When, after a rapid walk of twenty minutes, Lecoq reached the police
station near the Barriere d’Italie, the doorkeeper, with his pipe in
his mouth, was pacing slowly to and fro before the guard-house. His
thoughtful air, and the anxious glances he cast every now and then
toward one of the little grated windows of the building sufficed to
indicate that some very rare bird indeed had been entrusted to his
keeping. As soon as he recognized Lecoq, his brow cleared, and he paused
in his promenade.
“Ah, well!” he inquired, “what news do you bring?”
“I have an order to conduct the prisoners to the prefecture.”
The keeper rubbed his hands, and his smile of satisfaction plainly
implied that he felt a load the less on his shoulders.
“Capital! capital!” he exclaimed. “The Black Maria, the prison van, will
pass here in less than an hour; we will throw them in, and hurry the
driver off--”
Lecoq was obliged to interrupt the keeper’s transports of satisfaction.
“Are the prisoners alone?” he inquired.
“Quite alone: the woman in one cell, and the man in the other. This
has been a remarkably quiet night, for Shrove Sunday! Quite surprising
indeed! It is true your hunt was interrupted.”
“You had a drunken man here, however.”
“No--yes--that’s true--this morning just at daybreak. A poor devil, who
is under a great obligation to Gevrol.”
The involuntary irony of this remark did not escape Lecoq. “Yes, under a
great obligation, indeed!” he said with a derisive laugh.
“You may laugh as much as you like,” retorted the keeper, “but such is
really the case; if it hadn’t been for Gevrol the man would certainly
have been run over.”
“And what has become of him?”
The keeper shrugged his shoulders. “You ask me too much,” he responded.
He was a worthy fellow who had been spending the night at a friend’s
house, and on coming out into the open air, the wine flew into his head.
He told us all about it when he got sober, half an hour afterward. I
never saw a man so vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered: “The father
of a family, and at my age too! Oh! it is shameful! What shall I say to
my wife? What will the children think?”
“Did he talk much about his wife?”
“He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name--Eudosia Leocadie,
or some name of that sort. He declared that he should be ruined if we
kept him here. He begged us to send for the commissary, to go to his
house, and when we set him free, I thought he would go mad with joy; he
kissed our hands, and thanked us again and again!”
“And did you place him in the same cage as the murderer?” inquired
Lecoq.
“Of course.”
“Then they talked with each other.”
“Talked? Why, the drunkard was so ‘gone’ I tell you, that he couldn’t
have said ‘bread’ distinctly. When he was placed in a cell, bang! He
fell down like a log of wood. As soon as he recovered, we let him out.
I’m sure, they didn’t talk to each other.”
The young police agent had grown very thoughtful. “I was evidently
right,” he murmured.
“What did you say?” inquired the keeper.
“Nothing,” replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to communicate his
reflections to the custodian of the guard-house. These reflections of
his were by no means pleasant ones. “I was right,” he thought; “this
pretended drunkard was none other than the accomplice. He is evidently
an adroit, audacious, cool-headed fellow. While we were tracking his
footprints he was watching us. When we had got to some distance, he was
bold enough to enter the hovel. Then he came here and compelled them
to arrest him; and thanks to an assumption of childish simplicity,
he succeeded in finding an opportunity to speak with the murderer. He
played his part perfectly. Still, I know that he did play a part, and
that is something. I know that one must believe exactly the opposite of
what he said. He talked of his family, his wife and children--hence, he
has neither children, wife, nor family.”
Lecoq suddenly checked himself, remembering that he had no time to waste
in conjectures. “What kind of fellow was this drunkard?” he inquired.
“He was tall and stout, with full ruddy cheeks, a pair of white
whiskers, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and a good-natured, jovial
manner.”
“How old would you suppose him to be?”
“Between forty and fifty.”
“Did you form any idea of his profession?”
“It’s my opinion, that what with his soft cap and his heavy brown
overcoat, he must be either a clerk or the keeper of some little shop.”
Having obtained this description, which agreed with the result of his
investigations, Lecoq was about to enter the station house when a
sudden thought brought him to a standstill. “I hope this man has had no
communication with this Widow Chupin!” he exclaimed.
The keeper laughed heartily. “How could he have had any?” he responded.
