Long, narrow, and low of ceiling, having on the one side a row of
windows looking on to a small courtyard, and on the other a range of
doors, each with a number on its central panel, thus reminding one of
some corridor in a second-rate hotel, such is the Galerie d’Instruction
at the Palais de Justice whereby admittance is gained into the various
rooms occupied by the investigating magistrates. Even in the daytime,
when it is thronged with prisoners, witnesses, and guards, it is a sad
and gloomy place. But it is absolutely sinister of aspect at night-time,
when deserted, and only dimly lighted by the smoky lamp of a solitary
attendant, waiting for the departure of some magistrate whom business
has detained later than usual.
Although Lecoq was not sensitive to such influences, he made haste to
reach the staircase and thus escape the echo of his footsteps, which
sounded most drearily in the silence and darkness pervading the gallery.
Finding an open window on the floor below, he looked out to ascertain
the state of the weather. The temperature was much milder; the snow had
altogether disappeared, and the pavement was almost dry. A slight haze,
illumined by the ruddy glare of the street lamps, hung like a purple
mantle over the city. The streets below were full of animation; vehicles
were rolling rapidly to and fro, and the footways were too narrow for
the bustling crowd, which, now that the labors of the day were ended,
was hastening homeward or in search of pleasure.
The sight drew a sigh from the young detective. “And it is in this great
city,” he murmured, “in the midst of this world of people that I must
discover the traces of a person I don’t even know! Is it possible to
accomplish such a feat?”
The feeling of despondency that had momentarily surprised him was not,
however, of long duration. “Yes, it is possible,” cried an inward voice.
“Besides, it must be done; your future depends upon it. Where there’s a
will, there’s a way.” Ten seconds later he was in the street, more than
ever inflamed with hope and courage.
Unfortunately, however, man can only place organs of limited power at
the disposal of his boundless desires; and Lecoq had not taken twenty
steps along the streets before he became aware that if the spirit was
willing, the flesh was weak. His limbs trembled, and his head whirled.
Nature was asserting her rights; during the last forty-eight hours,
the young detective had taken scarcely a moment’s rest, and he had,
moreover, now passed an entire day without food.
“Am I going to be ill?” he thought, sinking on to a bench. And he
groaned inwardly on recapitulating all that he wished to do that
evening.
If he dealt only with the more important matters, must he not at once
ascertain the result of Father Absinthe’s search after the man who
had recognized one of the victims at the Morgue; test the prisoner’s
assertions regarding the box of clothes left at one of the hotels
surrounding the Northern Railway Station; and last, but not the least,
must he not procure the address of Polyte Chupin’s wife, in order to
serve her with the summons to appear before M. Segmuller?
Under the power of urgent necessity, he succeeded in triumphing over
his attack of weakness, and rose, murmuring: “I will go first to the
Prefecture and to the Morgue; then I will see.”
But he did not find Father Absinthe at the Prefecture, and no one could
give any tidings of him. He had not been there at all during the
day. Nor could any one indicate, even vaguely, the abode of the Widow
Chupin’s daughter-in-law.
On the other hand, however, Lecoq met a number of his colleagues, who
laughed and jeered at him unmercifully. “Ah! you are a shrewd fellow!”
they said, “it seems that you have just made a wonderful discovery, and
it’s said you are going to be decorated with the Legion of Honor.”
Gevrol’s influence betrayed itself everywhere. The jealous inspector
had taken pains to inform all his colleagues and subordinates that poor
Lecoq, crazed by ambition, persisted in declaring that a low, vulgar
murderer trying to escape justice was some great personage in disguise.
However, the jeers and taunts of which Lecoq was the object had but
little effect upon him, and he consoled himself with the reflection
that, “He laughs best who laughs last.”
If he were restless and anxious as he walked along the Quai des
Orfevres, it was because he could not explain Father Absinthe’s
prolonged absence, and because he feared that Gevrol, mad with jealousy,
might attempt, in some underhand way, to frustrate his, Lecoq’s, efforts
to arrive at a solution of the mystery.
At the Morgue the young detective met with no better success than at the
Prefecture. After ringing three or four times, one of the keepers opened
the door and informed him that the bodies had not been identified, and
that the old police agent had not been seen since he went away early in
the morning.
“This is a bad beginning,” thought Lecoq. “I will go and get some
dinner--that, perhaps, will change the luck; at all events, I have
certainly earned the bottle of good wine to which I intend to treat
myself.”
It was a happy thought. A hearty meal washed down with a couple of
glasses of Bordeaux sent new courage and energy coursing through his
veins. If he still felt a trifle weary, the sensation of fatigue was at
all events greatly diminished when he left the restaurant with a cigar
between his lips.
Just at that moment he longed for Father Papillon’s trap and sturdy
steed. Fortunately, a cab was passing: he hired it, and as eight o’clock
was striking, alighted at the corner of the square in front of the
Northern Railway Station. After a brief glance round, he began his
search for the hotel where the murderer pretended to have left a box of
clothes.
