When a heavy stone is thrown into a lake a considerable commotion
ensues, the water spouts and seethes and bubbles and frequently a tall
jet leaps into the air. But all this agitation only lasts for a moment;
the bubbling subsides as the circles of the passing whirlpool grow
larger and larger; the surface regains at last its customary smoothness;
and soon no trace remains of the passage of the stone, now buried in the
depths below.
So it is with the events of our daily life, however momentous they may
appear at the hour of their occurrence. It seems as if their impressions
would last for years; but no, they speedily sink into the depths of the
past, and time obliterates their passage--just as the water of the
lake closes over and hides the stone, for an instant the cause of such
commotion. Thus it was that at the end of a fortnight the frightful
crime committed in the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den, the triple murder
which had made all Paris shudder, which had furnished the material for
so many newspaper articles, and the topic for such indignant comments,
was completely forgotten. Indeed, had the tragedy at the Poivriere
occurred in the times of Charlemagne, it could not have passed more
thoroughly out of people’s minds. It was remembered only in three
places, at the Depot, at the Prefecture de Police, and at the Palais de
Justice.
M. Segmuller’s repeated efforts had proved as unsuccessful as Lecoq’s.
Skilful questioning, ingenious insinuations, forcible threats, and
seductive promises had proved powerless to overcome the dogged spirit
of absolute denial which persistently animated, not merely the prisoner
May, but also the Widow Chupin, her son Polyte, Toinon the Virtuous, and
Madame Milner. The evidence of these various witnesses showed plainly
enough that they were all in league with the mysterious accomplice; but
what did this knowledge avail? Their attitude never varied! And, even
if at times their looks gave the lie to their denials, one could always
read in their eyes an unshaken determination to conceal the truth.
There were moments when the magistrate, overpowered by a sense of
the insufficiency of the purely moral weapons at his disposal, almost
regretted that the Inquisition was suppressed. Yes, in presence of the
lies that were told him, lies so impudent that they were almost insults,
he no longer wondered at the judicial cruelties of the Middle Ages,
or at the use of the muscle-breaking rack, the flesh-burning, red-hot
pincers, and other horrible instruments, which, by the physical torture
they inflicted, forced the most obstinate culprit to confess. The
prisoner May’s manner was virtually unaltered; and far from showing any
signs of weakness, his assurance had, if anything, increased, as though
he were confident of ultimate victory and as though he had in some way
learned that the prosecution had failed to make the slightest progress.
On one occasion, when summoned before M. Segmuller, he ventured to
remark in a tone of covert irony: “Why do you keep me confined so
long in a secret cell? Am I never to be set at liberty or sent to the
assizes. Am I to suffer much longer on account of your fantastic idea
that I am some great personage in disguise?”
“I shall keep you until you have confessed,” was M. Segmuller’s answer.
“Confessed what?”
“Oh! you know very well.”
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders at these last words, and then in a
tone of mingled despondency and mockery retorted: “In that case there is
no hope of my ever leaving this cursed prison!”
It was probably this conviction that induced him to make all seeming
preparations for an indefinite stay. He applied for and obtained a
portion of the contents of the trunk found at the Hotel de Mariembourg,
and evinced great joy when the various knickknacks and articles of
clothing were handed over to him. Thanks to the money found upon his
person when arrested, and deposited with the prison registrar, he was,
moreover, able to procure many little luxuries, which are never denied
to unconvicted prisoners, no matter what may be the charges against
them, for they have a right to be considered as innocent until a jury
has decided to the contrary. To while away the time, May next asked for
a volume of Beranger’s songs, and his request being granted, he spent
most of the day in learning several of the ditties by heart, singing
them in a loud voice and with considerable taste. This fancy having
excited some comment, he pretended that he was cultivating a talent
which might be useful to him when he was set at liberty. For he had no
doubt of his acquittal; at least, so he declared; and if he were anxious
about the date of his trial, he did not show the slightest apprehension
concerning its result.
He was never despondent save when he spoke of his profession. To all
appearance he pined for the stage, and, in fact, he almost wept when he
recalled the fantastic, many-colored costumes, clad in which he had once
appeared before crowded audiences--audiences that had been convulsed
with laughter by his sallies of wit, delivered between bursts of noisy
music. He seemed to have become altogether a better fellow; more frank,
communicative, and submissive. He eagerly embraced every opportunity
to babble about his past, and over and over again did he recount the
adventures of the roving life he had led while in the employ of M.
