, fearing that if

the liquor caused them to lose consciousness, they might be robbed or

perhaps even murdered. Hence, if any one had been attracted to this

notoriously dangerous drinking-shop by the light that streamed through

the open door, it could only have been some very reckless person

returning late at night from the ball at the Rainbow, with a few sous

left in his pocket. But, even then, a single glance inside would have

sufficed to put the bravest to flight.

In less than a second the young police agent had weighed all these

possibilities, concerning which he did not breathe a word to Father

Absinthe. When, little by little, the excitement caused by his

successive hopes and disappointments, and by the accomplishment of the

experiment with the footprints had died away, and he had regained his

usual calm of mind, he made a careful inspection of the abode, and was

by no means satisfied with himself. He had experimented upon Father

Absinthe with his new system of investigation, just as an aspiring

orator tries his powers before his least gifted friends, not before

the cleverest. He had certainly overwhelmed the old veteran by his

superiority; he had literally crushed him. But what great merit, what

wonderful victory was this? Why should he boast of having outwitted

Father Absinthe, one of the least sagacious men in the service?

If he could only have given some startling proofs of his energy or

of his penetration! But, after all, what had he accomplished? Was the

mystery solved? Was his success more than problematical? When one thread

is drawn out, the skein is not untangled. This night would undoubtedly

decide his future as a detective, so he swore that if he could not

conquer his vanity, he would, at least, compel himself to conceal it.

Hence, it was in a very modest tone that he said to his companion: “We

have done all that we can do outside, now, would it not be wise to busy

ourselves with the inside of the house?”

Everything looked exactly in the same state as when the two men left the

room. A candle, with a charred smoking wick, cast its flickering light

upon the same scene of disorder, revealing to view the rigid features of

the three victims. Without losing a moment, Lecoq began to pick up and

study the various objects scattered over the floor. Some of these still

remained intact. The Widow Chupin had recoiled from the expense of a

tiled floor, judging the bare ground upon which the cabin was built

quite good enough for the feet of her customers. This ground, which must

originally have been well beaten down, had, by constant use and damp,

become well-nigh as muddy as the soil outside.

The first fruits of Lecoq’s search were a large salad-bowl and a big

iron spoon, the latter so twisted and bent that it had evidently been

used as a weapon during the conflict. On inspecting the bowl, it became

evident that when the quarrel began the victims were regaling themselves

with the familiar mixture of water, wine, and sugar, known round about

the barrieres as vin a la Frangaise. After the salad-bowl, the two men

picked up five of the weighty glasses ordinarily used in wine-shops, and

which, while looking as though they would contain half a bottle, are

in point of fact so thick at the bottom that they hold next to nothing.

Three of these glasses were broken, two were whole. All of them had

contained wine--the same vin a la Frangaise. This was plain, but for

greater surety, Lecoq applied his tongue to the bluish mixture

remaining in the bottom of each glass. “The deuce!” he muttered, with an

astonished air.

Then he examined successively the surfaces of the three overturned

tables. Upon one of these, the one nearest the fireplace and the window,

the still wet marks of the five glasses, of the salad-bowl, and even

of the spoons could be distinguished. Lecoq very properly regarded

this circumstance as a matter of the greatest importance, for it proved

clearly enough that five persons had emptied the salad-bowl in company.

Who were these five persons?

“Oh! oh!” suddenly exclaimed Lecoq in two entirely different tones.

“Then the two women could not have been with the murderer!”

A very simple mode of discovery had presented itself to his mind. It

was to ascertain if there were any other glasses, and what they had

contained. After a fresh search on the floor, a sixth glass was found,

similar in form to the others, but much smaller. Its smell showed that

it had contained brandy. Then these two women had not been with the

murderer, and therefore he could not have fought because the other

men had insulted them. This discovery proved the inaccuracy of Lecoq’s

original suppositions. It was an unexpected check, and he was mourning

over it in silence, when Father Absinthe, who had not ceased ferreting

about, uttered a cry of surprise.

The young man turned; he saw that his companion had become very pale.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Some one has been here in our absence.”

“Impossible!”

It was not impossible--it was true. When Gevrol had torn the apron

off Widow Chupin’s head he had thrown it upon the steps of the stairs;

neither of the police agents had since touched it. And yet the pockets

of this apron were now turned inside out; this was a proof, this was

evidence. At this discovery Lecoq was overcome with consternation, and

the contraction of his features revealed the struggle going on in

his mind. “Who could have been here?” he murmured. “Robbers? That is

improbable.”

Then, after a long silence which his companion took good care not to

interrupt, he added: “The person who came here, who dared to penetrate

into this abode and face the corpses of these murdered men--this person

could have been none other than the accomplice. But it is not enough to

suspect this, it is necessary to know it. I must--I will know it!”

