On his way back to his office, M. Segmuller mentally reviewed the
position of affairs; and came to the conclusion that as he had failed
to take the citadel of defense by storm, he must resign himself to a
regular protracted siege. He was exceedingly annoyed at the constant
failures that had attended all Lecoq’s efforts; for time was on the
wing, and he knew that in a criminal investigation delay only increased
the uncertainty of success. The more promptly a crime is followed by
judicial action the easier it is to find the culprit, and prove his
guilt. The longer investigation is delayed the more difficult it becomes
to adduce conclusive evidence.
In the present instance there were various matters that M. Segmuller
might at once attend to. With which should he begin? Ought he not to
confront May, the Widow Chupin, and Polyte with the bodies of their
victims? Such horrible meetings have at times the most momentous
results, and more than one murderer when unsuspectedly brought into the
presence of his victim’s lifeless corpse has changed color and lost his
assurance.
Then there were other witnesses whom M. Segmuller might examine.
Papillon, the cab-driver; the concierge of the house in the Rue de
Bourgogne--where the two women flying from the Poivriere had momentarily
taken refuge; as well as a certain Madame Milner, landlady of the Hotel
de Mariembourg. In addition, it would also be advisable to summon, with
the least possible delay, some of the people residing in the vicinity of
the Poivriere; together with some of Polyte’s habitual companions, and
the landlord of the Rainbow, where the victims and the murderer had
apparently passed the evening of the crime. Of course, there was no
reason to expect any great revelations from any of these witnesses,
still they might know something, they might have an opinion to express,
and in the present darkness one single ray of light, however faint,
might mean salvation.
Obeying the magistrate’s orders, Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just
finished drawing up at least a dozen summonses, when Lecoq returned from
the Prefecture. M. Segmuller at once asked him the result of his errand.
“Ah, sir,” replied the young detective, “I have a fresh proof of that
mysterious accomplice’s skill. The permit that was used yesterday to see
young Chupin was in the name of his mother’s sister, a woman named
Rose Pitard. A visiting card was given her more than a week ago, in
compliance with a request indorsed by the commissary of police of her
district.”
The magistrate’s surprise was so intense that it imparted to his face
an almost ludicrous expression. “Is this aunt also in the plot?” he
murmured.
“I don’t think so,” replied Lecoq, shaking his head. “At all events, it
wasn’t she who went to the prison parlor yesterday. The clerks at the
Prefecture remember the widow’s sister very well, and gave me a full
description of her. She’s a woman over five feet high, with a very dark
complexion; and very wrinkled and weatherbeaten about the face. She’s
quite sixty years old; whereas, yesterday’s visitor was short and fair,
and not more than forty-five.”
“If that’s the case,” interrupted M. Segmuller, “this visitor must be
one of our fugitives.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who do you suppose she was, then?”
“Why, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg--that clever woman who
succeeded so well in deceiving me. But she had better take care! There
are means of verifying my suspicions.”
The magistrate scarcely heard Lecoq’s last words, so enraged was he at
the inconceivable audacity and devotion displayed by so many people:
all of whom were apparently willing to run the greatest risks so long as
they could only assure the murderer’s incognito.
“But how could the accomplice have known of the existence of this
permit?” he asked after a pause.
“Oh, nothing could be easier, sir,” replied Lecoq. “When the Widow
Chupin and the accomplice had that interview at the station-house near
the Barriere d’Italie, they both realized the necessity of warning
Polyte. While trying to devise some means of getting to him, the old
woman remembered her sister’s visiting card, and the man made some
excuse to borrow it.”
“Yes, such must be the case,” said M. Segmuller, approvingly. “It will
be necessary to ascertain, however--”
“And I will ascertain,” interrupted Lecoq, with a resolute air, “if you
will only intrust the matter to me, sir. If you will authorize me I
will have two spies on the watch before to-night, one in the Rue de
la Butte-aux-Cailles, and the other at the door of the Hotel de
Mariembourg. If the accomplice ventured to visit Toinon or Madame Milner
he would be arrested; and then we should have our turn!”
However, there was no time to waste in vain words and idle boasting.
Lecoq therefore checked himself, and took up his hat preparatory to
departure. “Now,” said he, “I must ask you, sir, for my liberty; if
you have any orders, you will find a trusty messenger in the corridor,
Father Absinthe, one of my colleagues. I want to find out something
about Lacheneur’s letter and the diamond earring.”
“Go, then,” replied M. Segmuller, “and good luck to you!”
