Some men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a pair of
high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in stylish livery; and
as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable cushions, they become the
object of many an envious glance. Sometimes, however, the coachman has
taken a drop too much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the horses
run away and a general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate
owner, in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and fractures
his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day; and their
long list should make humble foot-passengers bless the lowly lot which
preserves them from such peril.
On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face
wore such an expression of consternation that the doorkeeper could not
help laughing. “What is there so very extraordinary about that I’ve told
you?” he asked.
“I--oh! nothing--”
The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had just been
struck by the strange coincidence of two events--the supposed murderer’s
attempted suicide, and the magistrate’s fall. Still, he did not allow
the vague presentiment that flitted through his mind to assume any
definite form. For after all, what possible connection could there be
between the two occurrences? Then again, he never allowed himself to be
governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an
axiom he afterward professed: “Distrust all circumstances that seem to
favor your secret wishes.”
Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d’Escorval’s accident; could he
have prevented it, he would have gladly done so. Still, he could not
help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him
from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and
disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.
This thought caused a sensation of relief--almost one of
light-heartedness. “In that case,” said the young detective to the
doorkeeper, “I shall have nothing to do here this morning.”
“You must be joking,” was the reply. “Does the world stop moving because
one man is disabled? The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the
urgent business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has already been
divided among the other magistrates.”
“I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other night
just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau.”
“Eh! Why didn’t you say so at once? A messenger has been sent to the
prefecture after you already. M. Segmuller has charge of the case, and
he’s waiting for you.”
Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq’s forehead. He was
trying to remember the magistrate that bore this name, and wondered
whether he was a likely man to espouse his views.
“Yes,” resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, “M.
Segmuller--you don’t seem to know him. He is a worthy man, not quite so
grim as most of our gentlemen. A prisoner he had examined said one day:
‘That devil there has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my
head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he’s a good fellow!”
His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports, Lecoq went
and tapped at a door that was indicated to him, and which bore the
number--22.
“Come in!” called out a pleasant voice.
The young detective entered, and found himself face to face with a
man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpulent, who at once
exclaimed: “Ah! you are Lecoq. Very well--take a seat. I am busy just
now looking over the papers of the case, but I will attend to you in
five minutes.”
Lecoq obeyed, at the same time glancing furtively at the magistrate
with whom he was about to work. M. Segmuller’s appearance corresponded
perfectly with the description given by the doorkeeper. His plump face
wore an air of frankness and benevolence, and his blue eyes had a most
pleasant expression. Nevertheless, Lecoq distrusted these appearances,
and in so doing he was right.
Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller possessed that candid physiognomy
common to most of the natives of blonde Alsace--a deceitful mask, which,
behind seeming simplicity, not unfrequently conceals a Gascon cunning,
rendered all the more dangerous since it is allied with extreme caution.
He had a wonderfully alert, penetrating mind; but his system--every
magistrate has his own--was mainly good-humor. Unlike most of his
colleagues, who were as stiff and cutting in manner as the sword which
the statue of Justice usually holds in her hand, he made simplicity and
kindness of demeanor his leading trait, though, of course, without ever
losing sight of his magisterial duties.
Still, the tone of his voice was so paternal, and the subtle purport
of his questions so veiled by his seeming frankness, that most of those
whom he examined forgot the necessity of protecting themselves, and
unawares confessed their guilt. Thus, it frequently happened that while
some unsuspecting culprit was complacently congratulating himself upon
getting the best of the judge, the poor wretch was really being turned
inside out like a glove.
By the side of such a man as M. Segmuller a grave and slender clerk
would have excited distrust; so he had chosen one who was a caricature
of himself. This clerk’s name was Goguet. He was short but corpulent,
and his broad, beardless face habitually wore a silly smile, not out of
keeping with his intellect, which was none of the brightest.
As stated above, when Lecoq entered M. Segmuller’s room the latter was
busy studying the case which had so unexpectedly fallen into his hands.
All the articles which the young detective had collected, from the
flakes of wool to the diamond earring, were spread out upon the
magistrate’s desk. With the greatest attention, he perused the report
prepared by Lecoq, and according to the different phases of the affair,
he examined one or another of the objects before him, or else consulted
the plan of the ground.
“A good half-hour elapsed before he had completed his inspection, when
he threw himself back in his armchair. Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, slowly,
“Monsieur d’Escorval has informed me by a note on the margin of this
file of papers that you are an intelligent man, and that we can trust
you.”
“I am willing, at all events.”
“You speak too slightingly of yourself; this is the first time that an
agent has brought me a report as complete as yours. You are young, and
if you persevere, I think you will be able to accomplish great things in
your profession.”
Nervous with delight, Lecoq bowed and stammered his thanks.
“Your opinion in this matter coincides with mine,” continued M.
Segmuller, “and the public prosecutor informs me that M. d’Escorval
shares the same views. An enigma is before us; and it ought to be
solved.”
“Oh!--we’ll solve it, I am certain, sir,” exclaimed Lecoq, who at this
moment felt capable of the most extraordinary achievements. Indeed,
he would have gone through fire and water for the magistrate who had
received him so kindly, and his enthusiasm sparkled so plainly in his
eyes that M. Segmuller could not restrain a smile.
“I have strong hopes of it myself,” he responded; “but we are far
from the end. Now, what have you been doing since yesterday? Did
M. d’Escorval give you any orders? Have you obtained any fresh
information?”
“I don’t think I have wasted my time,” replied Lecoq, who at once
proceeded to relate the various facts that had come to his knowledge
since his departure from the Poivriere.
