It was not long before my astonishment was doubled.
One night, as I was sleeping soundly, some one knocked suddenly and rapidly at my door.
I arose and opened.
M. Mechinet entered, or rather rushed in, his clothing in disorder and torn, his necktie and the front of his shirt torn off, bareheaded, his face covered with blood.
“What has happened?” I exclaimed, frightened.
“Not so loud,” said he; “you might be heard. Perhaps it is nothing, although I suffer devilishly. I said to myself that you, being a medical student, would doubtless know how to help me.”
Without saying a word, I made him sit down, and hastened to examine him and to do for him what was necessary.
Although he bled freely, the wound was a slight one—to tell the truth, it was only a superficial scratch, starting from the left ear and reaching to the corner of his mouth.
The dressing of the wound finished, “Well, here I am again healthy and safe for this time,” M. Mechinet said to me. “Thousand thanks, dear Monsieur Godeuil. Above all, as a favor, do not speak to any one of this little accident, and—good night.”
“Good night!” I had little thought of sleeping. When I remember all the absurd hypotheses and the romantic imaginations which passed through my brain, I can not help laughing.
In my mind, M. Mechinet took on fantastic proportions.
The next day he came to thank me again, and invited me to dinner.
That I was all eyes and ears when I entered my neighbor’s home may be rightly guessed.
In vain did I concentrate my whole attention. I could not find out anything of a nature to dissipate the mystery which puzzled me so much.
However, from this dinner on, our relations became closer. M. Mechinet decidedly favored me with his friendship. Rarely a week passed without his taking me along, as he expressed it, to eat soup with him, and almost daily, at the time for absinthe, he came to meet me at the Cafe Leroy, where we played a game of dominoes.
Thus it was that on a certain evening in the month of July, on a Friday, at about five o’clock, when he was just about to beat me at “full double-six,” an ugly-looking bully abruptly entered, and, approaching him, murmured in his ears some words I could not hear.
M. Mechinet rose suddenly, looking troubled.
“I am coming,” said he; “run and say that I am coming.”
The man ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, and then M. Mechinet offered me his hand.
“Excuse me,” added my old neighbor, “duty before everything; we shall continue our game to-morrow.”
Consumed with curiosity, I showed great vexation, saying that I regretted very much not accompanying him.
“Well,” grumbled he, “why not? Do you want to come? Perhaps it will be interesting.”
For all answer, I took my hat and we left.
II
I was certainly far from thinking that I was then venturing on one of those apparently insignificant steps which, nevertheless, have a deciding influence on one’s whole life.
For once, I thought to myself, I am holding the solution of the enigma!
And full of a silly and childish satisfaction, I trotted, like a lean cat, at the side of M. Mechinet.
I say “trotted,” because I had all I could do not to be left behind.
He rushed along, down the Rue Racine, running against the passers-by, as if his fortune depended on his legs.
Luckily, on the Place de l’Odeon a cab came in our way.
M. Mechinet stopped it, and, opening the door, “Get in, Monsieur Godeuil,” said he to me.
I obeyed, and he seated himself at my side, after having called to the coachman in a commanding voice: “39 Rue Lecluse, at Batignolles, and drive fast!”
The distance drew from the coachman a string of oaths. Nevertheless he whipped up his broken-down horses and the carriage rolled off.
“Oh! it is to Batignolles we are going?” I asked with a courtier’s smile.
But M. Mechinet did not answer me; I even doubt that he heard me.
A complete change took place in him. He did not seem exactly agitated but his set lips and the contraction of his heavy, brushwood-like eyebrows betrayed a keen preoccupation. His look, lost in space, seemed to be studying there the meaning of some insolvable problem.
He had pulled out his snuff-box and continually took from it enormous pinches of snuff, which he kneaded between the index and thumb, rolled into a ball, and raised it to his nose; but he did not actually snuff.
It was a habit which I had observed, and it amused me very much.
This worthy man, who abhorred tobacco, always carried a snuff-box as large as that of a vaudeville capitalist.
If anything unforeseen happened to him, either agreeable or vexatious, in a trice he had it out, and seemed to snuff furiously.
Often the snuff-box was empty, but his gestures remained the same.
I learned later that this was a system with him for the purpose of concealing his impressions and of diverting the attention of his questioners.
In the mean time we rolled on. The cab easily passed up the Rue de Clichy; it crossed the exterior boulevard, entered the Rue de Lecluse, and soon stopped at some distance from the address given.
It was materially impossible to go farther, as the street was obstructed by a compact crowd.
In front of No. 39, two or three hundred persons were standing, their necks craned, eyes gleaming breathless with curiosity, and with difficulty kept in bounds by half a dozen sergents de ville, who were everywhere repeating in vain and in their roughest voices: “Move on, gentlemen, move on!”
After alighting from the carriage, we approached, making our way with difficulty through the crowd of idlers.