Good luck! Yes, indeed, Lecoq looked for it. If up to the present moment
he had taken his successive defeats good-humoredly, it was because he
believed that he had a talisman in his pocket which was bound to insure
ultimate victory.
“I shall be very stupid if I can’t discover the owner of such a valuable
jewel,” he soliloquized, referring to the diamond earring. “And when
I find the owner I shall at the same time discover our mysterious
prisoner’s identity.”
The first step to be taken was to ascertain whom the earring had been
bought from. It would naturally be a tedious process to go from jeweler
to jeweler and ask: “Do you know this jewel, was it set by you, and if
so whom did you sell it to?” But fortunately Lecoq was acquainted with
a man whose knowledge of the trade might at once throw light on the
matter. This individual was an old Hollander, named Van Numen, who as a
connoisseur in precious stones, was probably without his rival in Paris.
He was employed by the Prefecture of Police as an expert in all such
matters. He was considered rich. Despite his shabby appearance, he was
rightly considered rich, and, in point of fact, he was indeed far more
wealthy than people generally supposed. Diamonds were his especial
passion, and he always had several in his pocket, in a little box which
he would pull out and open at least a dozen times an hour, just as a
snuff-taker continually produces his snuffbox.
This worthy man greeted Lecoq very affably. He put on his glasses,
examined the jewel with a grimace of satisfaction, and, in the tone of
an oracle, remarked: “That stone is worth eight thousand francs, and it
was set by Doisty, in the Rue de la Paix.”
Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered this well-known jeweler’s
establishment. Van Numen had not been mistaken. Doisty immediately
recognized the earring, which had, indeed, come from his shop. But whom
had he sold it to? He could not recollect, for it had passed out of his
hands three or four years before.
“Wait a moment though,” said he, “I will just ask my wife, who has a
wonderful memory.”
Madame Doisty truly deserved this eulogium. A single glance at the jewel
enabled her to say that she had seen this earring before, and that the
pair had been purchased from them by the Marchioness d’Arlange.
“You must recollect,” she added, turning to her husband, “that the
Marchioness only gave us nine thousand francs on account, and that we
had all the trouble in the world to make her pay the balance.”
Her husband did remember this circumstance; and in recording his
recollection, he exchanged a significant glance with his wife.
“Now,” said the detective, “I should like to have this marchioness’s
address.”
“She lives in the Faubourg St. Germain,” replied Madame Doisty, “near
the Esplanade des Invalides.”
Lecoq had refrained from any sign of satisfaction while he was in the
jeweler’s presence. But directly he had left the shop he evinced such
delirious joy that the passers-by asked themselves in amazement if
he were not mad. He did not walk, but fairly danced over the stones,
gesticulating in the most ridiculous fashion as he addressed this
triumphant monologue to the empty air: “At last,” said he, “this affair
emerges from the mystery that has enshrouded it. At last I reach the
veritable actors in the drama, the exalted personages whose existence
I had suspected. Ah! Gevrol, my illustrious General! you talked about
a Russian princess, but you will be obliged to content yourself with a
simple marchioness.”
But the vertigo that had seized the young detective gradually
disappeared. His good sense reasserted itself, and, looking calmly at
the situation, he felt that he should need all his presence of mind,
penetration, and sagacity to bring the expedition to a successful
finish. What course should he pursue, on entering the marchioness’s
presence, in order to draw from her a full confession and to obtain full
particulars of the murder, as well as the murderer’s name!
“It will be best to threaten her, to frighten her into confession,”
he soliloquized. “If I give her time for reflection, I shall learn
nothing.”
He paused in his cogitations, for he had reached the residence of the
Marchioness d’Arlange--a charming mansion with a courtyard in front and
garden in the rear. Before entering, he deemed it advisable to obtain
some information concerning the inmates.
“It is here, then,” he murmured, “that I am to find the solution of the
enigma! Here, behind these embroidered curtains, dwells the frightened
fugitive of the other night. What agony of fear must torture her since
she has discovered the loss of her earring!”
For more than an hour, standing under a neighbor’s _porte cochere_,
Lecoq remained watching the house. He would have liked to see the
face of any one; but the time passed by and not even a shadow could
be detected behind the curtain; not even a servant passed across the
courtyard. At last, losing patience, the young detective determined to
make inquiries in the neighborhood, for he could not take a decisive
step without obtaining some knowledge of the people he was to encounter.
