XI

The governor of the Depot, a functionary who had gained the reputation

of an oracle by twenty years’ experience in prisons and with

prisoners--a man whom it was most difficult to deceive--had advised the

magistrate to surround himself with every precaution before examining

the prisoner, May.

And yet this man, characterized as a most dangerous criminal, and the

very announcement of whose coming had made the clerk turn pale, had

proved to be a practical, harmless, and jovial philosopher, vain of his

eloquence, a bohemian whose existence depended upon his ability to turn

a compliment; in short, a somewhat erratic genius.

This was certainly strange, but the seeming contradiction did not cause

M. Segmuller to abandon the theory propounded by Lecoq. On the contrary,

he was more than ever convinced of its truth. If he remained silent,

with his elbows leaning on the desk, and his hands clasped over his

eyes, it was only that he might gain time for reflection.

The prisoner’s attitude and manner were remarkable. When his English

harangue was finished, he remained standing in the centre of the room, a

half-pleased, half-anxious expression on his face. Still, he was as much

at ease as if he had been on the platform outside some stroller’s booth,

where, if one could believe his story, he had passed the greater part of

his life. It was in vain that the magistrate sought for some indication

of weakness on his features, which in their mobility were more

enigmatical than the lineaments of the Sphinx.

Thus far, M. Segmuller had been worsted in the encounter. It is true,

however, that he had not as yet ventured on any direct attack, nor had

he made use of any of the weapons which Lecoq had forged for his use.

Still he was none the less annoyed at his defeat, as it was easy to see

by the sharp manner in which he raised his head after a few moments’

silence. “I see that you speak three European languages correctly,” said

he. “It is a rare talent.”

The prisoner bowed, and smiled complacently. “Still that does not

establish your identity,” continued the magistrate. “Have you any

acquaintances in Paris? Can you indicate any respectable person who will

vouch for the truth of this story?”

“Ah! sir, it is seventeen years since I left France.”

“That is unfortunate, but the prosecution can not content itself with

such an explanation. What about your last employer, M. Simpson? Who is

he?”

“M. Simpson is a rich man,” replied the prisoner, rather coldly, “worth

more than two hundred thousand francs, and honest besides. In Germany he

traveled with a show of marionettes, and in England with a collection of

phenomena to suit the tastes of that country.”

“Very well! Then this millionaire could testify in your favor; it would

be easy to find him, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” responded May, emphatically. “M. Simpson would willingly

do me this favor. It would not be difficult for me to find him, only it

would require considerable time.”

“Why?”

“Because at the present moment he must be on his way to America. It was

on account of this journey that I left his company--I detest the ocean.”

A moment previously Lecoq’s anxiety had been so intense that his

heart almost stopped beating; on hearing these last words, however,

he regained all his self-possession. As for the magistrate, he merely

greeted the murderer’s reply with a brief but significant ejaculation.

“When I say that he is on his way,” resumed the prisoner, “I may be

mistaken. He may not have started yet, though he had certainly made all

his arrangements before we separated.”

“What ship was he to sail by?”

“He did not tell me.”

“Where was he when you left him?”

“At Leipsic.”

“When was this?”

“Last Wednesday.”

M. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “So you say you were

in Leipsic on Wednesday? How long have you been in Paris?”

“Since Sunday afternoon, at four o’clock.”

“It will be necessary to prove that.”

Judging by the murderer’s contracted brow it might be conjectured

that he was making a strenuous effort to remember something. He cast

questioning glances first toward the ceiling and then toward the floor,

scratching his head and tapping his foot in evident perplexity. “How can

I prove it--how?” he murmured.

The magistrate did not appear disposed to wait. “Let me assist you,”

said he. “The people at the inn where you boarded while in Leipsic must

remember you.”

“We did not stop at an inn.”

“Where did you eat and sleep, then?”

“In M. Simpson’s large traveling-carriage; it had been sold, but he was

not to give it up until he reached the port he was to sail from.”

“What port was that?”