“Isn’t the old woman alone in her cell? Ah, the old wretch! She has been
cursing and threatening ever since she arrived. Never in my whole life
have I heard such language as she has used. It has been enough to make
the very stones blush; even the drunken man was so shocked that he went
to the grating in the door, and told her to be quiet.”
Lecoq’s glance and gesture were so expressive of impatience and wrath
that the keeper paused in his recital much perturbed. “What is the
matter?” he stammered. “Why are you angry?”
“Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, “because--” Not wishing to disclose
the real cause of his anger, he entered the station house, saying that
he wanted to see the prisoner.
Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his turn. “These police agents
are all alike,” he grumbled. “They question you, you tell them all they
desire to know; and afterward, if you venture to ask them anything, they
reply: ‘nothing,’ or ‘because.’ They have too much authority; it makes
them proud.”
Looking through the little latticed window in the door, by which the men
on guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly examined the appearance of
the assumed murderer. He was obliged to ask himself if this was really
the same man he had seen some hours previously at the Poivriere,
standing on the threshold of the inner door, and holding the whole squad
of police agents in check by the intense fury of his attitude. Now, on
the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of weakness and
despondency. He was seated on a bench opposite the grating in the door,
his elbows resting on his knees, his chin upon his hand, his under lip
hanging low and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.
“No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not what he seems to be.”
So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave the
detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word.
“Well, how goes it?” asked Lecoq.
“I am innocent!” responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, discordant voice.
“I hope so, I am sure--but that is for the magistrate to decide. I came
to see if you wanted anything.”
“No,” replied the murderer, but a second later he changed his mind. “All
the same,” he said, “I shouldn’t mind a crust and a drink of wine.”
“You shall have them,” replied Lecoq, who at once went out to forage
in the neighborhood for eatables of some sort. In his opinion, if the
murderer had asked for a drink after at first refusing to partake of
anything, it was solely with the view of conveying the idea that he was
really the kind of man he pretended to be.
At all events, whoever he might be, the prisoner ate with an excellent
appetite. He then took up the large glass of wine that had been brought
him, drained it slowly, and remarked: “That’s capital! There can be
nothing to beat that!”
This seeming satisfaction greatly disappointed Lecoq, who had selected,
as a test, one of those horribly thick, bluish, nauseous mixtures in
vogue around the barrieres--hoping, nay, almost expecting, that the
murderer would not drink it without some sign of repugnance. And yet the
contrary proved the case. However, the young detective had no time to
ponder over the circumstance, for a rumble of wheels now announced the
approach of that lugubrious vehicle, the Black Maria.
When the Widow Chupin was removed from her cell she fought and scratched
and cried “Murder!” at the top of her voice; and it was only by sheer
force that she was at length got into the van. Then it was that the
officials turned to the assassin. Lecoq certainly expected some sign of
repugnance now, and he watched the prisoner closely. But he was again
doomed to disappointment. The culprit entered the vehicle in the most
unconcerned manner, and took possession of his compartment like one
accustomed to it, knowing the most comfortable position to assume in
such close quarters.
“Ah! what an unfortunate morning,” murmured Lecoq, disconsolately.
“Still I will lie in wait for him at the prefecture.”
When the door of the prison-van had been securely closed, the driver
cracked his whip, and the sturdy horses started off at a brisk trot.
Lecoq had taken his seat in front, between the driver and the guard; but
his mind was so engrossed with his own thoughts that he heard nothing
of their conversation, which was very jovial, although frequently
interrupted by the shrill voice of the Widow Chupin, who sang and yelled
her imprecations alternately.
It is needless, however, to recapitulate her oaths; let us rather follow
the train of Lecoq’s meditation. By what means could he secure some clue
to the murderer’s identity? He was still convinced that the prisoner
must belong to the higher ranks of society. After all, it was not so
extraordinary that he should have succeeded in feigning an appetite,
that he should have concealed his distaste for a nauseous beverage, and
that he should have entered the Black Maria without hesitation. Such
conduct was quite possible, indeed almost probable on the part of a man,
endowed with considerable strength of will, and realizing the imminence
of his peril. But granting this, would he be equally able to hide his
feelings when he was obliged to submit to the humiliating formalities
that awaited him--formalities which in certain cases can, and must, be
pushed even to the verge of insult and outrage?
No; Lecoq could not believe that this would be possible. He felt sure
that the disgraceful position in which the prisoner would find himself
would cause him to revolt, to lose his self-control, to utter some word
that might give the desired clue.
