No consultation held at the bedside of a dying man ever took place in
the presence of two physicians so utterly unlike each other as those who
accompanied the commissary of police to the Poivriere.
One of them, a tall old man with a bald head, wearing a broad-brimmed
hat, and an overcoat of antique cut, was evidently one of those modest
savants encountered occasionally in the byways of Paris--one of those
healers devoted to their art, who too often die in obscurity, after
rendering immense services to mankind. He had the gracious calmness of a
man who, having seen so much of human misery, has nothing left to learn,
and no troubled conscience could have possibly sustained his searching
glance, which was as keen as his lancet.
His colleague--young, fresh-looking, light-haired, and jovial--was
somewhat foppishly attired; and his white hands were encased in handsome
fur gloves. There was a soft self-satisfied smile on his face, and
he had the manners of those practitioners who, for profit’s sake,
invariably recommend the infallible panaceas invented each month in
chemical laboratories and advertised ad nauseam in the back pages of
newspapers. He had probably written more than one article upon “Medicine
for the use of the people”; puffing various mixtures, pills, ointments,
and plasters for the benefit of their respective inventors.
“I will request you, gentlemen,” said the commissary of police, “to
begin your duties by examining the victim who wears a military costume.
Here is a sergeant-major summoned to answer a question of identity, whom
I must send back to his quarters as soon as possible.”
The two physicians responded with a gesture of assent, and aided by
Father Absinthe and another agent of police, they lifted the body and
laid it upon two tables, which had previously been placed end to end.
They were not obliged to make any note of the attitude in which they
found the body, since the unfortunate man, who was still alive when the
police entered the cabin, had been moved before he expired.
“Approach, sergeant,” ordered the commissary, “and look carefully at
this man.”
It was with very evident repugnance that the old soldier obeyed.
“What is the uniform that he wears?”
“It is the uniform of the 2d battalion of the 53d regiment of the line.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you sure that he does not belong to your regiment?”
“I can not say for certain: there are some conscripts at the Depot whom
I have never seen. But I am ready to swear that he had never formed
part of the 2d battalion--which, by the way, is mine, and in which I am
sergeant-major.”
Lecoq, who had hitherto remained in the background, now stepped forward.
“It might be as well,” he suggested, “to note the numbers marked on the
other articles of clothing.”
“That is a very good idea,” said the commissary, approvingly.
“Here is his shako,” added the young police agent. “It bears the number
3,129.”
The officials followed Lecoq’s advice, and soon discovered that each
article of clothing worn by the unfortunate man bore a different number.
“The deuce!” murmured the sergeant; “there is every indication--But it
is very singular.”
Invited to consider what he was going to say, the brave trooper
evidently made an effort to collect his intellectual faculties. “I would
stake my epaulets that this fellow never was a soldier,” he said at
last. “He must have disguised himself to take part in the Shrove Sunday
carnival.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Oh, I know it better than I can explain it. I know it by his hair, by
his nails, by his whole appearance, by a certain _je ne sais quoi_; in
short, I know it by everything and by nothing. Why look, the poor devil
did not even know how to put on his shoes; he has laced his gaiters
wrong side outwards.” Evidently further doubt was impossible after this
evidence, which confirmed the truth of Lecoq’s first remark to Inspector
Gevrol.
“Still, if this person was a civilian, how could he have procured this
clothing?” insisted the commissary. “Could he have borrowed it from the
men in your company?”
“Yes, that is possible; but it is difficult to believe.”
“Is there no way by which you could ascertain?”
“Oh! very easily. I have only to run over to the fort and order an
inspection of clothing.”
“Do so,” approved the commissary; “it would be an excellent way of
getting at the truth.”
But Lecoq had just thought of a method quite as convincing, and much
more prompt. “One word, sergeant,” said he, “isn’t cast off military
clothing sold by public auction?”
“Yes; at least once a year, after the inspection.”
“And are not the articles thus sold marked in some way?”
“Assuredly.”
“Then see if there isn’t some mark of the kind on this poor wretch’s
uniform.”
The sergeant turned up the collar of the coat and examined the
waist-band of the pantaloons. “You are right,” he said, “these are
condemned garments.”
The eyes of the young police agent sparkled. “We must then believe that
the poor devil purchased this costume,” he observed. “Where? Necessarily
at the Temple, from one of the dealers in military clothing. There are
only five or six of these establishments. I will go from one to another
of them, and the person who sold these clothes will certainly recognize
them by some trade mark.”
