The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  XIII

  When the prisoner had gone, M. Segmuller sank back in his armchair, literally exhausted. He was in that state of nervous prostration which so often follows protracted but fruitless efforts. He had scarcely strength enough to bathe his burning forehead and gleaming eyes with cool, refreshing water.

  This frightful examination had lasted no less than seven consecutive hours.

  The smiling clerk, who had kept his place at his desk busily writing the whole while, now rose to his feet, glad of an opportunity to stretch his limbs and snap his fingers, cramped by holding the pen. Still, he was not in the least degree bored. He invariably took a semi-theatrical interest in the dramas that were daily enacted in his presence; his excitement being all the greater owing to the uncertainty that shrouded the finish of the final act—a finish that only too often belied the ordinary rules and deductions of writers for the stage.

  “What a knave!” he exclaimed after vainly waiting for the magistrate or the detective to express an opinion, “what a rascal!”

  M. Segmuller ordinarily put considerable confidence in his clerk’s long experience. He sometimes even went so far as to consult him, doubtless somewhat in the same style that Moliere consulted his servant. But, on this occasion he did not accept his opinion.

  “No,” said he in a thoughtful tone, “that man is not a knave. When I spoke to him kindly he was really touched; he wept, he hesitated. I could have sworn that he was about to tell me everything.”

  “Ah, he’s a man of wonderful power!” observed Lecoq.

  The detective was sincere in his praise. Although the prisoner had disappointed his plans, and had even insulted him, he could not help admiring his shrewdness and courage. He—Lecoq—had prepared himself for a strenuous struggle with this man, and he hoped to conquer in the end. Nevertheless in his secret soul he felt for his adversary, admiring that sympathy which a “foeman worthy of one’s steel” always inspires.

  “What coolness, what courage!” continued the young detective. “Ah! there’s no denying it, his system of defense—of absolute denial—is a masterpiece. It is perfect. How well he played that difficult part of buffoon! At times I could scarcely restrain my admiration. What is a famous comedian beside that fellow? The greatest actors need the adjunct of stage scenery to support the illusion, whereas this man, entirely unaided, almost convinced me even against my reason.”

  “Do you know what your very appropriate criticism proves?” inquired the magistrate.

  “I am listening, sir.”

  “Ah, well! I have arrived at this conclusion—either this man is really May, the stroller, earning his living by paying compliments, as he says—or else he belongs to the highest rank of society, and not to the middle classes. It is only in the lowest or in the highest ranks that you encounter such grim energy as he has displayed, such scorn of life, as well as such remarkable presence of mind and resolution. A vulgar tradesman attracted to the Poivriere by some shameful passion would have confessed it long ago.”

  “But, sir, this man is surely not the buffoon, May,” replied the young detective.

  “No, certainly not,” responded M. Segmuller; “we must, therefore, decide upon some plan of action.” He smiled kindly, and added, in a friendly voice: “It was unnecessary to tell you that, Monsieur Lecoq. Quite unnecessary, since to you belongs the honor of having detected this fraud. As for myself, I confess, that if I had not been warned in advance, I should have been the dupe of this clever artist’s talent.”

  The young detective bowed; a blush of modesty tinged his cheeks, but a gleam of pleased vanity sparkled in his eyes. What a difference between this friendly, benevolent magistrate and M. d’Escorval, so taciturn and haughty. This man, at least, understood, appreciated, and encouraged him; and it was with a common theory and an equal ardor that they were about to devote themselves to a search for the truth. Scarcely had Lecoq allowed these thoughts to flit across his mind than he reflected that his satisfaction was, after all, a trifle premature, and that success was still extremely doubtful. With this chilling conclusion, presence of mind returned. Turning toward the magistrate, he exclaimed: “You will recollect, sir, that the Widow Chupin mentioned a son of hers, a certain Polyte—”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not question him? He must know all the frequenters of the Poivriere, and might perhaps give us valuable information regarding Gustave, Lacheneur, and the murderer himself. As he is not in solitary confinement, he has probably heard of his mother’s arrest; but it seems to me impossible that he should suspect our present perplexity.”

  “Ah! you are a hundred times right!” exclaimed the magistrate. “I ought to have thought of that myself. In his position he can scarcely have been tampered with as yet, and I’ll have him up here tomorrow morning; I will also question his wife.”

  Turning to his clerk, M. Segmuller added: “Quick, Goguet, prepare a summons in the name of the wife of Hippolyte Chupin, and address an order to the governor of the Depot to produce her husband!”

  But night was coming on. It was already too dark to see to write, and accordingly the clerk rang the bell for lights. Just as the messenger who brought the lamps turned to leave the room, a rap was heard at the door. Immediately afterward the governor of the Depot entered.

  During the past twenty-four hours this worthy functionary had been greatly perplexed concerning the mysterious prisoner he had placed in secret cell No. 3, and he now came to the magistrate for advice regarding him. “I come to ask,” said he, “if I am still to retain the prisoner May in solitary confinement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Although I fear fresh attacks of frenzy, I dislike to confine him in the strait-jacket again.”

  “Leave him free in his cell,” replied M. Segmuller; “and tell the keepers to watch him well, but to treat him kindly.”

  By the provisions of Article 613 of the Code, accused parties are placed in the custody of the government, but the investigating magistrate is allowed to adopt such measures concerning them as he may deem necessary for the interest of the prosecution.

  The governor bowed assent to M. Segmuller’s instructions, and then added: “You have doubtless succeeded in establishing the prisoner’s identity.”

  “Unfortunately, I have not.”

  The governor shook his head with a knowing air. “In that case,” said he, “my conjectures were correct. It seems to me evident that this man is a criminal of the worst description—an old offender certainly, and one who has the strongest interest in concealing his identity. You will find that you have to deal with a man who has been sentenced to the galleys for life, and who has managed to escape from Cayenne.”

  “Perhaps you are mistaken.”

  “Hum! I shall be greatly surprised if such should prove the case. I must admit that my opinion in this matter is identical with that of M. Gevrol, the most experienced and the most skilful of our inspectors. I agree with him in thinking that young detectives are often overzealous, and run after fantoms originated in their own brains.”

  Lecoq, crimson with wrath, was about to make an angry response when M. Segmuller motioned to him to remain silent. Then with a smile on his face the magistrate replied to the governor. “Upon my word, my dear friend,” he said, “the more I study this affair, the more convinced I am of the correctness of the theory advanced by the ‘overzealous’ detective. But, after all, I am not infallible, and I shall depend upon your counsel and assistance.”

  “Oh! I have means of verifying my assertion,” interrupted the governor; “and I hope before the end of the next twenty-four hours that our man will have been identified, either by the police or by one of his fellow-prisoners.”

  With these words he took his leave. Scarcely had he done so than Lecoq sprang to his feet. The young detective was furious. “You see that Gevrol already speaks ill of me; he is jealous.”

  “Ah, well! what does that matter to you? If you succeed, you will have your revenge. If you are mistaken—then I am mi
staken, too.”

  Then, as it was already late, M. Segmuller confided to Lecoq’s keeping the various articles the latter had accumulated in support of his theory. He also placed in his hands the diamond earring, the owner of which must be discovered; and the letter signed “Lacheneur,” which had been found in the pocket of the spurious soldier. Having given him full instructions, he asked him to make his appearance promptly on the morrow, and then dismissed him, saying: “Now go; and may good luck attend you!”

  XIV

  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 a
m 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.”