It was not until the gloomy vehicle had turned off the Pont Neuf on to
the Quai de l’Horloge that the young detective became conscious of what
was transpiring around him. Soon the van passed through an open gateway,
and drew up in a small, damp courtyard.
Lecoq immediately alighted, and opened the door of the compartment in
which the supposed murderer was confined, exclaiming as he did so: “Here
we are, get out.” There was no fear of the prisoner escaping. The iron
gate had been closed, and at least a dozen agents were standing near at
hand, waiting to have a look at the new arrivals.
The prisoner slowly stepped to the ground. His expression of face
remained unchanged, and each gesture evinced the perfect indifference of
a man accustomed to such ordeals.
Lecoq scrutinized his demeanor as attentively as an anatomist might have
watched the action of a muscle. He noted that the prisoner seemed to
experience a sensation of satisfaction directly his foot touched
the pavement of the courtyard, that he drew a long breath, and then
stretched and shook himself, as if to regain the elasticity of his
limbs, cramped by confinement in the narrow compartment from which he
had just emerged. Then he glanced around him, and a scarcely perceptible
smile played upon his lips. One might have sworn that the place was
familiar to him, that he was well acquainted with these high grim walls,
these grated windows, these heavy doors--in short, with all the sinister
belongings of a prison.
“Good Lord!” murmured Lecoq, greatly chagrined, “does he indeed
recognize the place?”
And his sense of disappointment and disquietude increased when, without
waiting for a word, a motion, or a sign, the prisoner turned toward
one of the five or six doors that opened into the courtyard. Without an
instant’s hesitation he walked straight toward the very doorway he was
expected to enter--Lecoq asked himself was it chance? But his amazement
and disappointment increased tenfold when, after entering the gloomy
corridor, he saw the culprit proceed some little distance, resolutely
turn to the left, pass by the keeper’s room, and finally enter the
registrar’s office. An old offender could not have done better.
Big drops of perspiration stood on Lecoq’s forehead. “This man,” thought
he, “has certainly been here before; he knows the ropes.”
The registrar’s office was a large room heated almost to suffocation by
an immense stove, and badly lighted by three small windows, the panes
of which were covered with a thick coating of dust. There sat the clerk
reading a newspaper, spread out over the open register--that fatal book
in which are inscribed the names of all those whom misconduct, crime,
misfortune, madness, or error have brought to these grim portals.
Three or four attendants, who were awaiting the hour for entering upon
their duties, reclined half asleep upon the wooden benches that lined
three sides of the room. These benches, with a couple of tables, and
some dilapidated chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the office,
in one corner of which stood a measuring machine, under which each
culprit was obliged to pass, the exact height of the prisoners being
recorded in order that the description of their persons might be
complete in every respect.
At the entrance of the culprit accompanied by Lecoq, the clerk raised
his head. “Ah!” said he, “has the van arrived?”
“Yes,” responded Lecoq. And showing the orders signed by M. d’Escorval,
he added: “Here are this man’s papers.”
The registrar took the documents and read them. “Oh!” he exclaimed,
“a triple assassination! Oh! oh!” The glance he gave the prisoner
was positively deferential. This was no common culprit, no ordinary
vagabond, no vulgar thief.
“The investigating magistrate orders a private examination,” continued
the clerk, “and I must get the prisoner other clothing, as the things
he is wearing now will be used as evidence. Let some one go at once and
tell the superintendent that the other occupants of the van must wait.”
At this moment, the governor of the Depot entered the office. The clerk
at once dipped his pen in the ink, and turning to the prisoner he asked:
“What is your name?”
“May.”
“Your Christian name?”
“I have none.”
“What, have you no Christian name?”
The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily:
“I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning
me. I shan’t answer any one else but the magistrate. You would like to
make me cut my own throat, wouldn’t you? A very clever trick, of course,
but one that won’t do for me.”
“You must see that you only aggravate your situation,” observed the
governor.
“Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish to ruin me. I only defend
myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you can. But you had better
give me back what they took from me at the station-house. My hundred and
thirty-six francs and eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of
this place. I want you to make a note of them on the register. Where are
they?”
The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house,
who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody.
Lecoq now laid it upon the table.
“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” said he,
“and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars.”
An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner’s
features.
“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you answer?”
But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and
silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his
boots.