They searched for a long time, and it was not until after an hour of

earnest work that, in front of the door forced open by the police, they

discovered in the mud, just inside the marks made by Gevrol’s tread, a

footprint that bore a close resemblance to those left by the man who

had entered the garden. They compared the impressions and recognized the

same designs formed by the nails upon the sole of the boot.

“It must have been the accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq. “He watched us,

he saw us go away, and then he entered. But why? What pressing,

irresistible necessity made him decide to brave such imminent danger?”

He seized his companion’s hand, nearly crushing it in his excitement:

“Ah! I know why!” continued he, violently. “I understand only too well.

Some article that would have served to throw light on this horrible

affair had been left or forgotten, or lost here, and to obtain it, to

find it, he decided to run this terrible risk. And to think that it was

my fault, my fault alone, that this convincing proof escaped us! And

I thought myself so shrewd! What a lesson! The door should have been

locked; any fool would have thought of it--” Here he checked himself,

and remained with open mouth and distended eyes, pointing with his

finger to one of the corners of the room.

“What is the matter?” asked his frightened companion.

Lecoq made no reply, but slowly, and with the stiff movements of a

somnambulist, he approached the spot to which he had pointed, stooped,

picked up something, and said: “My folly is not deserving of such luck.”

The object he had found was an earring composed of a single large

diamond. The setting was of marvelous workmanship. “This diamond,”

declared Lecoq, after a moment’s examination, “must be worth at least

five or six thousand francs.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“I think I could swear to it.”

He would not have troubled about such a preamble as “I think” a few

hours before, but the blunder he had made was a lesson that would not be

forgotten so long as he lived.

“Perhaps it was that same diamond earring that the accomplice came to

seek,” ventured Father Absinthe.

“The supposition is scarcely admissible. In that case, he would not have

sought for it in Mother Chupin’s apron. No, he must have been seeking

for something else--a letter, for example.”

The older man was not listening; he had taken the earring, and was

examining it in his turn. “And to think,” he murmured, astonished by

the brilliancy of the stone, “to think that a woman who had ten thousand

francs’ worth of jewels in her ears would have come to the Poivriere.

Who would have believed it?”

Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. “Yes, it is very strange, very

improbable, very absurd. And yet we shall see many things quite as

strange if we ever arrive--which I very much doubt--at a solution of

this mysterious affair.”

Day was breaking, cold, cheerless, and gloomy, when Lecoq and his

colleague concluded their investigation. There was not an inch of space

that had not been explored, carefully examined and studied, one might

almost say, with a magnifying glass. There now only remained to draw up

the report.

The younger man seated himself at the table, and, with the view of

making his recital as intelligible as possible, he began by sketching a

plan of the scene of the murder.

[[Graphic Omitted]]

It will be seen that in the memoranda appended to this explanatory

diagram, Lecoq had not once written his own name. In noting the things

that he had imagined or discovered, he referred to himself simply as one

of the police. This was not so much modesty as calculation. By hiding

one’s self on well-chosen occasions, one gains greater notoriety when

one emerges from the shade. It was also through cunning that he gave

Gevrol such a prominent position. These tactics, rather subtle, perhaps,

but after all perfectly fair, could not fail to call attention to the

man who had shown himself so efficient when the efforts of his chief had

been merely confined to breaking open the door.

The document Lecoq drew up was not a _proces-verbal_, a formal act

reserved for the officers of judiciary police; it was a simple report,

that would be admitted under the title of an inquiry, and yet the young

detective composed it with quite as much care as a general would have

displayed in drawing up the bulletin of his first victory.

While Lecoq was drawing and writing, Father Absinthe leaned over his

shoulder to watch him. The plan amazed that worthy man. He had seen a

great deal; but he had always supposed that it was necessary to be an

engineer, an architect, or, at least, a carpenter, to execute such work.

Not at all. With a tape-line with which to take some measurements, and

a bit of board in place of a rule, his inexperienced colleague had

soon accomplished the miracle. Father Absinthe’s respect for Lecoq was

thereby greatly augmented. It is true that the worthy veteran had not

noticed the explosion of the young police agent’s vanity, nor his return

to his former modest demeanor. He had not observed his alarm, nor his

perplexity, nor his lack of penetration.

After a few moments, Father Absinthe ceased watching his companion. He

felt weary after the labors of the night, his head was burning, and

he shivered and his knees trembled. Perhaps, though he was by no means

sensitive, he felt the influence of the horrors that surrounded him, and

which seemed more sinister than ever in the bleak light of morning.

He began to ferret in the cupboards, and at last succeeded in

discovering--oh, marvelous fortune!--a bottle of brandy, three parts

full. He hesitated for an instant, then he poured out a glass, and

drained it at a single draft.