With rare precision and that happiness of expression which seldom fails
a man well acquainted with his subject, he recounted the daring feats
of the presumed accomplice, the points he had noted in the
supposed murderer’s conduct, the latter’s unsuccessful attempt at
self-destruction. He repeated the testimony given by the cab-driver, and
by the concierge in the Rue de Bourgogne, and then read the letter he
had received from Father Absinthe.
In conclusion, he placed on the magistrate’s desk some of the dirt he
had scraped from the prisoner’s feet; at the same time depositing beside
it a similar parcel of dust collected on the floor of the cell in which
the murderer was confined at the Barriere d’Italie.
When Lecoq had explained the reasons that had led him to collect this
soil, and the conclusions that might be drawn from a comparison of the
two parcels, M. Segmuller, who had been listening attentively, at once
exclaimed: “You are right. It may be that you have discovered a means to
confound all the prisoner’s denials. At all events, this is certainly a
proof of surprising sagacity on your part.”
So it must have been, for Goguet, the clerk, nodded approvingly.
“Capital!” he murmured. “I should never have thought of that.”
While he was talking, M. Segmuller had carefully placed all the
so-called “articles of conviction” in a large drawer, from which they
would not emerge until the trial. “Now,” said he, “I understand the case
well enough to examine the Widow Chupin. We may gain some information
from her.”
He was laying his hand upon the bell, when Lecoq stopped him with an
almost supplicating gesture. “I have one great favor to ask you, sir,”
he observed.
“What is it?--speak.”
“I should very much like to be present at this examination. It takes so
little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration.”
Although the law says that the accused shall first of all be privately
examined by the investigating magistrate assisted by his clerk, it also
allows the presence of police agents. Accordingly, M. Segmuller told
Lecoq that he might remain. At the same time he rang his bell; which was
speedily answered by a messenger.
“Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, in compliance with my orders?”
asked M. Segmuller.
“Yes, sir; she is in the gallery outside.”
“Let her come in then.”
An instant later the hostess of the Poivriere entered the room, bowing
to the right and to the left. This was not her first appearance before
a magistrate, and she was not ignorant of the respect that is due to
justice. Accordingly, she had arrayed herself for her examination with
the utmost care. She had arranged her rebellious gray locks in smooth
bandeaux, and her garments, although of common material, looked
positively neat. She had even persuaded one of the prison warders to buy
her--with the money she had about her at the time of her arrest--a black
crape cap, and a couple of white pocket-handkerchiefs, intending to
deluge the latter with her tears, should the situation call for a
pathetic display.
She was indeed far too knowing to rely solely on the mere artifices of
dress; hence, she had also drawn upon her repertoire of grimaces for an
innocent, sad, and yet resigned expression, well fitted, in her opinion,
to win the sympathy and indulgence of the magistrate upon whom her fate
would depend.
Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and honeyed voice, she looked so
unlike the terrible termagant of the Poivriere, that her customers would
scarcely have recognized her. Indeed, an honest old bachelor might have
offered her twenty francs a month to take charge of his chambers--solely
on the strength of her good looks. But M. Segmuller had unmasked so many
hypocrites that he was not deceived for a moment. “What an old actress!”
he muttered to himself, and, glancing at Lecoq, he perceived the same
thought sparkling in the young detective’s eyes. It is true that the
magistrate’s penetration may have been due to some notes he had just
perused--notes containing an abstract of the woman’s former life, and
furnished by the chief of police at the magistrate’s request.
With a gesture of authority M. Segmuller warned Goguet, the clerk with
the silly smile, to get his writing materials ready. He then turned
toward the Widow Chupin. “Your name?” he asked in a sharp tone.
“Aspasie Claperdty, my maiden name,” replied the old woman, “and to-day,
the Widow Chupin, at your service, sir;” so saying, she made a low
courtesy, and then added: “A lawful widow, you understand, sir; I have
my marriage papers safe in my chest at home; and if you wish to send any
one--”
“Your age?” interrupted the magistrate.
“Fifty-four.”
“Your profession?”
“Dealer in wines and spirits outside of Paris, near the Rue du
Chateau-des-Rentiers, just beyond the fortifications.”
A prisoner’s examination always begins with these questions as to
individuality, which gives both the magistrate and the culprit time
to study each other, to try, as it were, each other’s strength, before
joining in a serious struggle; just as two duelists, about to engage in
mortal combat, first try a few passes with the foils.
“Now,” resumed M. Segmuller, “we will note your antecedents. Have you
not already been found guilty of several offenses?”
The Widow Chupin was too well versed in criminal procedure to be
ignorant of those famous records which render the denial of identity
such a difficult matter in France. “I have been unfortunate, my good
judge,” she whined.
“Yes, several times. First of all, you were arrested on a charge of
receiving stolen goods.”
“But it was proved that I was innocent, that my character was whiter
than snow. My poor, dear husband had been deceived by his comrades; that
was all.”
“Possibly. But while your husband was undergoing his sentence, you were
condemned, first to one month’s and then to three months’ imprisonment
for stealing.”
“Oh, I had some enemies who did their best to ruin me.”
“Next you were imprisoned for having led some young girls astray.”
“They were good-for-nothing hussies, my kind sir, heartless,
unprincipled creatures. I did them many favors, and then they went and
related a batch of falsehoods to ruin me. I have always been too kind
and considerate toward others.”
The list of the woman’s offenses was not exhausted, but M. Segmuller
thought it useless to continue. “Such is your past,” he resumed. “At the
present time your wine-shop is the resort of rogues and criminals.