“And that will assist us very much,” growled Gevrol. The sergeant-major,
to his great relief, now received permission to retire, but not without
having been warned that very probably the commissary would require his
deposition. The moment had come to search the garments of the pretended
soldier, and the commissary, who performed this duty himself, hoped that
some clue as to the man’s identity would be forthcoming. He proceeded
with his task, at the same time dictating to one of the men a
_proces-verbal_ of the search; that is to say, a minute description of
all the articles he found upon the dead man’s person. In the right hand
trousers pocket some tobacco, a pipe, and a few matches were found; in
the left hand one, a linen handkerchief of good quality, but unmarked,
and a soiled leather pocket-book, containing seven francs and sixty
centimes.
There appeared to be nothing more, and the commissary was expressing
his regret, when, on carefully examining the pocket-book he found a
compartment which had at first escaped his notice, being hidden by a
leather flap. This compartment contained a carefully folded paper. The
commissary unfolded it and read the contents aloud:
“My dear Gustave,--To-morrow, Sunday evening, do not fail to come to the
ball at the Rainbow, according to our agreement. If you have no money
pass by my house, and I will leave some with the concierge, who will
give it to you.
“Be at the ball by eight o’clock. If I am not already there, it will
not be long before I make my appearance. Everything is going on
satisfactorily.
“Lacheneur.”
Alas! what did this letter reveal? Only that the dead man’s name was
Gustave; that he had some connection with a man named Lacheneur, who had
advanced him money for a certain object; and that they had met at the
Rainbow some hours before the murder.
It was little--very little--but still it was something. It was a clue;
and in this absolute darkness even the faintest gleam of light was
eagerly welcomed.
“Lacheneur!” growled Gevrol; “the poor devil uttered that name in his
last agony.”
“Precisely,” insisted Father Absinthe, “and he declared that he wished
to revenge himself upon him. He accused him of having drawn him into a
trap. Unfortunately, death cut his story short.”
Lecoq was silent. The commissary of police had handed him the letter,
and he was studying it with the closest attention. The paper on which
it was written was of the ordinary kind; the ink was blue. In one of the
corners was a half-effaced stamp, of which one could just distinguish
the word--Beaumarchais.
This was enough for Lecoq. “This letter,” he thought, “was certainly
written in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. In which one? I must
ascertain that point, for this Lacheneur must be found.”
While the agents of the prefecture were gathered around the commissary,
holding council and deliberating, the physicians began their delicate
and disagreeable task. With the assistance of Father Absinthe, they
removed the clothing of the pretended soldier, and then, with sleeves
rolled up, they bent over their “subject” like surgeons in the schools
of anatomy, and examined, inspected, and appraised him physically.
Very willingly would the younger doctor have dispensed with these
formalities, which he considered very ridiculous, and entirely
unnecessary; but the old physician had too high a regard for his
profession, and for the duty he had been called upon to fulfil, to
neglect the slightest detail. Minutely, and with the most scrupulous
exactitude, he noted the height of the dead man, his supposed age, the
nature of his temperament, the color and length of his hair, and the
degree of development of his muscular system.
Then the doctors passed to an examination of the wound. Lecoq had judged
correctly. The medical men declared it to be a fracture of the base
of the skull. It could, they stated, only have been caused by some
instrument with a very broad surface, or by a violent knock of the head
against some hard substance of considerable magnitude.
But no weapon, other than the revolver, had been found; and it was
evidently not heavy enough to produce such a wound. There must, then,
necessarily, have been a hand-to-hand struggle between the pretended
soldier and the murderer; and the latter, seizing his adversary by the
throat, had dashed him violently against the wall. The presence of some
very tiny but very numerous spots of extravasated blood about the neck
made this theory extremely plausible.
No other wound, not even a bruise or a scratch, was to be found. Hence,
it became evident that this terrible struggle must have been exceedingly
short. The murder of the pretended soldier must have been consummated
between the moment when the squad of police heard the shrieks of despair
and the moment when Lecoq peered through the shutter and saw the victim
fall.
The examination of the other murdered man required different but
even greater precautions than those adopted by the doctors in their
inspection of the pseudo soldier. The position of these two victims
had been respected; they were still lying across the hearth as they had
fallen, and their attitude was a matter of great importance, since it
might have decisive bearing on the case. Now, this attitude was such
that one could not fail to be impressed with the idea that with both
these men death had been instantaneous. They were both stretched out
upon their backs, their limbs extended, and their hands wide open.
