The extreme uncertainty of the result was another attraction for M.
Segmuller’s investigating mind. Given the magnitude of the difficulties
that were to be overcome, he rightly considered that if his efforts
proved successful, he would have achieved a really wonderful victory.
And, assisted by such a man as Lecoq, who had a positive genius for his
calling, and in whom he recognized a most valuable auxiliary, he really
felt confident of ultimate success.
Even on returning home after the fatiguing labors of the day he did not
think of freeing himself from the burden of responsibility in relation
to the business he had on hand, or of driving away care until the
morrow. He dined in haste, and as soon as he had swallowed his coffee
began to study the case with renewed ardor. He had brought from his
office a copy of the prisoner’s narrative, which he attentively perused,
not once or twice, but several times, seeking for some weak point that
might be attacked with a probability of success. He analyzed every
answer, and weighed one expression after another, striving, as he did
so, to find some flaw through which he might slip a question calculated
to shatter the structure of defense. He worked thus, far into the night,
and yet he was on his legs again at an early hour in the morning. By
eight o’clock he was not merely dressed and shaved, he had not merely
taken his matutinal chocolate and arranged his papers, but he was
actually on his way to the Palais de Justice. He had quite forgotten
that his own impatience was not shared by others.
In point of fact, the Palais de Justice was scarcely awake when he
arrived there. The doors had barely opened. The attendants were busy
sweeping and dusting; or changing their ordinary garments for their
official costumes. Some of them standing in the windows of the long
dressing room were shaking and brushing the judges’ and advocates’
gowns; while in the great hall several clerks stood in a group, chaffing
each other while waiting for the arrival of the head registrar and the
opening of the investigation offices.
M. Segmuller thought that he had better begin by consulting the public
prosecutor, but he discovered that this functionary had not yet arrived.
Angry and impatient, he proceeded to his own office; and with his eyes
fixed on the clock, growled at the slowness of the minute hand. Just
after nine o’clock, Goguet, the smiling clerk, put in an appearance and
speedily learned the kind of humor his master was in.
“Ah, you’ve come at last,” gruffly ejaculated M. Segmuller, momentarily
oblivious of the fact that he himself scarcely ever arrived before ten,
and that a quarter-past nine was certainly early for his clerk.
Goguet’s curiosity had indeed prompted him to hurry to the Palais;
still, although well aware that he did not deserve a reprimand, he
endeavored to mumble an excuse--an excuse cut short by M. Segmuller
in such unusually harsh tones that for once in a way Goguet’s habitual
smile faded from his face. “It’s evident,” thought he, “that the wind’s
blowing from a bad quarter this morning,” with which reflection
he philosophically put on his black sleeves and going to his table
pretended to be absorbed in the task of mending his pens and preparing
his paper.
In the mean while, M. Segmuller who was usually calmness personified,
and dignity par excellence, paced restlessly to and fro. At times he
would sit down and then suddenly spring to his feet again, gesticulating
impatiently as he did so. Indeed, he seemed unable to remain quiet for a
moment.
“The prosecution is evidently making no headway,” thought the clerk.
“May’s prospects are encouraging.” Owing to the magistrate’s harsh
reception the idea delighted him; and, indeed, letting his rancor have
the upper hand, Goguet actually offered up a prayer that the prisoner
might get the better of the fight.
From half-past nine till ten o’clock M. Segmuller rang for his messenger
at least five times, and each time he asked him the same questions: “Are
you sure that M. Lecoq has not been here this morning? Inquire! If he
has not been here he must certainly have sent some one, or else have
written to me.”
Each time the astonished doorkeeper replied: “No one has been here, and
there is no letter for you.”
Five identical negative answers to the same inquiries only increased the
magistrate’s wrath and impatience. “It is inconceivable!” he exclaimed.
“Here I am upon coals of fire, and that man dares to keep me waiting.
Where can he be?”
At last he ordered a messenger to go and see if he could not find Lecoq
somewhere in the neighborhood; perhaps in some restaurant or cafe. “At
all events, he must be found and brought back immediately,” said he.
When the man had started, M. Segmuller began to recover his composure.
“We must not lose valuable time,” he said to his clerk. “I was to
examine the widow Chupin’s son. I had better do so now. Go and tell them
to bring him to me. Lecoq left the order at the prison.”