Your son is undergoing his fourth term of imprisonment; and it has been
clearly proved that you abetted and assisted him in his evil deeds. Your
daughter-in-law, by some miracle, has remained honest and industrious,
hence you have tormented and abused her to such an extent that the
authorities have been obliged to interfere. When she left your house you
tried to keep her child--no doubt meaning to bring it up after the same
fashion as its father.”
“This,” thought the Widow Chupin, “is the right moment to try and
soften the magistrate’s heart.” Accordingly, she drew one of her
new handkerchiefs from her pocket, and, by dint of rubbing her eyes,
endeavored to extract a tear. “Oh, unhappy me,” she groaned. “How can
any one imagine that I would harm my grandson, my poor little Toto! Why,
I should be worse than a wild beast to try and bring my own flesh and
blood to perdition.”
She soon perceived, however, that her lamentations did not much affect
M. Segmuller, hence, suddenly changing both her tone and manner, she
began her justification. She did not positively deny her past; but she
threw all the blame on the injustice of destiny, which, while favoring a
few, generally the less deserving, showed no mercy to others. Alas!
she was one of those who had had no luck in life, having always been
persecuted, despite her innocence. In this last affair, for instance,
how was she to blame? A triple murder had stained her shop with blood;
but the most respectable establishments are not exempt from similar
catastrophes. During her solitary confinement, she had, said she, dived
down into the deepest recesses of her conscience, and she was still
unable to discover what blame could justly be laid at her door.
“I can tell you,” interrupted the magistrate. “You are accused of
impeding the action of the law.”
“Good heavens! Is it possible?”
“And of seeking to defeat justice. This is equivalent to complicity,
Widow Chupin; take care. When the police entered your cabin, after this
crime had been committed, you refused to answer their questions.”
“I told them all that I knew.”
“Very well, then, you must repeat what you told them to me.”
M. Segmuller had reason to feel satisfied. He had conducted the
examination in such a way that the Widow Chupin would now have to
initiate a narrative of the tragedy. This excellent point gained; for
this shrewd old woman, possessed of all her coolness, would naturally
have been on her guard against any direct questions. Now, it was
essential that she should not suspect either what the magistrate knew
of the affair, or what he was ignorant of. By leaving her to her own
devices she might, in the course of the version which she proposed to
substitute for the truth, not merely strengthen Lecoq’s theories, but
also let fall some remark calculated to facilitate the task of future
investigation. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were of opinion that the
version of the crime which they were about to hear had been concocted
at the station-house of the Place d’Italie while the murderer and the
spurious drunkard were left together, and that it had been transmitted
by the accomplice to the widow during the brief conversation they were
allowed to have through the wicket of the latter’s cell.
Invited by the magistrate to recount the circumstances of the tragedy,
Mother Chupin did not hesitate for a moment. “Oh, it was a very simple
affair, my good sir,” she began. “I was sitting by my fireside on Sunday
evening, when suddenly the door opened, and three men and two women came
in.”
M. Segmuller and the young detective exchanged glances. The accomplice
had evidently seen Lecoq and his comrade examining the footprints, and
accordingly the presence of the two women was not to be denied.
“What time was this?” asked the magistrate.
“About eleven o’clock.”
“Go on.”
“As soon as they sat down they ordered a bowl of wine, a la Frangaise.
Without boasting, I may say that I haven’t an equal in preparing that
drink. Of course, I waited on them, and afterward, having a blouse to
mend for my boy, I went upstairs to my room, which is just over the
shop.”
“Leaving the people alone?”
“Yes, my judge.”
“That showed a great deal of confidence on your part.”
The widow sadly shook her head. “People as poor as I am don’t fear the
thieves,” she sighed.
“Go on--go on.”
“Well, I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one
below call out: ‘Eh! old woman!’ So I went down, and found a tall,
big-bearded man, who had just come in. He asked for a glass of brandy,
which I brought to a table where he had sat down by himself.”
“And then did you go upstairs again?” interrupted the magistrate.
The exclamation was ironical, of course, but no one could have told from
the Widow Chupin’s placid countenance whether she was aware that such
was the case.
“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied in the most composed manner. “Only
this time I had scarcely taken up my needle when I heard a terrible
uproar in the shop. I hurried downstairs to put a stop to it--but heaven
knows my interference would have been of little use. The three men who
had come in first of all had fallen upon the newcomer, and they were
beating him, my good sir, they were killing him. I screamed. Just then
the man who had come in alone drew a revolver from his pocket; he fired
and killed one of his assailants, who fell to the ground. I was so
frightened that I crouched on the staircase and threw my apron over
my head that I might not see the blood run. An instant later Monsieur
Gevrol arrived with his men; they forced open the door, and behold--”
The Widow Chupin here stopped short. These wretched old women, who have
trafficked in every sort of vice, and who have tasted every disgrace,
at times attain a perfection of hypocrisy calculated to deceive the most
subtle penetration. Any one unacquainted with the antecedents of the
landlady of the Poivriere would certainly have been impressed by her
apparent candor, so skillfully did she affect a display of frankness,
surprise, and fear. Her expression would have been simply perfect, had
it not been for her eyes, her small gray eyes, as restless as those of a
caged animal, and gleaming at intervals with craftiness and cunning.
There she stood, mentally rejoicing at the success of her narrative, for
she was convinced that the magistrate placed implicit confidence in her
revelations, although during her recital, delivered, by the way, with
conjurer-like volubility, not a muscle of M. Segmuller’s face had
betrayed what was passing in his mind. When she paused, out of breath,
he rose from his seat, and without a word approached his clerk to
inspect the notes taken during the earlier part of the examination.