No contraction or extension of the muscles, no trace of conflict could
be perceived; it seemed evident that they had been taken unawares, the
more so as their faces expressed the most intense terror.
“Thus,” said the old doctor, “we may reasonably suppose that they were
stupefied by some entirely unexpected, strange, and frightful spectacle.
I have come across this terrified expression depicted upon the faces of
dead people more than once. I recollect noticing it upon the features of
a woman who died suddenly from the shock she experienced when one of
her neighbors, with the view of playing her a trick, entered her house
disguised as a ghost.”
Lecoq followed the physician’s explanations, and tried to make them
agree with the vague hypotheses that were revolving in his own brain.
But who could these individuals be? Would they, in death, guard the
secret of their identity, as the other victim had done?
The first subject examined by the physicians was over fifty years of
age. His hair was very thin and quite gray and his face was closely
shaven, excepting a thick tuft of hair on his rather prominent chin.
He was very poorly clad, wearing a soiled woolen blouse and a pair of
dilapidated trousers hanging in rags over his boots, which were very
much trodden down at the heels. The old doctor declared that this man
must have been instantly killed by a bullet. The size of the circular
wound, the absence of blood around its edge, and the blackened and
burnt state of the flesh demonstrated this fact with almost mathematical
precision.
The great difference that exists in wounds made by firearms, according
to the distance from which the death-dealing missile comes, was seen
when the physicians began to examine the last of the murdered men. The
ball that had caused the latter’s death had scarcely crossed a yard of
space before reaching him, and his wound was not nearly so hideous in
aspect as the other’s. This individual, who was at least fifteen years
younger than his companion, was short and remarkably ugly; his face,
which was quite beardless, being pitted all over by the smallpox. His
garb was such as is worn by the worst frequenters of the barriere. His
trousers were of a gray checked material, and his blouse, turned back at
the throat, was blue. It was noticed that his boots had been blackened
quite recently. The smart glazed cap that lay on the floor beside him
was in harmony with his carefully curled hair and gaudy necktie.
These were the only facts that the physicians’ report set forth in
technical terms, this was the only information obtained by the most
careful investigation. The two men’s pockets were explored and turned
inside out; but they contained nothing that gave the slightest clue to
their identity, either as regards name, social position, or profession.
There was not even the slightest indication on any of these points, not
a letter, nor an address, not a fragment of paper, nothing--not even
such common articles of personal use, as a tobacco pouch, a knife, or a
pipe which might be recognized, and thus establish the owner’s identity.
A little tobacco in a paper bag, a couple of pocket handkerchiefs that
were unmarked, a packet of cigarettes--these were the only articles
discovered beyond the money which the victims carried loose in their
pockets. On this point, it should be mentioned that the elder man had
sixty-seven francs about him, and the younger one, two louis.
Rarely had the police found themselves in the presence of so strange an
affair, without the slightest clue to guide them. Of course, there was
the fact itself, as evidenced by the bodies of the three victims;
but the authorities were quite ignorant of the circumstances that had
attended and of the motive that had inspired the crime. Certainly, they
might hope with the powerful means of investigation at their disposal
to finally arrive at the truth in the course of time, and after repeated
efforts. But, in the mean while, all was mystery, and so strangely did
the case present itself that it could not safely be said who was really
responsible for the horrible tragedy at the Poivriere.
The murderer had certainly been arrested; but if he persisted in his
obstinacy, how were they to ascertain his name? He protested that he had
merely killed in self-defense. How could it be shown that such was not
the case? Nothing was known concerning the victims; one of whom had with
his dying breath accused himself. Then again, an inexplicable influence
tied the Widow Chupin’s tongue. Two women, one of whom had lost an
earring valued at 5,000 francs, had witnessed the struggle--then
disappeared. An accomplice, after two acts of unheard-of audacity, had
also made his escape. And all these people--the women, the murderer,
the keeper of the saloon, the accomplice, and the victims--were equally
strange and mysterious, equally liable not to be what they seemed.
Perhaps the commissary of police thought he would spend a very
unpleasant quarter of an hour at the prefecture when he reported the
case. Certainly, he spoke of the crime in a very despondent tone.
“It will now be best,” he said at last, “to transport these three bodies
to the Morgue. There they will doubtless be identified.” He reflected
for a moment, and then added: “And to think that one of these dead men
is perhaps Lacheneur himself!”