“Will you have some?” he inquired of his companion. “It is not a very

famous brand, to be sure; but it is just as good, it makes one’s blood

circulate and enlivens one.”

Lecoq refused; he did not need to be enlivened. All his faculties were

hard at work. He intended that, after a single perusal of his report,

the investigating magistrate should say: “Let the officer who drew up

this document be sent for.” It must be remembered that Lecoq’s future

depended upon such an order. Accordingly, he took particular care to be

brief, clear, and concise, to plainly indicate how his suspicions on the

subject of the murder had been aroused, how they had increased, and how

they had been confirmed. He explained by what series of deductions he

had succeeded in establishing a theory which, if it was not the

truth, was at least plausible enough to serve as the basis for further

investigation.

Then he enumerated the articles of conviction ranged on the table before

him. There were the flakes of brown wool collected upon the plank, the

valuable earring, the models of the different footprints in the garden,

and the Widow Chupin’s apron with its pockets turned inside out. There

was also the murderer’s revolver, with two barrels discharged and three

still loaded. This weapon, although not of an ornamental character, was

still a specimen of highly finished workmanship. It bore the name of one

Stephens, 14 Skinner Street, a well-known London gunsmith.

Lecoq felt convinced that by examining the bodies of the victims he

would obtain other and perhaps very valuable information; but he did not

dare venture upon such a course. Besides his own inexperience in such a

matter, there was Gevrol to be thought of, and the inspector, furious

at his own mistake, would not fail to declare that, by changing the

attitude of the bodies, Lecoq had rendered a satisfactory examination by

the physicians impossible.

The young detective accordingly tried to console himself for his forced

inaction in this respect, and he was rereading his report, modifying

a few expressions, when Father Absinthe, who was standing upon the

threshold of the outer door, called to him.

“Is there anything new?” asked Lecoq.

“Yes,” was the reply. “Here come Gevrol and two of our comrades with the

commissary of police and two other gentlemen.”

It was, indeed, the commissary who was approaching, interested but

not disturbed by this triple murder which was sure to make his

arrondissement the subject of Parisian conversation during the next few

days. Why, indeed, should he be troubled about it? For Gevrol, whose

opinion in such matters might be regarded as an authority, had taken

care to reassure him when he went to arouse him from his slumbers.

“It was only a fight between some old offenders; former jail birds,

habitues of the Poivriere,” he had said, adding sententiously: “If all

these ruffians would kill one another, we might have some little peace.”

He added that as the murderer had been arrested and placed in

confinement, there was nothing urgent about the case. Accordingly, the

commissary thought there was no harm in taking another nap and waiting

until morning before beginning the inquiry. He had seen the murderer,

reported the case to the prefecture, and now he was coming--leisurely

enough--accompanied by two physicians, appointed by the authorities

to draw up a _medico-legal_ report in all such cases. The party also

comprised a sergeant-major of the 53d regiment of infantry of the line,

who had been summoned by the commissary to identify, if possible, the

murdered man who wore a uniform, for if one might believe the number

engraved upon the buttons of his overcoat, he belonged to the 53d

regiment, now stationed at the neighboring fort.

As the party approached it was evident that Inspector Gevrol was even

less disturbed than the commissary. He whistled as he walked along,

flourishing his cane, which never left his hand, and already laughing

in his sleeve over the discomfiture of the presumptuous fool who had

desired to remain to glean, where he, the experienced and skilful

officer, had perceived nothing. As soon as he was within speaking

distance, the inspector called to Father Absinthe, who, after warning

Lecoq, remained on the threshold, leaning against the door-post, puffing

his pipe, as immovable as a sphinx.

“Ah, well, old man!” cried Gevrol, “have you any great melodrama, very

dark and very mysterious, to relate to us?”

“I have nothing to relate myself,” replied the old detective, without

even drawing his pipe from his lips, “I am too stupid, that is perfectly

understood. But Monsieur Lecoq will tell you something that will

astonish you.”

The prefix, “monsieur,” which the old police agent used in speaking

of his colleague, displeased Gevrol so much that he pretended not to

understand. “Who are you speaking of?” he asked abruptly.

“Of my colleague, of course, who is now busy finishing his report--of

Monsieur Lecoq.” Quite unintentionally, the worthy fellow had certainly

become the young police agent’s godfather. From that day forward,

for his enemies as well as for his friends, he was and he remained

“Monsieur” Lecoq.

“Ah! ah!” said the inspector, whose hearing was evidently impaired. “Ah,

he has discovered--”

“The pot of roses which others did not scent, General.” By this remark,

Father Absinthe made an enemy of his superior officer. But he cared

little for that: Lecoq had become his deity, and no matter what the

future might reserve, the old veteran had resolved to follow his young

colleague’s fortunes.