From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did not cease
watching the prisoner. “She thinks that it’s all over,” he muttered to
himself; “she fancies that her deposition is accepted without question.”
If such were, indeed, the widow’s opinion, she was soon to be
undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words to the smiling
Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fireplace, convinced that the
moment had now come to abandon defensive tactics, and open fire on the
enemy’s position.
“So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you tell us that you didn’t remain for a
single moment with the people who came into your shop that evening!”
“Not a moment.”
“They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited on them, and then
left them to themselves?”
“Yes, my good sir.”
“It seems to me impossible that you didn’t overhear some words of their
conversation. What were they talking about?”
“I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers.”
“Didn’t you hear anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of commiseration. “In
other words,” he remarked, “you refuse to inform justice--”
“Oh, my good sir!”
“Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about leaving the shop
and mending your son’s clothes in your bedroom are so many inventions.
You have concocted them so as to be able to say to me: ‘I didn’t see
anything; I didn’t hear anything.’ If such is your system of defense,
I warn you that it will be impossible for you to maintain it, and I may
add that it would not be admitted by any tribunal.”
“It is not a system of defense; it is the truth.”
M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment; then, suddenly, he
exclaimed: “Then you have nothing to tell me about this miserable
assassin?”
“But he is not an assassin, my good sir.”
“What do you mean by such an assertion?”
“I mean that he only killed the others in protecting himself. They
picked a quarrel with him; he was alone against three, and saw very
plainly that he could expect no mercy from brigands who--”
The color rose to the Widow Chupin’s cheeks, and she suddenly checked
herself, greatly embarrassed, and evidently regretting that she had
not bridled her tongue. It is true she might reasonably hope, that the
magistrate had imperfectly heard her words, and had failed to seize
their full purport, for two or three red-hot coals having fallen from
the grate on the hearth, he had taken up the tongs, and seemed to be
engrossed in the task of artistically arranging the fire.
“Who can tell me--who can prove to me that, on the contrary, it was not
this man who first attacked the others?” he murmured, thoughtfully.
“I can,” stoutly declared the widow, already forgetful of her prudent
hesitation, “I can swear it.”
M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment written upon his face. “How
can you know that?” he said slowly. “How can you swear it? You were in
your bedroom when the quarrel began.”
Silent and motionless in his corner, Lecoq was inwardly jubilant. This
was a most happy result, he thought, but a few questions more, and the
old woman would be obliged to contradict herself. What she had already
said sufficed to show that she must have a secret interest in the
matter, or else she would never have been so imprudently earnest in
defending the prisoner.
“However, you have probably been led to this conclusion by your
knowledge of the murderer’s character,” remarked M. Segmuller, “you are
apparently well acquainted with him.”
“Oh, I had never set eyes on him before that evening.”
“But he must have been in your establishment before?”
“Never in his life.”
“Oh, oh! Then how do you explain that on entering the shop while you
were upstairs, this unknown person--this stranger--should have called
out: ‘Here, old woman!’ Did he merely guess that the establishment was
kept by a woman; and that this woman was no longer young?”
“He did not say that.”
“Reflect a moment; you, yourself just told me so.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that, I’m sure, my good sir.”
“Yes, you did, and I will prove it by having your evidence read. Goguet,
read the passage, if you please.”
The smiling clerk looked back through his minutes and then, in his
clearest voice, he read these words, taken down as they fell from the
Widow Chupin’s lips: “I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I
heard some one below call out ‘Eh! old woman.’ So I went down,” etc.,
etc.
“Are you convinced?” asked M. Segmuller.
The old offender’s assurance was sensibly diminished by this proof
of her prevarication. However, instead of discussing the subject any
further, the magistrate glided over it as if he did not attach much
importance to the incident.
“And the other men,” he resumed, “those who were killed: did you know
them?”
“No, good sir, no more than I knew Adam and Eve.”
“And were you not surprised to see three men utterly unknown to you, and
accompanied by two women, enter your establishment?”
“Sometimes chance--”
“Come! you do not think of what you are saying. It was not chance that
brought these customers, in the middle of the night, to a wine-shop
with a reputation like yours--an establishment situated far from any
frequented route in the midst of a desolate waste.”
“I’m not a sorceress; I say what I think.”
“Then you did not even know the youngest of the victims, the man who was
attired as a soldier, he who was named Gustave?”
“Not at all.”
M. Segmuller noted the intonation of this response, and then slowly
added: “But you must have heard of one of Gustave’s friends, a man
called Lacheneur?”
On hearing this name, the landlady of the Poivriere became visibly
embarrassed, and it was in an altered voice that she stammered:
“Lacheneur! Lacheneur! no, I have never heard that name mentioned.”
Still despite her denial, the effect of M. Segmuller’s remark was
evident, and Lecoq secretly vowed that he would find this Lacheneur, at
any cost. Did not the “articles of conviction” comprise a letter sent by
this man to Gustave, and written, so Lecoq had reason to believe, in
a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais? With such a clue and a little
patience, the mysterious Lacheneur might yet be discovered.
“Now,” continued M. Segmuller, “let us speak of the women who
accompanied these unfortunate men. What sort of women were they?”
“Oh! women of no account whatever!”
“Were they well dressed?”
“On the contrary, very miserably.”
“Well, give me a description of them.”