In less than a quarter of an hour Polyte entered the room. From head to
foot, from his lofty silk cap to his gaudy colored carpet slippers,
he was indeed the original of the portrait upon which poor Toinon the
Virtuous had lavished such loving glances. And yet the photograph was
flattering. The lens had failed to convey the expression of low cunning
that distinguished the man’s features, the impudence of his leering
smile, and the mingled cowardice and ferocity of his eyes, which never
looked another person in the face. Nor could the portrait depict the
unwholesome, livid pallor of his skin, the restless blinking of his
eyelids, and the constant movement of his thin lips as he drew them
tightly over his short, sharp teeth. There was no mistaking his nature;
one glance and he was estimated at his worth.
When he had answered the preliminary questions, telling the magistrate
that he was thirty years of age, and that he had been born in Paris, he
assumed a pretentious attitude and waited to see what else was coming.
But before proceeding with the real matter in hand, M. Segmuller wished
to relieve the complacent scoundrel of some of his insulting assurance.
Accordingly, he reminded Polyte, in forcible terms, that his sentence
in the affair in which he was now implicated would depend very much upon
his behavior and answers during the present examination.
Polyte listened with a nonchalant and even ironical air. In fact, this
indirect threat scarcely touched him. Having previously made inquiries
he had ascertained that he could not be condemned to more than six
months’ imprisonment for the offense for which he had been arrested; and
what did a month more or less matter to him?
The magistrate, who read this thought in Polyte’s eyes, cut his preamble
short. “Justice,” said he, “now requires some information from you
concerning the frequenters of your mother’s establishment.”
“There are a great many of them, sir,” answered Polyte in a harsh voice.
“Do you know one of them named Gustave?”
“No, sir.”
To insist would probably awaken suspicion in Polyte’s mind; accordingly,
M. Segmuller continued: “You must, however, remember Lacheneur?”
“Lacheneur? No, this is the first time I’ve heard that name.”
“Take care. The police have means of finding out a great many things.”
The scapegrace did not flinch. “I am telling the truth, sir,” he
retorted. “What interest could I possibly have in deceiving you?”
Scarcely had he finished speaking than the door suddenly opened and
Toinon the Virtuous entered the room, carrying her child in her arms.
On perceiving her husband, she uttered a joyful exclamation, and sprang
toward him. But Polyte, stepping back, gave her such a threatening
glance that she remained rooted to the spot.
“It must be an enemy who pretends that I know any one named Lacheneur!”
cried the barriere bully. “I should like to kill the person who uttered
such a falsehood. Yes, kill him; I will never forgive it.”
The messenger whom M. Segmuller had instructed to go in search of Lecoq
was not at all displeased with the errand; for it enabled him to leave
his post and take a pleasant little stroll through the neighborhood. He
first of all proceeded to the Prefecture of Police, going the longest
way round as a matter of course, but, on reaching his destination, he
could find no one who had seen the young detective.
Accordingly, M. Segmuller’s envoy retraced his steps, and leisurely
sauntered through the restaurants, cafes, and wine shops installed in
the vicinity of the Palais de Justice, and dependent on the customers
it brought them. Being of a conscientious turn of mind, he entered
each establishment in succession and meeting now and again various
acquaintances, he felt compelled to proffer and accept numerous glasses
of the favorite morning beverage--white wine. Turn which way he would,
however, loiter as long as he might, there were still no signs of Lecoq.
He was returning in haste, a trifle uneasy on account of the length
of his absence, when he perceived a cab pull up in front of the Palais
gateway. A second glance, and oh, great good fortune, he saw Lecoq,
Father Absinthe, and the virtuous Toinon alight from this very vehicle.
His peace of mind at once returned; and it was in a very important and
somewhat husky tone that he delivered the order for Lecoq to follow him
without a minute’s delay. “M. Segmuller has asked for you a number of
times,” said he, “He has been extremely impatient, and he is in a very
bad humor, so you may expect to have your head snapped off in the most
expeditious manner.”
Lecoq smiled as he went up the stairs. Was he not bringing with him the
most potent of justifications? He thought of the agreeable surprise he
had in store for the magistrate, and fancied he could picture the sudden
brightening of that functionary’s gloomy face.
And yet, fate so willed it that the doorkeeper’s message and his urgent
appeal that Lecoq should not loiter on the way, produced the most
unfortunate results. Believing that M. Segmuller was anxiously waiting
for him, Lecoq saw nothing wrong in opening the door of the magistrate’s
room without previously knocking; and being anxious to justify his
absence, he yielded, moreover, to the impulse that led him to push
forward the poor woman whose testimony might prove so decisive. When he
saw, however, that the magistrate was not alone, and when he recognized
Polyte Chupin--the original of the photograph--in the man M. Segmuller
was examining, his stupefaction became intense. He instantly perceived
his mistake and understood its consequences.