“I don’t know.”

At this reply Lecoq, who had less experience than the magistrate in the

art of concealing one’s impressions, could not help rubbing his hands

with satisfaction. The prisoner was plainly convicted of falsehood,

indeed driven into a corner.

“So you have only your own word to offer in support of this story?”

inquired M. Segmuller.

“Wait a moment,” said the prisoner, extending his arm as if to clutch at

a still vague inspiration--“wait a moment. When I arrived in Paris I had

with me a trunk containing my clothes. The linen is all marked with the

first letter of my name, and besides some ordinary coats and trousers,

there were a couple of costumes I used to wear when I appeared in

public.”

“Well, what have you done with all these things?”

“When I arrived in Paris, I took the trunk to a hotel, close by the

Northern Railway Station--”

“Go on. Tell us the name of this hotel,” said M. Segmuller, perceiving

that the prisoner had stopped short, evidently embarrassed.

“That’s just what I’m trying to recollect. I’ve forgotten it. But I

haven’t forgotten the house. I fancy I can see it now; and, if some one

would only take me to the neighborhood, I should certainly recognize

it. The people at the hotel would know me, and, besides, my trunk would

prove the truth of what I’ve told you.”

On hearing this statement, Lecoq mentally resolved to make a tour of

investigation through the various hotels surrounding the Gare du Nord.

“Very well,” retorted the magistrate. “Perhaps we will do as you

request. Now, there are two questions I desire to ask. If you arrived

in Paris at four o’clock in the afternoon, how did it happen that by

midnight of the same day you had discovered the Poivriere, which is

merely frequented by suspicious characters, and is situated in such a

lonely spot that it would be impossible to find it at night-time, if one

were not familiar with the surrounding localities? In the second place,

how does it happen, if you possess such clothing as you describe, that

you are so poorly dressed?”

The prisoner smiled at these questions. “I can easily explain that,” he

replied. “One’s clothes are soon spoiled when one travels third-class,

so on leaving Leipsic I put on the worst things I had. When I arrived

here, and felt my feet on the pavements of Paris, I went literally wild

with delight. I acted like a fool. I had some money in my pocket--it was

Shrove Sunday--and my only thought was to make a night of it. I did not

think of changing my clothes. As I had formerly been in the habit of

amusing myself round about the Barriere d’Italie, I hastened there and

entered a wine-shop. While I was eating a morsel, two men came in and

began talking about spending the night at a ball at the Rainbow. I

asked them to take me with them; they agreed, I paid their bills, and

we started. But soon after our arrival there these young men left me

and joined the dancers. It was not long before I grew weary of merely

looking on. Rather disappointed, I left the inn, and being foolish

enough not to ask my way, I wandered on till I lost myself, while

traversing a tract of unoccupied land. I was about to go back, when I

saw a light in the distance. I walked straight toward it, and reached

that cursed hovel.”

“What happened then?”

“Oh! I went in; called for some one. A woman came downstairs, and I

asked her for a glass of brandy. When she brought it, I sat down and

lighted a cigar. Then I looked about me. The interior was almost enough

to frighten one. Three men and two women were drinking and chatting in

low tones at another table. My face did not seem to suit them. One of

them got up, came toward me, and said: ‘You are a police agent; you’ve

come here to play the spy; that’s very plain.’ I answered that I wasn’t

a police agent. He replied that I was. I again declared that I wasn’t.

In short, he swore that he was sure of it, and that my beard was false.

So saying, he caught hold of my beard and pulled it. This made me mad. I

jumped up, and with a blow of my fist I felled him to the ground. In

an instant all the others were upon me! I had my revolver--you know the

rest.”

“And while all this was going on what were the two women doing?”

“Ah! I was too busy to pay any attention to them. They disappeared!”

“But you saw them when you entered the place--what were they like?”

“Oh! they were big, ugly creatures, as tall as grenadiers, and as dark

as moles!”