“They were tall and powerfully built, and indeed, as it was Shrove
Sunday, I first of all took them for men in disguise. They had hands
like shoulders of mutton, gruff voices, and very black hair. They were
as dark as mulattoes--”
“Enough!” interrupted the magistrate, “I require no further proof of
your mendacity. These women were short, and one of them was remarkably
fair.”
“I swear to you, my good sir--”
“Do not declare it upon oath. I shall be forced to confront you with an
honest man, who will tell you to your face that you are a liar!”
The widow did not reply, and there was a moment’s silence. M. Segmuller
determined to deal a decisive blow. “Do you also affirm that you had
nothing of a compromising character in the pocket of your apron?” he
asked.
“Nothing--you may have it examined; it was left in the house.”
“Then you still persist in your system,” resumed M. Segmuller. “Believe
me, you are wrong. Reflect--it rests with you to go to the Assize Court
as a witness, or an accomplice.”
Although the widow seemed crushed by this unexpected blow, the
magistrate did not add another word. Her deposition was read over to
her, she signed it, and was then led away.
M. Segmuller immediately seated himself at his desk, filled up a blank
form and handed it to his clerk, saying: “This is an order for the
governor of the Depot. Tell him to send the supposed murderer here at
once.”
X
If it is difficult to extort a confession from a man interested in
preserving silence and persuaded that no proofs can be produced against
him, it is a yet more arduous task to make a woman, similarly situated,
speak the truth. As they say at the Palais de Justice, one might as well
try to make the devil confess.
The examination of the Widow Chupin had been conducted with the greatest
possible care by M. Segmuller, who was as skilful in managing his
questions as a tried general in maneuvering his troops.
However, all that he had discovered was that the landlady of the
Poivriere was conniving with the murderer. The motive of her connivance
was yet unknown, and the murderer’s identity still a mystery. Both M.
Segmuller and Lecoq were nevertheless of the opinion that the old hag
knew everything. “It is almost certain,” remarked the magistrate, “that
she was acquainted with the people who came to her house--with the
women, the victims, the murderer--with all of them, in fact. I am
positive as regards that fellow Gustave--I read it in her eyes. I am
also convinced that she knows Lacheneur--the man upon whom the dying
soldier breathed vengeance--the mysterious personage who evidently
possesses the key to the enigma. That man must be found.”
“Ah!” replied Lecoq, “and I will find him even if I have to question
every one of the eleven hundred thousand men who constantly walk the
streets of Paris!”
This was promising so much that the magistrate, despite his
preoccupation, could not repress a smile.
“If this old woman would only decide to make a clean breast of it at her
next examination!” remarked Lecoq.
“Yes. But she won’t.”
The young detective shook his head despondently. Such was his own
opinion. He did not delude himself with false hopes, and he had noticed
between the Widow Chupin’s eyebrows those furrows which, according to
physiognomists, indicate a senseless, brutish obstinacy.
“Women never confess,” resumed the magistrate; “and even when they
seemingly resign themselves to such a course they are not sincere. They
fancy they have discovered some means of misleading their examiner. On
the contrary, evidence will crush the most obstinate man; he gives up
the struggle, and confesses. Now, a woman scoffs at evidence. Show her
the sun; tell her it’s daytime; at once she will close her eyes and
say to you, ‘No, it’s night.’ Male prisoners plan and combine different
systems of defense according to their social positions; the women, on
the contrary, have but one system, no matter what may be their condition
in life. They deny everything, persist in their denials even when the
proof against them is overwhelming, and then they cry. When I worry the
Chupin with disagreeable questions, at her next examination, you may be
sure she will turn her eyes into a fountain of tears.”
In his impatience, M. Segmuller angrily stamped his foot. He had many
weapons in his arsenal; but none strong enough to break a woman’s dogged
resistance.
“If I only understood the motive that guides this old hag!” he
continued. “But not a clue! Who can tell me what powerful interest
induces her to remain silent? Is it her own cause that she is defending?
Is she an accomplice? Is it certain that she did not aid the murderer in
planning an ambuscade?”
“Yes,” responded Lecoq, slowly, “yes; this supposition very naturally
presents itself to the mind. But think a moment, sir, such a theory
would prove that the idea we entertained a short time since is
altogether false. If the Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the murderer is
not the person we have supposed him to be; he is simply the man he seems
to be.”
This argument apparently convinced M. Segmuller. “What is your opinion?”
he asked.
The young detective had formed his opinion a long while ago. But how
could he, a humble police agent, venture to express any decided views
when the magistrate hesitated? He understood well enough that his
position necessitated extreme reserve; hence, it was in the most modest
tone that he replied: “Might not the pretended drunkard have dazzled
Mother Chupin’s eyes with the prospect of a brilliant reward? Might he
not have promised her a considerable sum of money?”
He paused; Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just returned.
Behind him stood a private of the Garde de Paris who remained
respectfully on the threshold, his heels in a straight line, his right
hand raised to the peak of his shako, and his elbow on a level with his
eyes, in accordance with the regulations.
“The governor of the Depot,” said the soldier, “sends me to inquire if
he is to keep the Widow Chupin in solitary confinement; she complains
bitterly about it.”
M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. “Certainly,” he murmured, as if
replying to an objection made by his own conscience; “certainly, it
is an undoubted aggravation of suffering; but if I allow this woman
to associate with the other prisoners, she will certainly find some
opportunity to communicate with parties outside. This must not be; the
interests of justice and truth must be considered first.” The thought
embodied in these last words decided him. “Despite her complaints the
prisoner must be kept in solitary confinement until further orders,” he
said.