It must be understood that he did not present himself in his official
capacity. Hotel proprietors fight shy of detectives, and Lecoq was aware
that if he proclaimed his calling he would probably learn nothing at
all. By brushing back his hair and turning up his coat collar, he made,
however, a very considerable alteration in his appearance; and it was
with a marked English accent that he asked the landlords and servants of
various hostelries surrounding the station for information concerning a
“foreign workman named May.”
He conducted his search with considerable address, but everywhere he
received the same reply.
“We don’t know such a person; we haven’t seen any one answering the
description you give of him.”
Any other answer would have astonished Lecoq, so strongly persuaded was
he that the prisoner had only mentioned the circumstances of a trunk
left at one of these hotels in order to give a semblance of truth to his
narrative. Nevertheless he continued his investigation. If he noted down
in his memorandum book the names of all the hotels which he visited, it
was with a view of making sure of the prisoner’s discomfiture when he
was conducted to the neighborhood and asked to prove the truth of his
story.
Eventually, Lecoq reached the Hotel de Mariembourg, at the corner of
the Rue St. Quentin. The house was of modest proportions; but seemed
respectable and well kept. Lecoq pushed open the glass door leading into
the vestibule, and entered the office--a neat, brightly lighted room,
where he found a woman standing upon a chair, her face on a level with
a large bird cage, covered with a piece of black silk. She was repeating
three or four German words with great earnestness to the inmate of the
cage, and was so engrossed in this occupation that Lecoq had to make
considerable noise before he could attract her attention.
At length she turned her head, and the young detective exclaimed: “Ah!
good evening, madame; you are much interested, I see, in teaching your
parrot to talk.”
“It isn’t a parrot,” replied the woman, who had not yet descended from
her perch; “but a starling, and I am trying to teach it to say ‘Have you
breakfasted?’ in German.”
“What! can starlings talk?”
“Yes, sir, as well as you or I,” rejoined the woman, jumping down from
the chair.
Just then the bird, as if it had understood the question, cried very
distinctly: “Camille! Where is Camille?”
But Lecoq was too preoccupied to pay any further attention to the
incident. “Madame,” he began, “I wish to speak to the proprietor of this
hotel.”
“I am the proprietor.”
“Oh! very well. I was expecting a mechanic--from Leipsic--to meet me
here in Paris. To my great surprise, he has not made his appearance; and
I came to inquire if he was stopping here. His name is May.”
“May!” repeated the hostess, thoughtfully. “May!”
“He ought to have arrived last Sunday evening.”
The woman’s face brightened. “Wait a moment,” said she. “Was this
friend of yours a middle-aged man, of medium size, of very dark
complexion--wearing a full beard, and having very bright eyes?”
Lecoq could scarcely conceal his agitation. This was an exact
description of the supposed murderer. “Yes,” he stammered, “that is a
very good portrait of the man.”
“Ah, well! he came here on Shrove Sunday, in the afternoon. He asked for
a cheap room, and I showed him one on the fifth floor. The office-boy
was not here at the time, and he insisted upon taking his trunk upstairs
himself. I offered him some refreshments; but he declined to take
anything, saying that he was in a great hurry; and he went away after
giving me ten francs as security for the rent.”
“Where is he now?” inquired the young detective.
“Dear me! that reminds me,” replied the woman. “He has never returned,
and I have been rather anxious about him. Paris is such a dangerous
place for strangers! It is true he spoke French as well as you or I;
but what of that? Yesterday evening I gave orders that the commissary of
police should be informed of the matter.”
“Yesterday--the commissary?”
“Yes. Still, I don’t know whether the boy obeyed me. I had forgotten all
about it. Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him.”
A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq’s head could not have
astonished him more than did this announcement from the proprietress of
the Hotel de Mariembourg. Had the prisoner indeed told the truth? Was it
possible? Gevrol and the governor of the prison were right, then, and M.
Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom. These
ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective’s brain. But he had
no time for reflection. The boy who had been summoned now made his
appearance, and proved to be a big overgrown lad with frank, chubby
face.
“Fritz,” asked his mistress, “did you go to the commissary’s office?”
“Yes, madame.”
“What did he say?”
“He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir, who said you
were not to worry yourself, as the man would no doubt return.”
“But he has not returned.”
The boy rejoined, with a movement of the shoulders that plainly implied:
“How can I help that?”
“You hear, sir,” said the hostess, apparently thinking the importunate
questioner would now withdraw.
Such, however, was not Lecoq’s intention, and he did not even move,
though he had need of all his self-possession to retain his English
accent. “This is very annoying,” said he, “very! I am even more anxious
and undecided than I was before, since I am not certain that this is the
man I am seeking for.”
“Unfortunately, sir, I can tell you nothing more,” calmly replied the
landlady.
Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting his brows and biting his lips,
as if he were trying to discover some means of solving the mystery. In
point of fact, he was seeking for some adroit phrase which might lead
this woman to show him the register in which all travelers are compelled
to inscribe their full names, profession, and usual residence. At the
same time, however, it was necessary that he should not arouse her
suspicions.
“But, madame,” said he at last, “can’t you remember the name this man
gave you? Was it May? Try to recollect if that was the name--May--May!”