Between plausible falsehood, and improbable truth, justice--human

justice, and therefore liable to error--is compelled to decide as best

it can. For the past hour M. Segmuller had not been free from mental

disquietude. But all his doubts vanished when he heard the prisoner

declare that the two women were tall and dark. If he had said: “The

women were fair,” M. Segmuller would not have known what to believe, but

in the magistrate’s opinion the audacious falsehood he had just heard

proved that there was a perfect understanding between the supposed

murderer and Widow Chupin.

Certainly, M. Segmuller’s satisfaction was great; but his face did not

betray it. It was of the utmost importance that the prisoner should

believe that he had succeeded in deceiving his examiner. “You must

understand how necessary it is to find these women,” said the magistrate

kindly.

“If their testimony corresponds with your allegations, your innocence

will be proved conclusively.”

“Yes, I understand that; but how can I put my hand upon them?”

“The police can assist you--our agents are always at the service

of prisoners who desire to make use of them in establishing their

innocence. Did you make any observations which might aid in the

discovery of these women?”

Lecoq, whose eyes never wandered from the prisoner’s face, fancied that

he saw the faint shadow of a smile on the man’s lips.

“I remarked nothing,” said the prisoner coldly.

M. Segmuller had opened the drawer of his desk a moment before. He

now drew from it the earring which had been found on the scene of the

tragedy, and handing it abruptly to the prisoner, he asked: “So you

didn’t notice this in the ear of one of the women?”

The prisoner’s imperturbable coolness of demeanor did not forsake him.

He took the jewel in his hand, examined it attentively, held it up to

the light, admired its brilliant scintillations, and said: “It is a very

handsome stone, but I didn’t notice it.”

“This stone,” remarked the magistrate, “is a diamond.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; and worth several thousand francs.”

“So much as that!”

This exclamation may have been in accordance with the spirit of the part

assumed by the prisoner; though, at the same time, its simplicity

was undoubtedly far-fetched. It was strange that a nomad, such as the

murderer pretended to have been, acquainted with most of the countries

and capitals of Europe, should have displayed this astonishment on

learning the value of a diamond. Still, M. Segmuller did not seem to

notice the discrepancy.

“Another thing,” said he. “When you threw down your pistol, crying,

‘Come and take me,’ what did you intend to do?”

“I intended to make my escape.”

“In what way?”

“Why, of course, by the door, sir--by--”

“Yes, by the back door,” retorted the magistrate, with freezing irony.

“It remains for you to explain how you--you who had just entered that

hovel for the first time--could have known of this door’s existence.”

For once, in the course of the examination, the prisoner seemed

troubled. For an instant all his assurance forsook him. He evidently

perceived the danger of his position, and after a considerable effort he

contrived to burst out in a laugh. His laugh was a poor one, however; it

rang false, and failed to conceal a sensation of deep anxiety. Growing

gradually bolder, he at length exclaimed: “That’s nonsense, I had just

seen these two women go out by that very door.”

“Excuse me, you declared a minute ago that you did not see these women

leave: that you were too busy to watch their movements.”

“Did I say that?”

“Word for word; the passage shall be shown you. Goguet, find it.”

The clerk at once read the passage referred to, whereupon the prisoner

undertook to show that the remark had been misunderstood. He had

not said--at least, he did not intend to say--that; they had quite

misinterpreted his words. With such remarks did he try to palliate the

effect of his apparent blunders.

In the mean while, Lecoq was jubilant. “Ah, my fine fellow,” thought he,

“you are contradicting yourself--you are in deep water already--you are

lost. There’s no hope for you.”

The prisoner’s situation was indeed not unlike that of a bather, who,

unable to swim, imprudently advances into the sea until the water rises

above his chin. He may for a while have preserved his equilibrium,

despite the buffeting of the waves, but now he totters, loses his

footing--another second, and he will sink!

“Enough--enough!” said the magistrate, cutting the prisoner’s

embarrassed explanation short. “Now, if you started out merely with

the intention of amusing yourself, how did it happen that you took your

revolver with you?”