The soldier allowed his right hand to fall to his side, he carried
his right foot three inches behind his left heel, and wheeled around.
Goguet, the smiling clerk, then closed the door, and, drawing a large
envelope from his pocket, handed it to the magistrate. “Here is a
communication from the governor of the Depot,” said he.
The magistrate broke the seal, and read aloud, as follows:
“I feel compelled to advise M. Segmuller to take every precaution
with the view of assuring his own safety before proceeding with the
examination of the prisoner, May. Since his unsuccessful attempt at
suicide, this prisoner has been in such a state of excitement that we
have been obliged to keep him in a strait-waistcoat. He did not close
his eyes all last night, and the guards who watched him expected every
moment that he would become delirious. However, he did not utter a word.
When food was offered him this morning, he resolutely rejected it, and
I should not be surprised if it were his intention to starve himself
to death. I have rarely seen a more determined criminal. I think him
capable of any desperate act.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had disappeared, “If I were
in your place, sir, I would only let him in here with an escort of
soldiers.”
“What! you--Goguet, you, an old clerk--make such a proposition! Can it
be that you’re frightened?”
“Frightened! No, certainly not; but--”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed superlative
confidence in his own muscles; “Am I not here?”
If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article of
furniture would naturally have served as a rampart between the prisoner
and himself. For purposes of convenience he usually did place himself
behind it; but after Goguet’s display of fear, he would have blushed
to have taken the slightest measure of self-protection. Accordingly,
he went and sat down by the fireplace--as he had done a few moments
previously while questioning the Widow Chupin--and then ordered his
door-keeper to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized this word
“alone.”
A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk, and the
prisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into the room. Goguet
turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq advanced a step forward, ready
to spring upon the prisoner and pinion him should it be requisite. But
when the latter reached the centre of the room, he paused and looked
around him. “Where is the magistrate?” he inquired, in a hoarse voice.
“I am the magistrate,” replied M. Segmuller.
“No, the other one.”
“What other one?”
“The one who came to question me last evening.”
“He has met with an accident. Yesterday, after leaving you, he fell down
and broke his leg.”
“Oh!”
“And I am to take his place.”
The prisoner was apparently deaf to the explanation. Excitement had
seemingly given way to stupor. His features, hitherto contracted with
anger, now relaxed. He grew pale and tottered, as if about to fall.
“Compose yourself,” said the magistrate in a benevolent tone; “if you
are too weak to remain standing, take a seat.”
Already, with a powerful effort, the man had recovered his
self-possession. A momentary gleam flashed from his eyes. “Many thanks
for your kindness,” he replied, “but this is nothing. I felt a slight
sensation of dizziness, but it is over now.”
“Is it long since you have eaten anything?”
“I have eaten nothing since that man”--and so saying he pointed to
Lecoq--“brought me some bread and wine at the station house.”
“Wouldn’t you like to take something?”
“No--and yet--if you would be so kind--I should like a glass of water.”
“Will you not have some wine with it?”
“I should prefer pure water.”
His request was at once complied with. He drained a first glassful at
a single draft; the glass was then replenished and he drank again, this
time, however, more slowly. One might have supposed that he was drinking
in life itself. Certainly, when he laid down the empty glass, he seemed
quite another man.
Eighteen out of every twenty criminals who appear before our
investigating magistrates come prepared with a more or less complete
plan of defense, which they have conceived during their preliminary
confinement. Innocent or guilty, they have resolved, on playing some
part or other, which they begin to act as soon as they cross the
threshold of the room where the magistrate awaits them.
The moment they enter his presence, the magistrate needs to bring all
his powers of penetration into play; for such a culprit’s first attitude
as surely betrays his plan of defense as an index reveals a book’s
contents. In this case, however, M. Segmuller did not think that
appearances were deceitful. It seemed evident to him that the prisoner
was not feigning, but that the excited frenzy which marked his entrance
was as real as his after stupor.
At all events, there seemed no fear of the danger the governor of the
Depot had spoken of, and accordingly M. Segmuller seated himself at his
desk. Here he felt stronger and more at ease for his back being turned
to the window, his face was half hidden in shadow; and in case of need,
he could, by bending over his papers, conceal any sign of surprise or
discomfiture.
The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in the full light, and not a
movement of his features, not the fluttering of an eyelid could escape
the magistrate’s attention. He seemed to have completely recovered
from his indisposition; and his features assumed an expression which
indicated either careless indifference, or complete resignation.
“Do you feel better?” asked M. Segmuller.
“I feel very well.”
“I hope,” continued the magistrate, paternally, “that in future you will
know how to moderate your excitement. Yesterday you tried to destroy
yourself. It would have been another great crime added to many others--a
crime which--”
With a hasty movement of the hand, the prisoner interrupted him. “I
have committed no crime,” said he, in a rough, but no longer threatening
voice. “I was attacked, and I defended myself. Any one has a right to do
that. There were three men against me. It was a great misfortune; and
I would give my right hand to repair it; but my conscience does not
reproach me--that much!”
The prisoner’s “that much,” was a contemptuous snap of his finger and
thumb.
“And yet I’ve been arrested and treated like an assassin,” he continued.
“When I saw myself interred in that living tomb which you call a secret
cell, I grew afraid; I lost my senses. I said to myself: ‘My boy,
they’ve buried you alive; and it is better to die--to die quickly,
if you don’t wish to suffer.’ So I tried to strangle myself. My death
wouldn’t have caused the slightest sorrow to any one. I have neither
wife nor child depending upon me for support. However, my attempt was
frustrated. I was bled; and then placed in a strait-waistcoat, as if I
were a madman. Mad! I really believed I should become so. All night
long the jailors sat around me, like children amusing themselves by
tormenting a chained animal. They watched me, talked about me, and
passed the candle to and fro before my eyes.”