“We’ll see about that,” murmured the inspector, mentally resolving to

have an eye on this youth whom success might transform into a rival. He

said no more, for the little party which he preceded had now overtaken

him, and he stood aside to make way for the commissary of police.

This commissary was far from being a novice. He had served for many

years, and yet he could not repress a gesture of horror as he entered

the Poivriere. The sergeant-major of the 53d, who followed him, an old

soldier, decorated and medaled--who had smelt powder many scores of

times--was still more overcome. He grew as pale as the corpses lying on

the ground, and was obliged to lean against the wall for support. The

two physicians alone retained their stoical indifference.

Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand; he bowed, and assuming a

respectful attitude, was waiting to be questioned.

“You must have passed a frightful night,” said the commissary, kindly;

“and quite unnecessarily, since any investigation was superfluous.”

“I think, however,” replied the young police agent, having recourse

to all his diplomacy, “that my time has not been entirely lost. I have

acted according to the instructions of my superior officer; I have

searched the premises thoroughly, and I have ascertained many things.

I have, for example, acquired the certainty that the murderer had

a friend, possibly an accomplice, of whom I can give quite a close

description. He must have been of middle age, and wore, if I am not

mistaken, a soft cap and a brown woolen overcoat: as for his boots--”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and I--” He stopped short, like a man whose

impulse had exceeded his discretion, and who would have gladly recalled

his words.

“And you?” inquired the commissary, “pray, what do you mean?”

The inspector had gone too far to draw back, and, unwittingly, was now

obliged to act as his own executioner. “I was about to mention,” he

said, “that this morning, an hour or so ago, while I was waiting for

you, sir, before the station-house, at the Barriere d’Italie, where the

murderer is confined, I noticed close by an individual whose appearance

was not unlike that of the man described by Lecoq. This man seemed to

be very intoxicated, for he reeled and staggered against the walls. He

tried to cross the street, but fell down in the middle of it, in such a

position that he would inevitably have been crushed by the first passing

vehicle.”

Lecoq turned away his head; he did not wish them to read in his eyes how

perfectly he understood the whole game.

“Seeing this,” pursued Gevrol, “I called two men and asked them to

aid me in raising the poor devil. We went up to him; he had apparently

fallen asleep: we shook him--we made him sit up; we told him that he

could not remain there, but he immediately flew into a furious rage. He

swore at us, threatened us, and began fighting us. And, on my word, we

had to take him to the station-house, and leave him there to recover

from the effects of his drunken debauch.”

“Did you shut him up in the same cell with the murderer?” inquired

Lecoq.

“Naturally. You know very well that there are only two cages in the

station-house at the barriere--one for men and the other for women;

consequently--”

The commissary seemed thoughtful. “Ah! that’s very unfortunate,” he

stammered; “and there is no remedy.”

“Excuse me, there is one,” observed Gevrol, “I can send one of my men to

the station-house with an order to detain the drunken man--”

Lecoq interposed with a gesture: “Trouble lost,” he said coldly. “If

this individual is an accomplice, he has got sober by now--rest assured

of that, and is already far away.”

“Then what is to be done?” asked the inspector, with an ironical air.

“May one be permitted to ask the advice of Monsieur Lecoq.”

“I think chance offered us a splendid opportunity, and we did not know

how to seize it; and that the best thing we can do now is to give over

mourning, and prepare to profit by the next opportunity that presents

itself.”

Gevrol was, however, determined to send one of his men to the

station-house; and it was not until the messenger had started that Lecoq

commenced the reading of his report. He read it rapidly, refraining

as much as possible from placing the decisive proofs in strong relief,

reserving these for his own benefit; but so strong was the logic of his

deductions that he was frequently interrupted by approving remarks from

the commissary and the two physicians.

Gevrol, who alone represented the opposition, shrugged his shoulders

till they were well-nigh dislocated, and grew literally green with

jealousy.

“I think that you alone, young man, have judged correctly in this

affair,” said the commissary when Lecoq had finished reading. “I may be

mistaken; but your explanations have made me alter my opinion concerning

the murderer’s attitude while I was questioning him (which was only for

a moment). He refused, obstinately refused, to answer my questions, and

wouldn’t even give me his name.”

The commissary was silent for a moment, reviewing the past circumstances

in his mind, and it was in a serious tone that he eventually added: “We

are, I feel convinced, in presence of one of those mysterious crimes the

causes of which are beyond the reach of human sagacity--this strikes me

as being one of those enigmatical cases which human justice never can

reach.” Lecoq made no audible rejoinder; but he smiled to himself and

thought: “We will see about that.”