“Ah! I have so many things to remember. But now I think of it, and the
name must be entered in my book, which, if it would oblige you, I can
show you. It is in the drawer of my writing-table. Whatever can I have
done with my keys?”
And while the hostess, who seemed to possess about as much intelligence
as her starling, was turning the whole office upside down looking for
her keys, Lecoq scrutinized her closely. She was about forty years of
age, with an abundance of light hair, and a very fair complexion.
She was well preserved--that is to say, she was plump and healthy in
appearance; her glance was frank and unembarrassed; her voice was clear
and musical, and her manners were pleasing, and entirely free from
affectation.
“Ah!” she eventually exclaimed, “I have found those wretched keys at
last.” So saying, she opened her desk, took out the register, laid it
on the table, and began turning over the leaves. At last she found the
desired page.
“Sunday, February 20th,” said she. “Look, sir: here on the
seventh line--May--no Christian name--foreign artist--coming from
Leipsic--without papers.”
While Lecoq was examining this record with a dazed air, the woman
exclaimed: “Ah! now I can explain how it happened that I forgot the
man’s name and strange profession--‘foreign artist.’ I did not make the
entry myself.”
“Who made it, then?”
“The man himself, while I was finding ten francs to give him as change
for the louis he handed me. You can see that the writing is not at all
like that of other entries.”
Lecoq had already noted this circumstance, which seemed to furnish an
irrefutable argument in favor of the assertions made by the landlady
and the prisoner. “Are you sure,” he asked, “that this is the man’s
handwriting?”
In his anxiety he had forgotten his English accent. The woman noticed
this at once, for she drew back, and cast a suspicious glance at the
pretended foreigner. “I know what I am saying,” she said, indignantly.
“And now this is enough, isn’t it?”
Knowing that he had betrayed himself, and thoroughly ashamed of his lack
of coolness, Lecoq renounced his English accent altogether. “Excuse me,”
he said, “if I ask one more question. Have you this man’s trunk in your
possession?”
“Certainly.”
“You would do me an immense service by showing it to me.”
“Show it to you!” exclaimed the landlady, angrily. “What do you take me
for? What do you want? and who are you?”
“You shall know in half an hour,” replied the young detective, realizing
that further persuasion would be useless.
He hastily left the room, ran to the Place de Roubaix, jumped into a
cab, and giving the driver the address of the district commissary of
police, promised him a hundred sous over and above the regular fare
if he would only make haste. As might have been expected under such
circumstances, the poor horse fairly flew over the ground.
Lecoq was fortunate enough to find the commissary at his office.
Having given his name, he was immediately ushered into the magistrate’s
presence and told his story in a few words.
“It is really true that they came to inform me of this man’s
disappearance,” said the commissary. “Casimir told me about it this
morning.”
“They--came--to inform--you--” faltered Lecoq.
“Yes, yesterday; but I have had so much to occupy my time. Now, my man,
how can I serve you?”
“Come with me, sir; compel them to show us the trunk, and send for a
locksmith to open it. Here is the authority--a search warrant given me
by the investigating magistrate to use in case of necessity. Let us lose
no time. I have a cab at the door.”
“We will start at once,” said the commissary.
The driver whipped up his horse once more, and they were soon rapidly
rolling in the direction of the Rue St. Quentin.
“Now, sir,” said the young detective, “permit me to ask if you know this
woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?”
“Yes, indeed, I know her very well. When I was first appointed to this
district, six years ago, I was a bachelor, and for a long while I took
my meals at her table d’hote. Casimir, my secretary, boards there even
now.”
“And what kind of woman is she?”
“Why, upon my word, my young friend, Madame Milner--for such is her
name--is a very respectable widow (highly esteemed by her neighbors) and
having a very prosperous business. If she remains a widow, it is only
from choice, for she is very prepossessing and has plenty of suitors.”
“Then you don’t think her capable of serving, for the sake of a good
round sum, the interests of some wealthy culprit?”
“Have you gone mad?” interrupted the commissary. “What, Madame Milner
perjure herself for the sake of money! Haven’t I just told you that she
is an honest woman, and that she is very well off! Besides, she informed
me yesterday that this man was missing, so--”
Lecoq made no reply; the driver was pulling up; they had reached their
destination.
On seeing her obstinate questioner reappear, accompanied by the
commissary, Madame Milner seemed to understand everything.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “a detective! I might have guessed it!
Some crime has been committed; and now my hotel has lost its reputation
forever!”
While a messenger was despatched for a locksmith, the commissary
endeavored to reassure and console her, a task of no little difficulty,
and which he was some time in accomplishing.
At last they all went up to the missing man’s room, and Lecoq sprang
toward the trunk. Ah! there was no denying it. It had, indeed, come
from Leipsic; as the labels pasted upon it by the different railroad
companies only too plainly proved. On being opened, it was, moreover,
found to contain the various articles mentioned by the prisoner.
Lecoq was thunderstruck. When he had seen the commissary lock the trunk
and its contents up in a cupboard and take possession of the key, he
felt he could endure nothing more. He left the room with downcast head;
and stumbled like a drunken man as he went down the stairs.