The prisoner talked forcibly, but without any attempt at oratorical
display; there was bitterness but not anger in his tone; in short, he
spoke with all the seeming sincerity of a man giving expression to some
deep emotion or conviction. As the magistrate and the detective heard
him speak, they were seized with the same idea. “This man,” they
thought, “is very clever; it won’t be easy to get the better of him.”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, M. Segmuller added aloud: “This
explains your first act of despair; but later on, for instance, even
this morning, you refused to eat the food that was offered you.”
As the prisoner heard this remark, his lowering face suddenly
brightened, he gave a comical wink, and finally burst into a hearty
laugh, gay, frank, and sonorous.
“That,” said he, “is quite another matter. Certainly, I refused all they
offered me, and now I will tell you why. As I had my hands confined in
the strait-waistcoat, the jailor tried to feed me just as a nurse tries
to feed a baby with pap. Now I wasn’t going to submit to that, so I
closed my lips as tightly as I could. Then he tried to force my mouth
open and push the spoon in, just as one might force a sick dog’s
jaws apart and pour some medicine down its throat. The deuce take
his impertinence! I tried to bite him: that’s the truth, and if I had
succeeded in getting his finger between my teeth, it would have stayed
there. However, because I wouldn’t be fed like a baby, all the prison
officials raised their hands to heaven in holy horror, and pointed at
me, saying: ‘What a terrible man! What an awful rascal!’”
The prisoner seemed to thoroughly enjoy the recollection of the scene he
had described, for he now burst into another hearty laugh, to the great
amazement of Lecoq, and the scandal of Goguet, the smiling clerk.
M. Segmuller also found it difficult to conceal his surprise. “You are
too reasonable, I hope,” he said, at last, “to attach any blame to these
men, who, in confining you in a strait-waistcoat, were merely obeying
the orders of their superior officers with the view of protecting you
from your own violent passions.”
“Hum!” responded the prisoner, suddenly growing serious. “I do blame
them, however, and if I had one of them in a corner--But, never mind, I
shall get over it. If I know myself aright, I have no more spite in my
composition than a chicken.”
“Your treatment depends on your own conduct,” rejoined M. Segmuller,
“If you will only remain calm, you shan’t be put in a strait-waistcoat
again. But you must promise me that you will be quiet and conduct
yourself properly.”
The murderer sadly shook his head. “I shall be very prudent hereafter,”
said he, “but it is terribly hard to stay in prison with nothing to do.
If I had some comrades with me, we could laugh and chat, and the time
would slip by; but it is positively horrible to have to remain alone,
entirely alone, in that cold, damp cell, where not a sound can be
heard.”
The magistrate bent over his desk to make a note. The word “comrades”
had attracted his attention, and he proposed to ask the prisoner to
explain it at a later stage of the inquiry.
“If you are innocent,” he remarked, “you will soon be released: but it
is necessary to prove your innocence.”
“What must I do to prove it?”
“Tell the truth, the whole truth: answer my questions honestly without
reserve.”
“As for that, you may depend upon me.” As he spoke the prisoner lifted
his hand, as if to call upon God to witness his sincerity.
But M. Segmuller immediately intervened: “Prisoners do not take the
oath,” said he.
“Indeed!” ejaculated the man with an astonished air, “that’s strange!”
Although the magistrate had apparently paid but little attention to the
prisoner, he had in point of fact carefully noted his attitude, his tone
of voice, his looks and gestures. M. Segmuller had, moreover, done
his utmost to set the culprit’s mind at ease, to quiet all possible
suspicion of a trap, and his inspection of the prisoner’s person led him
to believe that this result had been attained.
“Now,” said he, “you will give me your attention; and do not forget that
your liberty depends upon your frankness. What is your name?”
“May.”
“What is your Christian name?”
“I have none.”
“That is impossible.”
“I have been told that already three times since yesterday,” rejoined
the prisoner impatiently. “And yet it’s the truth. If I were a liar, I
could easily tell you that my name was Peter, James, or John. But
lying is not in my line. Really, I have no Christian name. If it were a
question of surnames, it would be quite another thing. I have had plenty
of them.”
“What were they?”
“Let me see--to commence with, when I was with Father Fougasse, I was
called Affiloir, because you see--”
“Who was this Father Fougasse?”
“The great wild beast tamer, sir. Ah! he could boast of a menagerie
and no mistake! Lions, tigers, and bears, serpents as big round as your
thigh, parrakeets of every color under the sun. Ah! it was a wonderful
collection. But unfortunately--”
Was the man jesting, or was he in earnest? It was so hard to decide,
that M. Segmuller and Lecoq were equally in doubt. As for Goguet, the
smiling clerk, he chuckled to himself as his pen ran over the paper.
“Enough,” interrupted the magistrate. “How old are you?”
“Forty-four or forty-five years of age.”
“Where were you born?”
“In Brittany, probably.”
M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of irony in this
reply.
“I warn you,” said he, severely, “that if you go on in this way your
chances of recovering your liberty will be greatly compromised. Each of
your answers is a breach of propriety.”
As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingled
distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. “Ah! I meant no offense,
sir,” he sighed. “You questioned me, and I replied. You will see that
I have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history of
the whole affair.”