There was only one thing to be done. He must prevent any exchange of
words between the two. Accordingly, springing toward Toinon and seizing
her roughly by the arm, he ordered her to leave the room at once. But
the poor creature was quite overcome, and trembled like a leaf. Her
eyes were fixed upon her unworthy husband, and the happiness she felt at
seeing him again shone plainly in her anxious gaze. Just for one second;
and then she caught his withering glance and heard his words of menace.
Terror-stricken, she staggered back, and then Lecoq seized her around
the waist, and, lifting her with his strong arms, carried her out into
the passage. The whole scene had been so brief that M. Segmuller was
still forming the order for Toinon to be removed from the room, when he
found the door closed again, and himself and Goguet alone with Polyte.
“Ah, ah!” thought the smiling clerk, in a flutter of delight, “this is
something new.” But as these little diversions never made him forget his
duties, he leaned toward the magistrate and asked: “Shall I take down
the last words the witness uttered?”
“Certainly,” replied M. Segmuller, “and word for word, if you please.”
He paused; the door opened again, this time to admit the magistrate’s
messenger, who timidly, and with a rather guilty air, handed his master
a note, and then withdrew. This note, scribbled in pencil by Lecoq on a
leaf torn from his memorandum book, gave the magistrate the name of
the woman who had just entered his room, and recapitulated briefly but
clearly the information obtained in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles.
“That young fellow thinks of everything!” murmured M. Segmuller. The
meaning of the scene that had just occurred was now explained to him. He
understood everything.
He bitterly regretted this unfortunate meeting; at the same time casting
the blame on his own impatience and lack of caution, which, as soon as
the messenger had started in search of Lecoq, had induced him to summon
Polyte Chupin. Although he could not conceal from himself the enormous
influence this seemingly trivial incident might have, still he would not
allow himself to be cast down, but prepared to resume his examination of
Polyte Chupin in hopes of yet obtaining the information he desired.
“Let us proceed,” he said to Polyte, who had not moved since his
wife had been taken from the room, being to all appearances sublimely
indifferent to everything passing around him. To the magistrate’s
proposal he carelessly nodded assent.
“Was that your wife who came in just now?” asked M. Segmuller.
“Yes.”
“She wished to embrace you, and you repulsed her.”
“I didn’t repulse her.”
“You kept her at a distance at all events. If you had a spark of
affection in your nature, you would at least have looked at your child,
which she held out to you. Why did you behave in that manner?”
“It wasn’t the time for sentiment.”
“You are not telling the truth. You simply desired to attract her
attention, to influence her evidence.”
“I--I influence her evidence! I don’t understand you.”
“But for that supposition, your words would have been meaningless?”
“What words?”
The magistrate turned to his clerk: “Goguet,” said he, “read the last
remark you took down.”
In a monotonous voice, the smiling clerk repeated: “I should like to
kill the person who dared to say that I knew Lacheneur.”
“Well, then!” insisted M. Segmuller, “what did you mean by that?”
“It’s very easy to understand, sir.”
M. Segmuller rose. “Don’t prevaricate any longer,” he said. “You
certainly ordered your wife not to say anything about Lacheneur. That’s
evident. Why did you do so? What are you afraid of her telling us?
Do you suppose the police are ignorant of your acquaintance with
Lacheneur--of your conversation with him when he came in a cab to the
corner of the waste ground near your mother’s wine-shop; and of the
hopes of fortune you based upon his promises? Be guided by me; confess
everything, while there is yet time; and abandon the present course
which may lead you into serious danger. One may be an accomplice in more
ways than one.”
As these words fell on Polyte’s ears, it was evident his impudence and
indifference had received a severe shock. He seemed confounded, and
hung his head as if thoroughly abashed. Still, he preserved an obstinate
silence; and the magistrate finding that this last thrust had failed to
produce any effect, gave up the fight in despair. He rang the bell, and
ordered the guard to conduct the witness back to prison, and to take
every precaution to prevent him seeing his wife again.
When Polyte had departed, Lecoq reentered the room. “Ah, sir,” said he,
despondently, “to think that I didn’t draw out of this woman everything
she knew, when I might have done so easily. But I thought you would be
waiting for me, and made haste to bring her here. I thought I was acting
for the best--”
“Never mind, the misfortune can be repaired.”