While wondering where he could obtain the information he required, he
perceived, on the opposite side of the street, the keeper of a wine-shop
smoking on his doorstep.
At once approaching and pretending that he had forgotten an address,
Lecoq politely asked for the house where Marchioness d’Arlange resided.
Without a word, and without condescending to take his pipe from his
mouth, the man pointed to the mansion which Lecoq had previously
watched.
There was a way, however, to make him more communicative, namely, to
enter the shop, call for something to drink, and invite the landlord to
drink as well. This was what Lecoq did, and the sight of two well-filled
glasses unbound, as by enchantment, the man’s hitherto silent tongue.
The young detective could not have found a better person to question,
for this same individual had been established in the neighborhood for
ten years, and enjoyed among the servants of the aristocratic families
here residing a certain amount of confidence.
“I pity you if you are going to the marchioness’s house to collect a
bill,” he remarked to Lecoq. “You will have plenty of time to learn the
way here before you see your money. You will only be another of the many
creditors who never let her bell alone.”
“The deuce! Is she as poor as that?”
“Poor! Why, every one knows that she has a comfortable income, without
counting this house. But when one spends double one’s income every year,
you know--”
The landlord stopped short, to call Lecoq’s attention to two ladies who
were passing along the street, one of them, a woman of forty, dressed in
black; the other, a girl half-way through her teens. “There,” quoth the
wine-seller, “goes the marchioness’s granddaughter, Mademoiselle Claire,
with her governess, Mademoiselle Smith.”
Lecoq’s head whirled. “Her granddaughter!” he stammered.
“Yes--the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it.”
“How old is the marchioness, then?”
“At least sixty: but one would never suspect it. She is one of those
persons who live a hundred years. And what an old wretch she is too.
She would think no more of knocking me over the head than I would of
emptying this glass of wine--”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq, “but does she live alone in that great
house?”
“Yes--that is--with her granddaughter, the governess, and two servants.
But what is the matter with you?”
This last question was not uncalled for; for Lecoq had turned deadly
white. The magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled beneath the weight of
this man’s words as completely as if it were some frail house of
cards erected by a child. He had only sufficient strength to murmur:
“Nothing--nothing at all.”
Then, as he could endure this torture of uncertainty no longer, he went
toward the marchioness’s house and rang the bell. The servant who came
to open the door examined him attentively, and then announced that
Madame d’Arlange was in the country. He evidently fancied that Lecoq was
a creditor.
But the young detective insisted so adroitly, giving the lackey to
understand so explicitly that he did not come to collect money, and
speaking so earnestly of urgent business, that the servant finally
admitted him to the hall, saying that he would go and see if madame had
really gone out.
Fortunately for Lecoq, she happened to be at home, and an instant
afterward the valet returned requesting the young detective to
follow him. After passing through a large and magnificently furnished
drawing-room, they reached a charming boudoir, hung with rose-colored
curtains, where, sitting by the fireside, in a large easy-chair, Lecoq
found an old woman, tall, bony, and terrible of aspect, her face loaded
with paint, and her person covered with ornaments. The aged coquette
was Madame, the Marchioness, who, for the time being, was engaged in
knitting a strip of green wool. She turned toward her visitor just
enough to show him the rouge on one cheek, and then, as he seemed rather
frightened--a fact flattering to her vanity--she spoke in an affable
tone. “Ah, well young man,” said she, “what brings you here?”
In point of fact, Lecoq was not frightened, but he was intensely
disappointed to find that Madame d’Arlange could not possibly be one of
the women who had escaped from the Widow Chupin’s hovel on the night of
the murder. There was nothing about her appearance that corresponded in
the least degree with the descriptions given by Papillon.
Remembering the small footprints left in the snow by the two fugitives,
the young detective glanced, moreover, at the marchioness’s feet, just
perceivable beneath her skirt, and his disappointment reached its climax
when he found that they were truly colossal in size.
“Well, are you dumb?” inquired the old lady, raising her voice.
Without making a direct reply, Lecoq produced the precious earring, and,
placing it upon the table beside the marchioness, remarked: “I bring you
this jewel, madame, which I have found, and which, I am told, belongs to
you.”
Madame d’Arlange laid down her knitting and proceeded to examine the
earring. “It is true,” she said, after a moment, “that this ornament
formerly belonged to me. It was a fancy I had, about four years ago, and
it cost me dear--at least twenty thousand francs. Ah! Doisty, the man
who sold me those diamonds, must make a handsome income. But I had a
granddaughter to educate and pressing need of money compelled me to sell
them.”