Lecoq thought the assassin’s glance wavered as he heard this order. Was
it only a fancy?
“Why must I do that?” asked the culprit.
“To pass under the beam,” replied the clerk. “We must make a note of
your exact height.”
The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots.
The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside. It was, moreover,
noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated
with mud.
“You only wear boots on Sundays, then?” remarked Lecoq.
“Why do you think that?”
“By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the
ankle-bone.”
“What of that?” exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone. “Is it a
crime not to have a marchioness’s feet?”
“It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events,” said the young
detective slowly. “Do you think I can’t see that if the mud were picked
off your feet would be white and neat? The nails have been carefully cut
and polished--”
He paused. A new idea inspired by his genius for investigation had just
crossed Lecoq’s mind. Pushing a chair in front of the prisoner, and
spreading a newspaper over it, he said: “Will you place your foot
there?”
The man did not comply with the request.
“It is useless to resist,” exclaimed the governor, “we are in force.”
The prisoner delayed no longer. He placed his foot on the chair, as
he had been ordered, and Lecoq, with the aid of a knife, proceeded to
remove the fragments of mud that adhered to the skin.
Anywhere else so strange and grotesque a proceeding would have excited
laughter, but here, in this gloomy chamber, the anteroom of the assize
court, an otherwise trivial act is fraught with serious import. Nothing
astonishes; and should a smile threaten to curve one’s lips, it is
instantly repressed.
All the spectators, from the governor of the prison to the keepers, had
witnessed many other incidents equally absurd; and no one thought of
inquiring the detective’s motive. This much was known already; that the
prisoner was trying to conceal his identity. Now it was necessary to
establish it, at any cost, and Lecoq had probably discovered some means
of attaining this end.
The operation was soon concluded; and Lecoq swept the dust off the paper
into the palm of his hand. He divided it into two parts, enclosing one
portion in a scrap of paper, and slipping it into his own pocket. With
the remainder he formed a package which he handed to the governor,
saying: “I beg you, sir, to take charge of this, and to seal it up here,
in presence of the prisoner. This formality is necessary, so that by and
by he may not pretend that the dust has been changed.”
The governor complied with the request, and as he placed this “bit
of proof” (as he styled it) in a small satchel for safe keeping, the
prisoner shrugged his shoulders with a sneering laugh. Still, beneath
this cynical gaiety Lecoq thought he could detect poignant anxiety.
Chance owed him the compensation of this slight triumph; for previous
events had deceived all his calculations.
The prisoner did not offer the slightest objection when he was ordered
to undress, and to exchange his soiled and bloodstained garments for
the clothing furnished by the Government. Not a muscle of his face moved
while he submitted his person to one of those ignominous examinations
which make the blood rush to the forehead of the lowest criminal. It was
with perfect indifference that he allowed an inspector to comb his hair
and beard, and to examine the inside of his mouth, so as to make sure
that he had not concealed either some fragment of glass, by the aid
of which captives can sever the strongest bars, or one of those
microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners write the notes they
exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, and called “postilions.”
These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent rang for
one of the keepers. “Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells,” he
ordered.
There was no need to drag the prisoner away. He walked out, as he had
entered, preceding the guard, like some old habitue, who knows where he
is going.
“What a rascal!” exclaimed the clerk.
“Then you think--” began Lecoq, baffled but not convinced.
“Ah! there can be no doubt of it,” declared the governor. “This man is
certainly a dangerous criminal--an old offender--I think I have seen him
before--I could almost swear to it.”
Thus it was evident these people, with their long, varied experience,
shared Gevrol’s opinion; Lecoq stood alone. He did not discuss the
matter--what good would it have done? Besides, the Widow Chupin was just
being brought in.
The journey must have calmed her nerves, for she had become as gentle
as a lamb. It was in a wheedling voice, and with tearful eyes, that she
called upon these “good gentlemen” to witness the shameful injustice
with which she was treated--she, an honest woman. Was she not the
mainstay of her family (since her son Polyte was in custody, charged
with pocket-picking), hence what would become of her daughter-in-law,
and of her grandson Toto, who had no one to look after them but her?
Still, when her name had been taken, and a keeper was ordered to remove
her, nature reasserted itself, and scarcely had she entered the corridor
than she was heard quarreling with the guard.
“You are wrong not to be polite,” she said; “you are losing a good fee,
without counting many a good drink I would stand you when I get out of
here.”