We already had our hands on the door of No. 39, when a police officer rudely pushed us back.
“Keep back! You can not pass!”
My companion eyed him from head to foot, and straightening himself up, said:
“Well, don’t you know me? I am Mechinet, and this young man,” pointing to me, “is with me.”
“I beg your pardon! Excuse me!” stammered the officer, carrying his hand to his three-cocked hat. “I did not know; please enter.”
We entered.
In the hall, a powerful woman, evidently the concierge, more red than a peony, was holding forth and gesticulating in the midst of a group of house tenants.
“Where is it?” demanded M. Mechinet gruffly.
“Third floor, monsieur,” she replied; “third floor, door to the right. Oh! my God! What a misfortune. In a house like this. Such a good man.”
I did not hear more. M. Mechinet was rushing up the stairs, and I followed him, four steps at a time, my heart thumping.
On the third floor the door to the right was open. We entered, went through an anteroom, a dining-room, a parlor, and finally reached a bedroom.
If I live a thousand years I shall not forget the scene which struck my eyes. Even at this moment as I am writing, after many years, I still see it down to the smallest details.
At the fireplace opposite the door two men were leaning on their elbows: a police commissary, wearing his scarf of office, and an examining magistrate.
At the right, seated at a table a young man, the judge’s clerk, was writing.
In the centre of the room, on the floor, in a pool of coagulated and black blood, lay the body of an old man with white hair. He was lying on his back, his arms folded crosswise.
Terrified, I stopped as if nailed to the threshold, so nearly fainting that I was compelled to lean against the door-frame.
My profession had accustomed me to death; I had long ago overcome repugnance to the amphitheatre, but this was the first time that I found my
self face to face with a crime.
For it was evident that an abominable crime had been committed.
Less sensitive than I, my neighbor entered with a firm step.
“Oh, it is you, Mechinet,” said the police commissary; “I am very sorry to have troubled you.”
“Why?”
“Because we shall not need your services. We know the guilty one; I have given orders; by this time he must have been arrested.”
How strange!
From M. Mechinet’s gesture one might have believed that this assurance vexed him. He pulled out his snuff-box, took two or three of his fantastic pinches, and said:
“Ah! the guilty one is known?”
It was the examining magistrate who answered:
“Yes, and known in a certain and positive manner; yes, M. Mechinet, the crime once committed, the assassin escaped, believing that his victim had ceased living. He was mistaken. Providence was watching; this unfortunate old man was still breathing. Gathering all his energy, he dipped one of his fingers in the blood which was flowing in streams from his wound, and there, on the floor, he wrote in his blood his murderer’s name. Now look for yourself.”
Then I perceived what at first I had not seen.
On the inlaid floor, in large, badly shaped, but legible letters, was written in blood: Monis.
“Well?” asked M. Mechinet.
“That,” answered the police commissary, “is the beginning of the name of a nephew of the poor man; of a nephew for whom he had an affection, and whose name is Monistrol.”
“The devil!” exclaimed my neighbor.
“I can not suppose,” continued the investigating magistrate, “that the wretch would attempt denying. The five letters are an overwhelming accusation. Moreover, who would profit by this cowardly crime? He alone, as sole heir of this old man, who, they say, leaves a large fortune. There is more. It was last evening that the murder was committed. Well, last evening none other but his nephew called on this poor old man. The concierge saw him enter the house at about nine o’clock and leave again a little before midnight.”
“It is clear,” said M. Mechinet approvingly; “it is very clear, this Monistrol is nothing but an idiot.” And, shrugging his shoulders, asked:
“But did he steal anything, break some piece of furniture, anything to give us an idea as to the motive for the crime?”
“Up to now nothing seems to have been disturbed,” answered the commissary. “As you said, the wretch is not clever; as soon as he finds himself discovered, he will confess.”
Whereupon the police commissary and M. Mechinet withdrew to the window, conversing in low tones, while the judge gave some instructions to his clerk.
III
I had wanted to know exactly what my enigmatic neighbor was doing. Now I knew it. Now everything was explained. The looseness of his life, his absences, his late homecomings, his sudden disappearances, his young wife’s fears and complicity; the wound I had cured. But what did I care now about that discovery?
I examined with curiosity everything around me.
From where I was standing, leaning against the door-frame, my eye took in the entire apartment.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, evidenced a scene of murder. On the contrary, everything betokened comfort, and at the same time habits parsimonious and methodical.
Everything was in its place; there was not one wrong fold in the curtains; the wood of the furniture was brilliantly polished, showing daily care.
It seemed evident that the conjectures of the examining magistrate and of the police commissary were correct, and that the poor old man had been murdered the evening before, when he was about to go to bed.
In fact, the bed was open, and on the blanket lay a shirt and a neckcloth.
On the table, at the head of the bed, I noticed a glass of sugared water, a box of safety matches, and an evening paper, the “Patrie.”