“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq. “The spurious soldier, being
the last to die, had seen his companions fall. If he had supposed
Lacheneur to be dead, he would not have spoken of vengeance.”
Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pretended to pay no attention to
the proceedings, now approached. He was not the man to yield even to the
strongest evidence. “If Monsieur, the Commissary, will listen to me, he
shall hear my opinion, which is a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq’s
fancies.”
Before he could say any more, the sound of a vehicle stopping before
the door of the cabin interrupted him, and an instant afterward the
investigating magistrate entered the room.
All the officials assembled at the Poivriere knew at least by sight the
magistrate who now made his appearance, and Gevrol, an old habitue
of the Palais de Justice, mechanically murmured his name: “M. Maurice
d’Escorval.”
He was the son of that famous Baron d’Escorval, who, in 1815, sealed his
devotion to the empire with his blood, and upon whom Napoleon, in the
Memorial of St. Helena, pronounced this magnificent eulogium: “Men
as honest as he may, I believe, exist; but more honest, no, it is not
possible.”
Having entered upon his duties as magistrate early in life, and being
endowed with remarkable talents, it was at first supposed that
the younger D’Escorval would rise to the most exalted rank in his
profession. But he had disappointed all such prognostications by
resolutely refusing the more elevated positions that were offered to
him, in order to retain his modest but useful functions in the public
prosecutor’s offices at Paris. To explain his repeated refusals, he said
that life in the capital had more charms for him than the most enviable
advancement in provincial centres. But it was hard to understand
this declaration, for in spite of his brilliant connections and large
fortune, he had, ever since the death of his eldest brother, led a most
retired life, his existence merely being revealed by his untiring labors
and the good he did to those around him.
He was now about forty-two years of age, but appeared much younger,
although a few furrows already crossed his brow. One would have admired
his face, had it not been for the puzzling immobility that marred its
beauty, the sarcastic curl of his thin lips, and the gloomy expression
of his pale-blue eyes. To say that he was cold and grave, did not
express the truth, it was saying too little. He was gravity and coldness
personified, with a shade of hauteur added.
Impressed by the horror of the scene the instant he placed his foot upon
the threshold, M. d’Escorval acknowledged the presence of the physicians
and the commissary by a slight nod of the head. The others in the room
had no existence so far as he was concerned. At once his faculties went
to work. He studied the ground, and carefully noted all the surroundings
with the attentive sagacity of a magistrate who realizes the immense
weight of even the slightest detail, and who fully appreciates the
eloquence of circumstantial evidence.
“This is a serious affair,” he said gravely; “very serious.”
The commissary’s only response was to lift his eyes to heaven. A gesture
that plainly implied, “I quite agree with you!” The fact is, that for
the past two hours the worthy commissary’s responsibility had weighed
heavily upon him, and he secretly blessed the investigating magistrate
for relieving him of it.
“The public prosecutor was unable to accompany me,” resumed M.
d’Escorval, “he has not the gift of omnipresence, and I doubt if it will
be possible for him to join me here. Let us, therefore, begin operations
at once.”
The curiosity of those present had become intense; and the commissary
only expressed the general feeling when he said: “You have undoubtedly
questioned the murderer, sir, and have learnt--”
“I have learnt nothing,” interrupted M. d’Escorval, apparently much
astonished at the interruption.
He took a chair and sat himself down, and while his clerk was busy in
authenticating the commissary’s _proces-verbal_, he began to read the
report prepared by Lecoq.
Pale, agitated, and nervous, the young police agent tried to read upon
the magistrate’s impassive face the impression produced by the document.
His future depended upon the magistrate’s approval or disapproval; and
it was not with a fuddled mind like that of Father Absinthe that he had
now to deal, but with a superior intelligence.
“If I could only plead my own cause,” he thought. “What are cold written
phrases in comparison with spoken, living words, palpitating with
emotion and imbued with the convictions of the speaker.”
However, he was soon reassured. The magistrate’s face retained its
immobility, but again and again did M. d’Escorval nod his head in token
of approval, and occasionally some point more ingenious than the others
extorted from his lips the exclamations: “Not bad--very good!”
When he had finished the perusal he turned to the commissary and
remarked: “All this is very unlike your report of this morning, which
represented the affair as a low broil between a party of miserable
vagabonds.”