Simpson, the showman. He had, of course, traveled a great deal; and
he remembered everything he had seen; possessing, moreover, an
inexhaustible fund of amusing stories, with which he entertained his
custodians. His manner and his words were so natural that head keepers
and subordinate turnkeys alike were quite willing to give credit to his
assertions.
The governor of the Depot alone remained unconvinced. He had declared
that this pretended buffoon must be some dangerous criminal who had
escaped from Cayenne, and who for this reason was determined to conceal
his antecedents. Such being this functionary’s opinion, he tried every
means to substantiate it. Accordingly, during an entire fortnight,
May was submitted to the scrutiny of innumerable members of the police
force, to whom were added all the more notable private detectives of the
capital. No one recognized him, however, and although his photograph was
sent to all the prisons and police stations of the empire, not one of
the officials could recognize his features.
Other circumstances occurred, each of which had its influence, and one
and all of them speaking in the prisoner’s favor. For instance, the
second bureau of the Prefecture de Police found positive traces of the
existence of a strolling artist, named Tringlot, who was probably the
man referred to in May’s story. This Tringlot had been dead several
years. Then again, inquiries made in Germany revealed the fact that a
certain M. Simpson was very well known in that country, where he had
achieved great celebrity as a circus manager.
In presence of this information and the negative result of the scrutiny
to which May had been subjected, the governor of the Depot abandoned
his views and openly confessed that he had been mistaken. “The prisoner,
May,” he wrote to the magistrate, “is really and truly what he pretends
to be. There can be no further doubt on the subject.” This message, it
may be added, was sent at Gevrol’s instigation.
So thus it was that M. Segmuller and Lecoq alone remained of their
opinion. This opinion was at least worthy of consideration, as they
alone knew all the details of the investigation which had been conducted
with such strict secrecy; and yet this fact was of little import. It
is not merely unpleasant, but often extremely dangerous to struggle on
against all the world, and unfortunately for truth and logic one man’s
opinion, correct though it may be, is nothing in the balance of daily
life against the faulty views of a thousand adversaries.
The “May affair” had soon become notorious among the members of the
police force; and whenever Lecoq appeared at the Prefecture he had to
brave his colleagues’ sarcastic pleasantry. Nor did M. Segmuller escape
scot free; for more than one fellow magistrate, meeting him on the
stairs or in the corridor, inquired, with a smile, what he was doing
with his Casper Hauser, his man in the Iron Mask, in a word, with his
mysterious mountebank. When thus assailed, both M. Segmuller and Lecoq
could scarcely restrain those movements of angry impatience which come
naturally to a person who feels certain he is in the right and yet can
not prove it.
“Ah, me!” sometimes exclaimed the magistrate, “why did D’Escorval break
his leg? Had it not been for that cursed mishap, he would have been
obliged to endure all these perplexities, and I--I should be enjoying
myself like other people.”
“And I thought myself so shrewd!” murmured the young detective by his
side.
Little by little anxiety did its work. Magistrate and detective both
lost their appetites and looked haggard; and yet the idea of yielding
never once occurred to them. Although of very different natures,
they were both determined to persevere in the task they had set
themselves--that of solving this tantalizing enigma. Lecoq, indeed,
had resolved to renounce all other claims upon his time, and to devote
himself entirely to the study of the case. “Henceforth,” he said to M.
Segmuller, “I also will constitute myself a prisoner; and although the
suspected murderer will be unable to see me, I shall not lose sight of
him!”
It so happened that there was a loft between the cell occupied by May
and the roof of the prison, a loft of such diminutive proportions that
a man of average height could not stand upright in it. This loft had
neither window nor skylight, and the gloom would have been intense,
had not a few faint sun-rays struggled through the interstices of
some ill-adjusted tiles. In this unattractive garret Lecoq established
himself one fine morning, just at the hour when May was taking his daily
walk in the courtyard of the prison accompanied by a couple of keepers.
Under these circumstances there was no fear of Lecoq’s movements
attracting the prisoner’s notice or suspicion. The garret had a paved
floor, and first of all the young detective removed one of the stones
with a pickax he had brought for the purpose. Beneath this stone he
found a timber beam, through which he next proceeded to bore a hole of
funnel shape, large at the top and gradually dwindling until on piercing
the ceiling of the cell it was no more than two-thirds of an inch in
diameter. Prior to commencing his operations, Lecoq had visited the
prisoner’s quarters and had skilfully chosen the place of the projected
aperture, so that the stains and graining of the beam would hide it from
the view of any one below. He was yet at work when the governor of the
Depot and his rival Gevrol appeared upon the threshold of the loft.