“To whom?” asked Lecoq, eagerly.
“Eh?” exclaimed the old lady, evidently shocked at his audacity, “you
are very inquisitive upon my word!”
“Excuse me, madame, but I am anxious to find the owner of this valuable
ornament.”
Madame d’Arlange regarded her visitor with an air of mingled curiosity
and surprise. “Such honesty!” said she. “Oh, oh! And of course you don’t
hope for a sou by way of reward--”
“Madame!”
“Good, good! There is not the least need for you to turn as red as a
poppy, young man. I sold these diamonds to a great Austrian lady--the
Baroness de Watchau.”
“And where does this lady reside?”
“At the Pere la Chaise, probably, since she died about a year ago. Ah!
these women of the present day--an extra waltz, or the merest draft, and
it’s all over with them! In my time, after each gallop, we girls used
to swallow a tumbler of sweetened wine, and sit down between two open
doors. And we did very well, as you see.”
“But, madame,” insisted Lecoq, “the Baroness de Watchau must have left
some one behind her--a husband, or children--”
“No one but a brother, who holds a court position at Vienna: and who
could not leave even to attend the funeral. He sent orders that all
his sister’s personal property should be sold--not even excepting her
wardrobe--and the money sent to him.”
Lecoq could not repress an exclamation of disappointment. “How
unfortunate!” he murmured.
“Why?” asked the old lady. “Under these circumstances, the diamond will
probably remain in your hands, and I am rejoiced that it should be so.
It will be a fitting reward for your honesty.”
Madame d’Arlange was naturally not aware that her remark implied the
most exquisite torture for Lecoq. Ah! if it should be as she said, if
he should never find the lady who had lost this costly jewel! Smarting
under the marchioness’s unintended irony, he would have liked to
apostrophize her in angry terms; but it could not be, for it was
advisable if not absolutely necessary that he should conceal his true
identity. Accordingly, he contrived to smile, and even stammered an
acknowledgment of Madame d’Arlange’s good wishes. Then, as if he had no
more to expect, he made her a low bow and withdrew.
This new misfortune well-nigh overwhelmed him. One by one all the
threads upon which he had relied to guide him out of this intricate
labyrinth were breaking in his hands. In the present instance he
could scarcely be the dupe of some fresh comedy, for if the murderer’s
accomplice had taken Doisty, the jeweler, into his confidence he would
have instructed him to say that the earring had never come from his
establishment, and that he could not consequently tell whom it had been
sold to. On the contrary, however, Doisty and his wife had readily given
Madame d’Arlange’s name, and all the circumstances pointed in favor of
their sincerity. Then, again, there was good reason to believe in
the veracity of the marchioness’s assertions. They were sufficiently
authenticated by a significant glance which Lecoq had detected between
the jeweler and his wife. The meaning of this glance could not be
doubted. It implied plainly that both husband and wife were of opinion
that in buying these earrings the marchioness engaged in one of those
little speculations which are more common than many people might suppose
among ladies moving in high-class society. Being in urgent want of ready
money, she had bought on credit at a high price to sell for cash at a
loss.
As Lecoq was anxious to investigate the matter as far as possible,
he returned to Doisty’s establishment, and, by a plausible pretext,
succeeded in gaining a sight of the books in which the jeweler
recorded his transactions. He soon found the sale of the earrings duly
recorded--specified by Madame Doisty at the date--both in the day-book
and the ledger. Madame d’Arlange first paid 9,000 francs on account and
the balance of the purchase money (an equivalent sum) had been received
in instalments at long intervals subsequently. Now, if it had been easy
for Madame Milner to make a false entry in her traveler’s registry at
the Hotel de Mariembourg, it was absurd to suppose that the jeweler
had falsified all his accounts for four years. Hence, the facts were
indisputable; and yet, the young detective was not satisfied.
He hurried to the Faubourg Saint Honore, to the house formerly occupied
by the Baroness de Watchau, and there found a good-natured concierge,
who at once informed him that after the Baroness’s death her furniture
and personal effects had been taken to the great auction mart in the Rue
Drouot; the sale being conducted by M. Petit, the eminent auctioneer.
Without losing a minute, Lecoq hastened to this individual’s office.