The observation was only too just and fair; and the commissary deeply
regretted that he had trusted to Gevrol’s representations, and remained
in bed. “This morning,” he responded evasively, “I only gave you my
first impressions. These have been modified by subsequent researches, so
that--”
“Oh!” interrupted the magistrate, “I did not intend to reproach you; on
the contrary, I must congratulate you. One could not have done better
nor acted more promptly. The investigation that has been carried out
shows great penetration and research, and the results are given with
unusual clearness, and wonderful precision.”
Lecoq’s head whirled.
The commissary hesitated for an instant. At first he was sorely tempted
to confiscate this praise to his own profit. If he drove away the
unworthy thought, it was because he was an honest man, and more than
that, because he was not displeased to have the opportunity to do Gevrol
a bad turn and punish him for his presumptuous folly.
“I must confess,” he said with some embarrassment, “that the merit of
this investigation does not belong to me.”
“To whom, then, shall I attribute it--to the inspector?” thought M.
d’Escorval, not without surprise, for having occasionally employed
Gevrol, he did not expect from him such ingenuity and sagacity as was
displayed in this report. “Is it you, then, who have conducted this
investigation so ably?” he asked.
“Upon my word, no!” responded Inspector Gevrol. “I, myself, am not
so clever as all that. I content myself with telling what I actually
discover; and I only give proofs when I have them in hand. May I be hung
if the grounds of this report have any existence save in the brains of
the man who imagined them.” Perhaps the inspector really believed what
he said, being one of those persons who are blinded by vanity to such a
degree that, with the most convincing evidence before their eyes, they
obstinately deny it.
“And yet,” insisted the magistrate, “these women whose footprints have
been detected must have existed. The accomplice who left the flakes of
wool adhering to the plank is a real being. This earring is a positive,
palpable proof.”
Gevrol had hard work to refrain from shrugging his shoulders. “All this
can be satisfactorily explained,” he said, “without a search of twelve
or fourteen hours. That the murderer had an accomplice is possible. The
presence of the women is very natural. Wherever there are male thieves,
you will find female thieves as well. As for the diamond--what does that
prove? That the scoundrels had just met with a stroke of good luck, that
they had come here to divide their booty, and that the quarrel arose
from the division.”
This was an explanation, and such a plausable one, that M. d’Escorval
was silent, reflecting before he announced his decision. “Decidedly,”
he declared at last, “decidedly, I adopt the hypothesis set forth in the
report. Who prepared it?”
Gevrol’s face turned red with anger. “One of my men,” he replied, “a
clever, adroit fellow, Monsieur Lecoq. Come forward, Lecoq, that the
magistrate may see you.”
The young man advanced, his lips tightly compressed so as to conceal a
smile of satisfaction which almost betrayed itself.
“My report, sir, is only a summary,” he began, “but I have certain
ideas--”
“Which you will acquaint me with, when I ask for them,” interrupted the
magistrate. And oblivious of Lecoq’s chagrin, he drew from his clerk’s
portfolio two forms, which he filled up and handed to Gevrol, saying:
“Here are two orders; take them to the station, where the murderer and
the landlady of this cabin are confined, and have them conducted to the
prefecture, where they will be privately examined.”
Having given these directions, M. d’Escorval was turning toward the
physicians, when Lecoq, at the risk of a second rebuff, interposed. “May
I venture, sir, to beg of you to confide this message to me?” he asked
of the investigating magistrate.
“Impossible, I may have need of you here.”
“I desired, sir, to collect certain evidence and an opportunity to do so
may not present itself again.”
The magistrate perhaps fathomed the young man’s motive. “Then, let it be
so,” he replied, “but after your task is completed you must wait for
me at the prefecture, where I shall proceed as soon as I have finished
here. You may go.”
Lecoq did not wait for the order to be repeated. He snatched up the
papers, and hastened away.
He literally flew over the ground, and strange to say he no longer
experienced any fatigue from the labors of the preceding night. Never
had he felt so strong and alert, either in body or mind. He was
very hopeful of success. He had every confidence in himself, and his
happiness would indeed have been complete if he had had another judge
to deal with. But M. d’Escorval overawed him to such a degree that he
became almost paralyzed in his presence. With what a disdainful glance
the magistrate had surveyed him! With what an imperious tone he had
imposed silence upon him--and that, too, when he had found his work
deserving of commendation.
“Still, never mind,” the young detective mentally exclaimed, “no one
ever tastes perfect happiness here below.”
And concentrating all his thoughts on the task before him, he hurried on
his way.