Lecoq was now free until M. d’Escorval’s arrival. He wandered through
the gloomy corridors, from office to office, but finding himself
assailed with questions by every one he came across, he eventually left
the Depot, and went and sat down on one of the benches beside the quay.
Here he tried to collect his thoughts. His convictions were unchanged.
He was more than ever convinced that the prisoner was concealing his
real social standing, but, on the other hand, it was evident that he was
well acquainted with the prison and its usages.
He had also proved himself to be endowed with far more cleverness than
Lecoq had supposed. What self-control! What powers of dissimulation
he had displayed! He had not so much as frowned while undergoing the
severest ordeals, and he had managed to deceive the most experienced
eyes in Paris.
The young detective had waited during nearly three hours, as motionless
as the bench on which he was seated, and so absorbed in studying his
case that he had thought neither of the cold nor of the flight of
time, when a carriage drew up before the entrance of the prison, and M.
d’Escorval alighted, followed by his clerk.
Lecoq rose and hastened, well-nigh breathless with anxiety, toward the
magistrate.
“My researches on the spot,” said this functionary, “confirm me in the
belief that you are right. Is there anything fresh?”
“Yes, sir; a fact that is apparently very trivial, though, in truth, it
is of importance that--”
“Very well!” interrupted the magistrate. “You will explain it to me by
and by. First of all, I must summarily examine the prisoners. A mere
matter of form for to-day. Wait for me here.”
Although the magistrate promised to make haste, Lecoq expected that
at least an hour would elapse before he reappeared. In this he was
mistaken. Twenty minutes later, M. d’Escorval emerged from the prison
without his clerk.
He was walking very fast, and instead of approaching the young
detective, he called to him at some little distance. “I must return home
at once,” he said, “instantly; I can not listen to you.”
“But, sir--”
“Enough! the bodies of the victims have been taken to the Morgue. Keep
a sharp lookout there. Then, this evening make--well--do whatever you
think best.”
“But, sir, I must--”
“To-morrow!--to-morrow, at nine o’clock, in my office in the Palais de
Justice.”
Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, but M. d’Escorval had entered, or
rather thrown himself into, his carriage, and the coachman was already
whipping up the horse.
“And to think that he’s an investigating magistrate,” panted Lecoq, left
spellbound on the quay. “Has he gone mad?” As he spoke, an uncharitable
thought took possession of his mind. “Can it be,” he murmured, “that M.
d’Escorval holds the key to the mystery? Perhaps he wishes to get rid of
me.”
This suspicion was so terrible that Lecoq hastened back to the prison,
hoping that the prisoner’s bearing might help to solve his doubts.
On peering through the grated aperture in the door of the cell, he
perceived the prisoner lying on the pallet that stood opposite the
door. His face was turned toward the wall, and he was enveloped in the
coverlid up to his eyes. He was not asleep, for Lecoq could detect a
strange movement of the body, which puzzled and annoyed him. On applying
his ear instead of his eye to the aperture, he distinguished a stifled
moan. There could no longer be any doubt. The death rattle was sounding
in the prisoner’s throat.
“Help! help!” cried Lecoq, greatly excited. “The prisoner is killing
himself!”
A dozen keepers hastened to the spot. The door was quickly opened,
and it was then ascertained that the prisoner, having torn a strip of
binding from his clothes, had fastened it round his neck and tried to
strangle himself with the assistance of a spoon that had been left him
with his food. He was already unconscious, and the prison doctor, who
immediately bled him, declared that had another ten minutes elapsed,
help would have arrived too late.
When the prisoner regained his senses, he gazed around him with a
wild, puzzled stare. One might have supposed that he was amazed to find
himself still alive. Suddenly a couple of big tears welled from his
swollen eyelids, and rolled down his cheeks. He was pressed with
questions, but did not vouchsafe so much as a single word in response.
As he was in such a desperate frame of mind, and as the orders to
keep him in solitary confinement prevented the governor giving him a
companion, it was decided to put a straight waistcoat on him. Lecoq
assisted at this operation, and then walked away, puzzled, thoughtful,
and agitated. Intuition told him that these mysterious occurrences
concealed some terrible drama.
“Still, what can have occurred since the prisoner’s arrival here?” he
murmured. “Has he confessed his guilt to the magistrate, or what is his
reason for attempting so desperate an act?”