“When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened,” so runs an
old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed,
seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in an
investigating magistrate’s presence, without betraying his intentions or
his thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he
is endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded,
understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent.
Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded their
defense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutely
compelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmost
caution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and
they are very sparing of details.
In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal of words. He
did not seem to think that there was any danger of his being the medium
of accomplishing his own decapitation. He did not hesitate like those
who are afraid of misplacing a word of the romance they are substituting
for the truth. Under other circumstances, this fact would have been a
strong argument in his favor.
“You may tell your own story, then,” said M. Segmuller in answer to the
prisoner’s indirect request.
The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction he
experienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause, in his own
way. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as if with pleasure. He
sat himself dawn, threw his head back, passed his tongue over his lips
as if to moisten them, and said: “Am I to understand that you wish to
hear my history?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know that one day about forty-five years ago, Father
Tringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic company, was going
from Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brittany. He had with him two large
vehicles containing his wife, the necessary theatrical paraphernalia,
and the members of the company. Well, soon after passing Chatelaudren,
he perceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge of a
ditch. ‘I must go and see what that is,’ he said to his wife. He stopped
the horses, alighted from the vehicle he was in, went to the ditch,
picked up the object he had noticed, and uttered a cry of surprise. You
will ask me what he had found? Ah! good heavens! A mere trifle. He had
found your humble servant, then about six months old.”
With these last words, the prisoner made a low bow to his audience.
“Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his wife. She was a
kind-hearted woman. She took me, examined me, fed me, and said: ‘He’s a
strong, healthy child; and we’ll keep him since his mother has been so
wicked as to abandon him by the roadside. I will teach him; and in five
or six years he will be a credit to us.’ They then asked each other what
name they should give me, and as it happened to be the first day of May,
they decided to call me after the month, and so it happens that May has
been my name from that day to this.”
The prisoner paused again and looked from one to another of his
listeners, as if seeking some sign of approval. None being forthcoming,
he proceeded with his story.
“Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, entirely ignorant of the law. He
did not inform the authorities that he had found a child, and, for this
reason, although I was living, I did not legally exist, for, to have
a legal existence it is necessary that one’s name, parentage, and
birthplace should figure upon a municipal register.
“When I grew older, I rather congratulated myself on Father Tringlot’s
neglect. ‘May, my boy,’ said I, ‘you are not put down on any government
register, consequently there’s no fear of your ever being drawn as a
soldier.’ I had a horror of military service, and a positive dread of
bullets and cannon balls. Later on, when I had passed the proper age for
the conscription, a lawyer told me that I should get into all kinds of
trouble if I sought a place on the civil register so late in the day;
and so I decided to exist surreptitiously. And this is why I have no
Christian name, and why I can’t exactly say where I was born.”
If truth has any particular accent of its own, as moralists have
asserted, the murderer had found that accent. Voice, gesture, glance,
expression, all were in accord; not a word of his long story had rung
false.
“Now,” said M. Segmuller, coldly, “what are your means of subsistence?”
By the prisoner’s discomfited mien one might have supposed that he
had expected to see the prison doors fly open at the conclusion of his
narrative. “I have a profession,” he replied plaintively. “The one that
Mother Tringlot taught me. I subsist by its practise; and I have lived
by it in France and other countries.”
The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner’s armor. “You
say you have lived in foreign countries?” he inquired.
“Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson’s company, I
traveled most of the time in England and Germany.”
“Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that your hands are so
white and soft?”
Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands from his
lap and examined them with evident complacency. “It is true they are
pretty,” said he, “but this is because I take good care of them and
scarcely use them.”
“Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?”
“Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public,
in turning a compliment, in making things pass off pleasantly, as the
saying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certain
knack--”
M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever he
considered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder. “In that
case,” said he, “will you give me a specimen of your talent?”
“Ah, ha!” laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest on
the part of the magistrate. “Ah, ha!”
“Obey me, if you please,” insisted M. Segmuller.
The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at once assumed a
different expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence,
conceit, and irony. He caught up a ruler that was lying on the
magistrate’s desk, and, flourishing it wildly, began as follows, in a
shrill falsetto voice: “Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold your
peace! Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to
witness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaled
in the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and in
innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!”
“That is sufficient,” interrupted the magistrate. “You can speak like
that in France; but what do you say in Germany?”
“Of course, I use the language of that country.”
“Let me hear, then!” retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue was
German.
The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, assumed an air of comical
importance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak as
follows, in very emphatic tones: “Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichen
Obrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zum
erstenmal aufgefuhrt--Genovesa, oder--”
This opening of the prisoner’s German harangue may be thus rendered:
“With the permission of the local authorities there will now be
presented before the honorable citizens, for the first time--Genevieve,
or the--”
“Enough,” said the magistrate, harshly. He rose, perhaps to conceal his
chagrin, and added: “We will send for an interpreter to tell us whether
you speak English as fluently.”
On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward. “I understand
English,” said he.
“Very well. You hear, prisoner?”
But the man was already transformed. British gravity and apathy were
written upon his features; his gestures were stiff and constrained,
and in the most ponderous tones he exclaimed: “Walk up! ladies and
gentlemen, walk up! Long life to the queen and to the honorable mayor
of this town! No country, England excepted--our glorious England!--could
produce such a marvel, such a paragon--” For a minute or two longer he
continued in the same strain.
M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his face hidden by his hands.
Lecoq, standing in front of the prisoner, could not conceal his
astonishment. Goguet, the smiling clerk, alone found the scene amusing.