“No, sir, no. Since she has seen her husband, it is quite impossible
to get her to speak. She loves that rascal intensely, and he has a
wonderful influence over her. You heard what he said. He threatened
her with death if she breathed a word about Lacheneur, and she is so
terrified that there is no hope of making her speak.”
Lecoq’s apprehension was based on fact, as M, Segmuller himself
perceived the instant Toinon the Virtuous again set foot in his office.
The poor creature seemed nearly heartbroken, and it was evident she
would have given her life to retract the words that had escaped her when
first questioned by Lecoq. Polyte’s threat had aroused the most sinister
apprehensions in her mind. Not understanding his connection with
the affair, she asked herself if her testimony might not prove his
death-warrant. Accordingly, she answered all M. Segmuller’s questions
with “no” or “I don’t know”; and retracted everything she had previously
stated to Lecoq. She swore that she had been misunderstood, that her
words had been misconstrued; and vowed on her mother’s memory, that she
had never heard the name of Lacheneur before. At last, she burst into
wild, despairing sobs, and pressed her frightened child against her
breast.
What could be done to overcome this foolish obstinacy, as blind and
unreasoning as a brute’s? M. Segmuller hesitated. “You may retire, my
good woman,” said he kindly, after a moment’s pause, “but remember that
your strange silence injures your husband far more than anything you
could say.”
She left the room--or rather she rushed wildly from it as though only
too eager to escape--and the magistrate and the detective exchanged
glances of dismay and consternation.
“I said so before,” thought Goguet, “the prisoner knows what he’s about.
I would be willing to bet a hundred to one in his favor.”
A French investigating magistrate is possessed of almost unlimited
powers. No one can hamper him, no one can give him orders. The entire
police force is at his disposal. One word from him and twenty agents, or
a hundred if need be, search Paris, ransack France, or explore Europe.
If there be any one whom he believes able to throw light upon an obscure
point, he simply sends an order to that person to appear before him, and
the man must come even if he lives a hundred leagues away.
Such is the magistrate, such are his powers. On the other hand, the
prisoner charged with a crime, but as yet un-convicted, is confined,
unless his offense be of a trivial description, in what is called a
“secret cell.” He is, so to say, cut off from the number of the living.
He knows nothing of what may be going on in the world outside. He can
not tell what witnesses may have been called, or what they may have
said, and in his uncertainty he asks himself again and again how far the
prosecution has been able to establish the charges against him.
Such is the prisoner’s position, and yet despite the fact that the
two adversaries are so unequally armed, the man in the secret cell not
unfrequently wins the victory. If he is sure that he has left behind
him no proof of his having committed the crime; if he has no guilty
antecedents to be afraid of, he can--impregnable in a defense of
absolute denial--brave all the attacks of justice.
Such was, at this moment, the situation of May, the mysterious murderer;
as both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were forced to admit, with mingled grief
and anger. They had hoped to arrive at a solution of the problem by
examining Polyte Chupin and his wife, and they had been disappointed;
for the prisoner’s identity remained as problematical as ever.
“And yet,” exclaimed the magistrate impatiently, “these people know
something about this matter, and if they would only speak--”
“But they won’t.”
“What motive is it that keeps them silent? This is what we must
discover. Who will tell us the price that has been promised Polyte
Chupin for his silence? What recompense can he count upon? It must be a
great one, for he is braving real danger!”
Lecoq did not immediately reply to the magistrate’s successive queries,
but it was easy to see from his knit brows that his mind was hard at
work. “You ask me, sir,” he eventually remarked, “what reward has
been promised Chupin? I ask on my part who can have promised him this
reward?”
“Who has promised it? Why, plainly the accomplice who has beaten us on
every point.”
“Yes,” rejoined Lecoq, “I suppose it must have been he. It certainly
looks like his handiwork--now, what artifice can he have used? We know
how he managed to have an interview with the Widow Chupin, but how has
he succeeded in getting at Polyte, who is in prison, closely watched?”
The young detective’s insinuation, vague as it was, did not escape M.
Segmuller. “What do you mean?” asked the latter, with an air of mingled
surprise and indignation. “You can’t suppose that one of the keepers has
been bribed?”
Lecoq shook his head, in a somewhat equivocal manner. “I mean nothing,”
he replied, “I don’t suspect any one. All I want is information. Has
Chupin been forewarned or not?”