On one corner of the mantelpiece a candlestick was shining brightly, a nice big, solid copper candlestick. But the candle which had illuminated the crime was burned out; the murderer had escaped without extinguishing it, and it had burned down to the end, blackening the alabaster save-all in which it was placed.
I noticed all these details at a glance, without any effort, without my will having anything to do with it. My eye had become a photographic objective; the stage of the murder had portrayed itself in my mind, as on a prepared plate, with such precision that no circumstance was lacking, and with such depth that to-day, even, I can sketch the apartment of the “little old man of Batignolles” without omitting anything, not even a cork, partly covered with green wax, which lay on the floor under the chair of the judge’s clerk.
It was an extraordinary faculty, which had been bestowed upon me—my chief faculty, which as yet I had not occasion to exercise and which all at once revealed itself to me.
I was then too agitated to analyze my impressions. I had but one obstinate, burning, irresistible desire: to get close to the body, which was lying two yards from me.
At first I struggled against the temptation. But fatality had something to do with it. I approached. Had my presence been remembered? I do not believe it.
At any rate, nobody paid any attention to me. M. Mechinet and the police commissary were still talking near the window; the clerk was reading his report in an undertone to the investigating magistrate.
Thus nothing prevented me from carrying out my intention. And, besides, I must confess I was possessed with some kind of a fever, which rendered me insensible to exterior circumstances and absolutely isolated me. So much so that I dared to kneel close to the body, in order to see better.
Far from expecting any one to call out: “What are you doing there?” I acted slowly and deliberately, like a man who, having received a mission, executes it.
The unfortunate old man seemed to me to have been between seventy and seventy-five years old. He was small and very thin, but solid and built to pass the hundred-year mark. He still had considerable hair, yellowish white and curly, on the nape of the neck. His gray beard, strong and thick, looked as if he had not been shaven for five or six days; it must have grown after his death. This circumstance did not surprise me, as I had often noticed it without subjects in the amphitheatres.
What did surprise me was the expression of the face. It was calm; I should even say, smiling. His lips were parted, as for a friendly greeting. Death must have occurred then with terrible suddenness to preserve such a kindly expression! That was the first idea which came to my mind.
Yes, but how reconcile these two irreconcilable circumstances: a sudden death and those five letters—Monis—which I saw in lines of blood on the floor? In order to write them, what effort must it have cost a dying man! Only the hope of revenge could have given him so much energy. And how great must his rage have been to feel himself expiring before being able to trace the entire name of his murderer! And yet the face of the dead seemed to smile at one.
The poor old man had been struck in the throat, and the weapon had gone right through the neck. The instrument must have been a dagger, or perhaps one of those terrible Catalan knives, as broad as the hand, which cut on both sides and are as pointed as a needle.
Never in my life before had I been agitated by such strange sensations. My temples throbbed with extraordinary violence, and my heart swelled as if it would break. What was I about to discover?
Driven by a mysterious and irresistible force, which annihilated my will-power, I took between my hands, for the purpose of examining them, the stiff and icy hands of the body.
The right hand was clean; it was one of the fingers of the left hand, the index, which was all blood-stained.
What! it was with the left hand that the old man had written? Impossible!
Seized with a kind of dizziness, with haggard
eyes, my hair standing on end, paler than the dead lying at my feet, I rose with a terrible cry:
“Great God!”
At this cry all the others jumped up, surprised, frightened.
“What is it?” they asked me all together. “What has happened?”
I tried to answer, but the emotion was strangling me. All I could do was to show them the dead man’s hands, stammering:
“There! There!”
Quick as lightning, M. Mechinet fell on his knees beside the body. What I had seen he saw, and my impression was also his, for, quickly rising, he said:
“It was not this poor old man who traced the letters there.”
As the judge and the commissary looked at him with open mouths, he explained to them the circumstance of the left hand alone being blood-stained.
“And to think that I had not paid any attention to that,” repeated the distressed commissary over and over again.
M. Mechinet was taking snuff furiously.
“So it is,” he said, “the things that are not seen are those that are near enough to put the eyes out. But no matter. Now the situation is devilishly changed. Since it is not the old man himself who wrote, it must be the person who killed him.”
“Evidently,” approved the commissary.
“Now,” continued my neighbor, “can any one imagine a murderer stupid enough to denounce himself by writing his own name beside the body of his victim? No; is it not so? Now, conclude—”
The judge had become anxious.
“It is clear,” he said, “appearances have deceived us. Monistrol is not the guilty one. Who is it? It is your business, M. Mechinet, to discover him.”
He stopped; a police officer had entered, and, addressing the commissary, said:
“Your orders have been carried out, sir. Monistrol has been arrested and locked up. He confessed everything.”
IV
It is impossible to describe our astonishment. What! While we were there, exerting ourselves to find proofs of Monistrol’s innocence, he acknowledges himself guilty?
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 93