“So this is to be your observatory, Monsieur Lecoq!” remarked Gevrol,
with a sneering laugh.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will not be very comfortable here.”
“I shall be less uncomfortable than you suppose; I have brought a large
blanket with me, and I shall stretch myself out on the floor and manage
to sleep here.”
“So that, night and day, you will have your eye on the prisoner?”
“Yes, night and day.”
“Without giving yourself time to eat or drink?” inquired Gevrol.
“Excuse me! Father Absinthe will bring me my meals, execute any errand I
may have, and relieve me at times if necessary.”
The jealous General laughed; but his laugh, loud as it was, was yet a
trifle constrained. “Well, I pity you,” he said.
“Very possibly.”
“Do you know what you will look like, with your eye glued to that hole?”
“Like what? Tell me, we needn’t stand on ceremony.”
“Ah, well! You will look just like one of those silly naturalists who
put all sorts of little insects under a magnifying glass, and spend
their lives in watching them.”
Lecoq had finished his work; and rose from his kneeling position. “You
couldn’t have found a better comparison, General,” said he. “I owe my
idea to those very naturalists you speak about so slightingly. By dint
of studying those little creatures--as you say--under a microscope,
these patient, gifted men discover the habits and instincts of the
insect world. Very well, then. What they can do with an insect, I will
do with a man!”
“Oh, ho!” said the governor of the prison, considerably astonished.
“Yes; that’s my plan,” continued Lecoq. “I want to learn this prisoner’s
secret; and I will do so. That I’ve sworn; and success must be mine,
for, however strong his courage may be, he will have his moments of
weakness, and then I shall be present at them. I shall be present if
ever his will fails him, if, believing himself alone, he lets his mask
fall, or forgets his part for an instant, if an indiscreet word escapes
him in his sleep, if his despair elicits a groan, a gesture, or a
look--I shall be there to take note of it.” The tone of resolution
with which the young detective spoke made a deep impression upon the
governor’s mind. For an instant he was a believer in Lecoq’s theory; and
he was impressed by the strangeness of this conflict between a prisoner,
determined to preserve the secret of his identity, and the agent for the
prosecution, equally determined to wrest it from him. “Upon my word, my
boy, you are not wanting in courage and energy,” said he.
“Misdirected as it may be,” growled Gevrol, who, although he spoke very
slowly and deliberately, was in his secret soul by no means convinced
of what he said. Faith is contagious, and he was troubled in spite of
himself by Lecoq’s imperturbable assurance. What if this debutant in
the profession should be right, and he, Gevrol, the oracle of the
Prefecture, wrong! What shame and ridicule would be his portion, then!
But once again he inwardly swore that this inexperienced youngster could
be no match for an old veteran like himself, and then added aloud: “The
prefect of police must have more money than he knows what to do with, to
pay two men for such a nonsensical job as this.”
Lecoq disdained to reply to this slighting remark. For more than a
fortnight the General had profited of every opportunity to make himself
as disagreeable as possible, and the young detective feared he would be
unable to control his temper if the discussion continued. It would be
better to remain silent, and to work and wait for success. To succeed
would be revenge enough! Moreover, he was impatient to see these
unwelcome visitors depart; believing, perhaps, that Gevrol was quite
capable of attracting the prisoner’s attention by some unusual sound.
As soon as they went away, Lecoq hastily spread his blanket over the
stones and stretched himself out upon it in such a position that he
could alternately apply his eye and his ear to the aperture. In this
position he had an admirable view of the cell below. He could see the
door, the bed, the table, and the chair; only the small space near the
window and the window itself were beyond his range of observation. He
had scarcely completed his survey, when he heard the bolts rattle: the
prisoner was returning from his walk. He seemed in excellent spirits,
and was just completing what was, undoubtedly, a very interesting story,
since the keeper who accompanied him lingered for a moment to hear the
finish. Lecoq was delighted with the success of his experiment. He
could hear as easily as he could see. Each syllable reached his ear
distinctly, and he had not lost a single word of the recital, which was
amusing, though rather coarse.
The turnkey soon left the cell; the bolts rattled once more, and the
key grated in the lock. After walking once or twice across his cell, May
took up his volume of Beranger and for an hour or more seemed completely
engrossed in its contents. Finally, he threw himself down upon his bed.