“Yes, of course he has.”
“Then if that point is admitted it can only be explained in two ways.
Either there are informers in the prison, or else Chupin has been
allowed to see some visitor.”
These suppositions evidently worried M. Segmuller, who for a moment
seemed to hesitate between the two opinions; then, suddenly making
up his mind, he rose from his chair, took up his hat, and said: “This
matter must be cleared up. Come with me, Monsieur Lecoq.”
A couple of minutes later, the magistrate and the detective had reached
the Depot, which is connected with the Palais de Justice by a narrow
passage, especially reserved for official use. The prisoners’ morning
rations had just been served to them, and the governor was walking up
and down the courtyard, in the company of Inspector Gevrol. As soon as
he perceived M. Segmuller he hastened toward him and asked if he had not
come about the prisoner May.
As the magistrate nodded assent, the governor at once added: “Well I was
only just now telling Inspector Gevrol that I was very well satisfied
with May’s behavior. It has not only been quite unnecessary to place
him in the strait-waistcoat again, but his mood seems to have changed
entirely. He eats with a good appetite; he is as gay as a lark, and he
constantly laughs and jests with his keeper.”
Gevrol had pricked up his ears when he heard himself named by the
governor, and considering this mention to be a sufficient introduction,
he thought there would be no impropriety in his listening to the
conversation. Accordingly, he approached the others, and noted with
some satisfaction the troubled glances which Lecoq and the magistrate
exchanged.
M. Segmuller was plainly perplexed. May’s gay manner to which the
governor of the Depot alluded might perhaps have been assumed for the
purpose of sustaining his character as a jester and buffoon, it might be
due to a certainty of defeating the judicial inquiry, or, who knows? the
prisoner had perhaps received some favorable news from outside.
With Lecoq’s last words still ringing in his ears, it is no wonder that
the magistrate should have dwelt on this last supposition. “Are you
quite sure,” he asked, “that no communication from outside can reach the
inmates of the secret cells?”
The governor of the Depot was cut to the quick by M. Segmuller’s implied
doubt. What! were his subordinates suspected? Was his own professional
honesty impugned? He could not help lifting his hands to heaven in mute
protest against such an unjust charge.
“Am I sure?” he exclaimed. “Then you can never have visited the secret
cells. You have no idea, then, of their situation; you are unacquainted
with the triple bolts that secure the doors; the grating that shuts out
the sunlight, to say nothing of the guard who walks beneath the windows
day and night. Why, a bird couldn’t even reach the prisoners in those
cells.”
Such a description was bound to reassure the most skeptical mind, and M.
Segmuller breathed again: “Now that I am easy on that score,” said he,
“I should like some information about another prisoner--a fellow named
Chupin, who isn’t in the secret cells. I want to know if any visitor
came for him yesterday.”
“I must speak to the registrar,” replied the governor, “before I can
answer you with certainty. Wait a moment though, here comes a man who
can perhaps tell us. He is usually on guard at the entrance. Here,
Ferraud, this way!”
The man to whom the governor called hastened to obey the summons.
“Do you know whether any one asked to see the prisoner Chupin
yesterday?”
“Yes, sir, I went to fetch Chupin to the parlor myself.”
“And who was his visitor?” eagerly asked Lecoq, “wasn’t he a tall man;
very red in the face--”
“Excuse me, sir, the visitor was a lady--his aunt, at least so Chupin
told me.”
Neither M. Segmuller nor Lecoq could restrain an exclamation of
surprise. “What was she like?” they both asked at the same time.
“She was short,” replied the attendant, “with a very fair complexion and
light hair; she seemed to be a very respectable woman.”
“It must have been one of the female fugitives who escaped from the
Widow Chupin’s hovel,” exclaimed Lecoq.
Gevrol, hitherto an attentive listener, burst into a loud laugh. “Still
that Russian princess,” said he.
Neither the magistrate nor the young detective relished this
unseasonable jest. “You forget yourself, sir,” said M. Segmuller
severely. “You forget that the sneers you address to your comrade also
apply to me!”
The General saw that he had gone too far; and while glancing hatefully
at Lecoq, he mumbled an apology to the magistrate. The latter did not
apparently hear him, for, bowing to the governor, he motioned Lecoq to
follow him away.
“Run to the Prefecture of Police,” he said as soon as they were out of
hearing, “and ascertain how and under what pretext this woman obtained
permission to see Polyte Chupin.”