“I had it with me while I was traveling, and did not think of leaving it

at the hotel any more than I thought of changing my clothes.”

“Where did you purchase it?”

“It was given me by M. Simpson as a souvenir.”

“Confess that this M. Simpson is a very convenient personage,” said the

magistrate coldly. “Still, go on with your story. Only two chambers of

this murderous weapon were discharged, but three men were killed. You

have not told me the end of the affair.”

“What’s the use?” exclaimed the prisoner, in saddened tones. “Two of my

assailants had fallen; the struggle became an equal one. I seized the

remaining man, the soldier, round the body, and threw him down. He fell

against a corner of the table, and did not rise again.”

M. Segmuller had unfolded upon his desk the plan of the Poivriere drawn

by Lecoq. “Come here,” he said, addressing the prisoner, “and show me on

this paper the precise spot you and your adversaries occupied.”

May obeyed, and with an assurance of manner a little surprising in a man

in his position, he proceeded to explain the drama. “I entered,” said

he, “by this door, marked C; I seated myself at the table, H, to the

left of the entrance: my assailants occupied the table between the

fireplace, F, and the window, B.”

“I must admit,” said the magistrate, “that your assertions fully agree

with the statements of the physicians, who say that one of the shots

must have been fired about a yard off, and the other about two yards

off.”

This was a victory for the prisoner, but he only shrugged his shoulders

and murmured: “That proves that the physicians knew their business.”

Lecoq was delighted. This part of the prisoner’s narrative not merely

agreed with the doctor’s statements, but also confirmed his own

researches. The young detective felt that, had he been the examiner,

he would have conducted the investigation in precisely the same way.

Accordingly, he thanked heaven that M. Segmuller had supplied the place

of M. d’Escorval.

“This admitted,” resumed the magistrate, “it remains for you to explain

a sentence you uttered when the agent you see here arrested you.”

“What sentence?”

“You exclaimed: ‘Ah, it’s the Prussians who are coming; I’m lost!’ What

did you mean by that?”

A fleeting crimson tinge suffused the prisoner’s cheek. It was evident

that if he had anticipated the other questions, and had been prepared

for them, this one, at least, was unexpected. “It’s very strange,” said

he, with ill-disguised embarrassment, “that I should have said such a

thing!”

“Five persons heard you,” insisted the magistrate.

The prisoner did not immediately reply. He was evidently trying to gain

time, ransacking in his mind for a plausible explanation. “After all,”

he ultimately said, “the thing’s quite possible. When I was with M.

Simpson, we had with us an old soldier who had belonged to Napoleon’s

body-guard and had fought at Waterloo. I recollect he was always

repeating that phrase. I must have caught the habit from him.”

This explanation, though rather slow in coming, was none the less

ingenious. At least, M. Segmuller appeared to be perfectly satisfied.

“That’s very plausible,” said he; “but there is one circumstance that

passes my comprehension. Were you freed from your assailants before the

police entered the place? Answer me, yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Then why, instead of making your escape by the back door, the existence

of which you had divined, did you remain on the threshold of the door

leading into the back room, with a table before you to serve as a

barricade, and your revolver leveled at the police, as if to keep them

at bay?”

The prisoner hung his head, and the magistrate had to wait for his

answer. “I was a fool,” he stammered at last. “I didn’t know whether

these men were police agents or friends of the fellows I had killed.”

“In either case your own interest should have induced you to fly.”

The prisoner remained silent.

“Ah, well!” resumed M. Segmuller, “let me tell you my opinion. I believe

you designedly and voluntarily exposed yourself to the danger of being

arrested in order to protect the retreat of the two women who had just

left.”

“Why should I have risked my own safety for two hussies I did not even

know?”

“Excuse me. The prosecution is strongly inclined to believe that you

know these two women very well.”

“I should like to see any one prove that!” So saying, the prisoner

smiled sneeringly, but at once changed countenance when the magistrate

retorted in a tone of assurance: “I will prove it.”