M. Petit remembered the Watchau sale very well; it had made quite a
sensation at the time, and on searching among his papers he soon found
a long catalogue of the various articles sold. Several lots of jewelry
were mentioned, with the sums paid, and the names of the purchasers; but
there was not the slightest allusion to these particular earrings. When
Lecoq produced the diamond he had in his pocket, the auctioneer could
not remember that he had ever seen it; though of course this was no
evidence to the contrary, for, as he himself remarked,--so many articles
passed through his hands! However, this much he could declare upon oath;
the baroness’s brother, her only heir, had preserved nothing--not so
much as a pin’s worth of his sister’s effects: although he had been in a
great hurry to receive the proceeds, which amounted to the pleasant sum
of one hundred and sixty-seven thousand five hundred and thirty francs,
all expenses deducted.
“Everything this lady possessed was sold?” inquired Lecoq.
“Everything.”
“And what is the name of this brother of hers?”
“Watchau, also. The baroness had probably married one of her relatives.
Until last year her brother occupied a very prominent diplomatic
position. I think he now resides at Berlin.”
Certainly this information would not seem to indicate that the
auctioneer had been tampered with; and yet Lecoq was not satisfied. “It
is very strange,” he thought, as he walked toward his lodgings, “that
whichever side I turn, in this affair, I find mention of Germany. The
murderer comes from Leipsic, Madame Milner must be a Bavarian, and now
here is an Austrian baroness.”
It was too late to make any further inquiries that evening, and Lecoq
went to bed; but the next morning, at an early hour, he resumed his
investigations with fresh ardor. There now seemed only one remaining
clue to success: the letter signed “Lacheneur,” which had been found
in the pocket of the murdered soldier. This letter, judging from the
half-effaced heading at the top of the note-paper, must have been
written in some cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. To discover which
precise cafe would be mere child’s play; and indeed the fourth landlord
to whom Lecoq exhibited the letter recognized the paper as his. But
neither he, nor his wife, nor the young lady at the counter, nor the
waiters, nor any of the customers present at the time, had ever once
heard mention made of this singular name--Lacheneur.
And now what was Lecoq to do? Was the case utterly hopeless? Not yet.
Had not the spurious soldier declared that this Lacheneur was an old
comedian? Seizing upon this frail clue, as a drowning man clutches at
the merest fragment of the floating wreck, Lecoq turned his steps in
another direction, and hurried from theatre to theatre, asking every
one, from doorkeeper to manager: “Don’t you know an actor named
Lacheneur?”
Alas! one and all gave a negative reply, at times indulging in some
rough joke at the oddity of the name. And when any one asked the young
detective what the man he was seeking was like, what could he reply?
His answer was necessarily limited to the virtuous Toinon’s phrase: “I
thought him a very respectable-looking gentleman.” This was not a very
graphic description, however, and, besides, it was rather doubtful what
a woman like Polyte Chupin’s wife might mean by the word “respectable.”
Did she apply it to the man’s age, to his personal aspect, or to his
apparent fortune.
Sometimes those whom Lecoq questioned would ask what parts this comedian
of his was in the habit of playing; and then the young detective could
make no reply whatever. He kept for himself the harassing thought
that the role now being performed by the unknown Lacheneur was driving
him--Lecoq--wild with despair.
Eventually our hero had recourse to a method of investigation which,
strange to say, the police seldom employ, save in extreme cases,
although it is at once sensible and simple, and generally fraught
with success. It consists in examining all the hotel and lodging-house
registers, in which the landlords are compelled to record the names of
their tenants, even should the latter merely sojourn under their roofs
for a single night.
Rising long before daybreak and going to bed late at night, Lecoq spent
all his time in visiting the countless hotels and furnished lodgings in
Paris. But still and ever his search was vain. He never once came across
the name of Lacheneur; and at last he began to ask himself if such
a name really existed, or if it were not some pseudonym invented
for convenience. He had not found it even in Didot’s directory, the
so-called “Almanach Boitin,” where one finds all the most singular and
absurd names in France--those which are formed of the most fantastic
mingling of syllables.
Still, nothing could daunt him or turn him from the almost impossible
task he had undertaken, and his obstinate perseverance well-nigh
developed into monomania. He was no longer subject to occasional
outbursts of anger, quickly repressed; but lived in a state of constant
exasperation, which soon impaired the clearness of his mind. No more
theories, or ingenious deductions, no more subtle reasoning. He pursued
his search without method and without order--much as Father Absinthe
might have done when under the influence of alcohol. Perhaps he had come
to rely less upon his own shrewdness than upon chance to reveal to him
the substance of the mystery, of which he had as yet only detected the
shadow.