Here he remained until meal-time in the evening, when he rose and ate
with an excellent appetite. He next resumed the study of his book, and
did not go to bed until the lights were extinguished.
Lecoq knew well enough that during the night his eyes would not serve
him, but he trusted that his ears might prove of use, hoping that some
telltale word might escape the prisoner’s lips during his restless
slumber. In this expectation he was disappointed. May tossed to and fro
upon his pallet; he sighed, and one might have thought he was sobbing,
but not a syllable escaped his lips. He remained in bed until very late
the next morning; but on hearing the bell sound the hour of breakfast,
eleven o’clock, he sprang from his couch with a bound, and after
capering about his cell for a few moments, began to sing, in a loud and
cheerful voice, the old ditty:
“Diogene!
Sous ton manteau, libre et content,
Je ris, je bois, sans gene--”
The prisoner did not stop singing until a keeper entered his cell
carrying his breakfast. The day now beginning differed in no respect
from the one that had preceded it, neither did the night. The same might
be said of the next day, and of those which followed. To sing, to eat,
to sleep, to attend to his hands and nails--such was the life led by
this so-called buffoon. His manner, which never varied, was that of a
naturally cheerful man terribly bored.
Such was the perfection of his acting that, after six days and nights
of constant surveillance, Lecoq had detected nothing decisive, nor
even surprising. And yet he did not despair. He had noticed that every
morning, while the employees of the prison were busy distributing the
prisoner’s food, May invariably began to sing the same ditty.
“Evidently this song is a signal,” thought Lecoq. “What can be going on
there by the window I can’t see? I must know to-morrow.”
Accordingly on the following morning he arranged that May should be
taken on his walk at half-past ten o’clock, and he then insisted that
the governor should accompany him to the prisoner’s cell. That worthy
functionary was not very well pleased with the change in the usual order
of things. “What do you wish to show me?” he asked. “What is there so
very curious to see?”
“Perhaps nothing,” replied Lecoq, “but perhaps something of great
importance.”
Eleven o’clock sounding soon after, he began singing the prisoner’s
song, and he had scarcely finished the second line, when a bit of bread,
no larger than a bullet, adroitly thrown through the window, dropped at
his feet.
A thunderbolt falling in May’s cell would not have terrified the
governor as much as did this inoffensive projectile. He stood in silent
dismay; his mouth wide open, his eyes starting from their sockets, as
if he distrusted the evidence of his own senses. What a disgrace! An
instant before he would have staked his life upon the inviolability of
the secret cells; and now he beheld his prison dishonored.
“A communication! a communication!” he repeated, with a horrified air.
Quick as lightning, Lecoq picked up the missile. “Ah,” murmured he, “I
guessed that this man was in communication with his friends.”
The young detective’s evident delight changed the governor’s stupor into
fury. “Ah! my prisoners are writing!” he exclaimed, wild with passion.
“My warders are acting as postmen! By my faith, this matter shall be
looked into.”
So saying, he was about to rush to the door when Lecoq stopped him.
“What are you going to do, sir?” he asked.
“I am going to call all the employees of this prison together, and
inform them that there is a traitor among them, and that I must know who
he is, as I wish to make an example of him. And if, in twenty-four hours
from now, the culprit has not been discovered, every man connected with
this prison shall be removed.”
Again he started to leave the room, and Lecoq, this time, had almost to
use force to detain him. “Be calm, sir; be calm,” he entreated.
“I will punish--”
“Yes, yes--I understand that--but wait until you have regained your
self-possession. It is quite possible that the guilty party may be one
of the prisoners who assist in the distribution of food every morning.”
“What does that matter?”
“Excuse me, but it matters a great deal. If you noise this discovery
abroad, we shall never discover the truth. The traitor will not be fool
enough to confess his guilt. We must be silent and wait. We will keep a
close watch and detect the culprit in the very act.”
These objections were so sensible that the governor yielded. “So be it,”
he sighed, “I will try and be patient. But let me see the missive that
was enclosed in this bit of bread.”
Lecoq could not consent to this proposal. “I warned M. Segmuller,” said
he, “that there would probably be something new this morning; and he
will be waiting for me in his office. We must only examine the letter in
his presence.”
This remark was so correct that the governor assented; and they at once
started for the Palais de Justice. On their way, Lecoq endeavored to
convince his companion that it was wrong to deplore a circumstance
which might be of incalculable benefit to the prosecution. “It was an
illusion,” said he, “to imagine that the governor of a prison could be
more cunning than the prisoners entrusted to him. A prisoner is almost
always a match in ingenuity for his custodians.”
The young detective had not finished speaking when they reached
the magistrate’s office. Scarcely had Lecoq opened the door than M.
Segmuller and his clerk rose from their seats. They both read important
intelligence in our hero’s troubled face. “What is it?” eagerly asked
the magistrate. Lecoq’s sole response was to lay the pellet of bread
upon M. Segmuller’s desk. In an instant the magistrate had opened it,
extracting from the centre a tiny slip of the thinnest tissue paper.
This he unfolded, and smoothed upon the palm of his hand. As soon as
he glanced at it, his brow contracted. “Ah! this note is written in
cipher,” he exclaimed, with a disappointed air.
“We must not lose patience,” said Lecoq quietly. He took the slip of
paper from the magistrate and read the numbers inscribed upon it. They
ran as follows: “235, 15, 3, 8, 25, 2, 16, 208, 5, 360, 4, 36, 19, 7,
14, 118, 84, 23, 9, 40, 11, 99.”
“And so we shall learn nothing from this note,” murmured the governor.
“Why not?” the smiling clerk ventured to remark. “There is no system of
cipher which can not be read with a little skill and patience; there are
some people who make it their business.”
“You are right,” said Lecoq, approvingly. “And I, myself, once had the
knack of it.”
“What!” exclaimed the magistrate; “do you hope to find the key to this
cipher?”
“With time, yes.”
Lecoq was about to place the paper in his breast-pocket, when the
magistrate begged him to examine it a little further. He did so; and
after a while his face suddenly brightened. Striking his forehead with
his open palm, he cried: “I’ve found it!”
An exclamation of incredulous surprise simultaneously escaped the
magistrate, the governor, and the clerk.
“At least I think so,” added Lecoq, more cautiously. “If I am not
mistaken, the prisoner and his accomplice have adopted a very simple
system called the double book-cipher. The correspondents first agree
upon some particular book; and both obtain a copy of the same edition.
When one desires to communicate with the other, he opens the book
haphazard, and begins by writing the number of the page. Then he must
find on the same page the words that will express his thoughts. If the
first word he wishes to write is the twentieth on the page, he places
number 20 after the number of the page; then he begins to count one,
two, three, and so on, until he finds the next word he wishes to use.
If this word happens to be the sixth, he writes the figure 6, and he
continues so on till he has finished his letter. You see, now, how
the correspondent who receives the note must begin. He finds the page
indicated, and then each figure represents a word.”
“Nothing could be clearer,” said the magistrate, approvingly.
“If this note,” pursued Lecoq, “had been exchanged between two persons
at liberty, it would be folly to attempt its translation. This simple
system is the only one which has completely baffled inquisitive efforts,
simply because there is no way of ascertaining the book agreed upon.
But in this instance such is not the case; May is a prisoner, and he has
only one book in his possession, ‘The Songs of Beranger.’ Let this book
be sent for--”
The governor of the Depot was actually enthusiastic. “I will run and
fetch it myself,” he interrupted.
But Lecoq, with a gesture, detained him. “Above all, sir,” said he,
“take care that May doesn’t discover his book has been tampered with.
If he has returned from his promenade, make some excuse to have him sent
out of his cell again; and don’t allow him to return there while we are
using his book.”
“Oh, trust me!” replied the governor, hastily leaving the room.
Less than a quarter of an hour afterward he returned, carrying in
triumph a little volume in 32mo. With a trembling hand Lecoq turned to
page 235, and began to count. The fifteenth word on the page was
‘I’; the third afterward, ‘have’; the eighth following, ‘told’; the
twenty-fifth, ‘her’; the second, ‘your’; the sixteenth, ‘wishes.’ Hence,
the meaning of those six numbers was: “I have told her your wishes.”
The three persons who had witnessed this display of shrewdness could not
restrain their admiration. “Bravo! Lecoq,” exclaimed the magistrate. “I
will no longer bet a hundred to one on May,” thought the smiling clerk.
But Lecoq was still busily engaged in deciphering the missive, and soon,
in a voice trembling with gratified vanity, he read the entire note
aloud. It ran as follows: “I have told her your wishes; she submits. Our
safety is assured; we are waiting your orders to act. Hope! Courage!”