The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries

by The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries (retail) (epub)

  And addressing me, he continued:

  “As for you, I shall come and get you to-morrow, and we shall go together to call on Madame Monistrol. And now, as I am dying for sleep, good night.”

  He may have slept. As for me, I could not close my eyes.

  A secret voice within me seemed to say that Monistrol was innocent.

  My imagination painted with painful liveliness the tortures of that unfortunate man, alone in his prison cell.

  But why had he confessed?

  VIII

  What I then lacked—I have had occasion to realize it hundreds of times since—was experience, business practise, and chiefly an exact knowledge of the means of action and of police investigation.

  I felt vaguely that this particular investigation had been conducted wrongly, or rather superficially, but I would have been embarrassed to say why, and especially to say what should have been done.

  None the less I was passionately interested in Monistrol.

  It seemed to me that his cause was also mine, and it was only natural—my young vanity was at stake. Was it not one of my own remarks that had raised the first doubts as to the guilt of this unfortunate man?

  I owed it to myself, I said, to prove his innocence.

  Unfortunately the discussions of the evening troubled me to such an extent that I did not know precisely on which fact to build up my system.

  And, as always happens when the mind is for too long a time applied to the solution of a problem, my thoughts became tangled, like a skein in the hands of a child; I could no longer see clearly; it was chaos.

  Buried in my armchair, I was torturing my brain, when, at about nine o’clock in the morning, M. Mechinet, faithful to his promise of the evening before, came for me.

  “Come, let us go,” he said, shaking me suddenly, for I had not heard him enter. “Let us start!”

  “I am with you,” I said, getting up.

  We descended hurriedly, and I noticed then that my worthy neighbor was more carefully dressed than usual.

  He had succeeded in giving himself that easy and well-to-do appearance which more than anything else impresses the Parisian shopkeeper.

  His cheerfulness was that of a man sure of himself, marching toward certain victory.

  We were soon in the street, and while walking he asked me:

  “Well, what do you think of my wife? I pass for a clever man at police headquarters, and yet I consult her—even Moliere consulted his maid—and often I find it to my advantage. She has one weakness: for her, unreasonable crimes do not exist, and her imagination endows all scoundrels with diabolical plots. But as I have exactly the opposite fault, as I perhaps am a little too much matter-of-fact, it rarely happens that from our consultation the truth does not result somehow.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, “you think to have solved the mystery of the Monistrol case!”

  He stopped short, drew out his snuff-box, inhaled three or four of his imaginary pinches, and in a tone of quiet vanity, answered:

  “I have at least the means of solving it.”

  In the mean time we reached the upper end of the Rue Vivienne, not far from Monistrol’s business place.

  “Now look out,” said M. Mechinet to me. “Follow me, and whatever happens do not be surprised.”

  He did well to warn me. Without the warning I would have been surprised at seeing him suddenly enter the store of an umbrella dealer.

  Stiff and grave, like an Englishman, he made them show him everything there was in the shop, found nothing suitable, and finally inquired whether it was not possible for them to manufacture for him an umbrella according to a model which he would furnish.

  They answered that it would be the easiest thing in the world, and he left, saying he would return the day following.

  And most assuredly the half hour he spent in this store was not wasted.

  While examining the objects submitted to him, he had artfully drawn from the dealers all they knew about the Monistrol couple.

  Upon the whole, it was not a difficult task, as the affair of the “little old man of Batignolles” and the arrest of the imitation jeweler had deeply stirred the district and were the subject of all conversation.

  “There, you see,” he said to me, when we were outside, “how exact information is obtained. As soon as the people know with whom they are dealing, they pose, make long phrases, and then good-by to strict truth.”

  This comedy was repeated by Mr. Mechinet in seven or eight stores of the neighborhood.

  In one of them, where the proprietors were disagreeable and not much inclined to talk, he even made a purchase amounting to twenty francs.

  But after two hours of such practise, which amused me very much, we had gaged public opinion. We knew exactly what was thought of M. and Mme. Monistrol in the neighborhood, where they had lived since their marriage, that is, for the past four years.

  As regards the husband, there was but one opinion—he was the most gentle and best of men, obliging, honest, intelligent, and hardworking. If he had not made a success in his business it was because luck does not always favor those who most deserve it. He did wrong in taking a shop doomed to bankruptcy, for, in the past fifteen years, four merchants had failed there.

  Everybody knew and said that he adored his wife, but this great love had not exceeded the proper limits, and therefore no ridicule resulted for him.

  Nobody could believe in his guilt.

  His arrest, they said, must be a mistake made by the police.

  As to Madame Monistrol, opinion was divided.

  Some thought she was too stylish for her means; others claimed that a stylish dress was one of the requirements, one of the necessities, of a business dealing in luxuries.

  In general, they were convinced that she loved her husband very much. For instance, they were unanimous in praising her modesty, the more meritorious, because she was remarkably beautiful, and because she was besieged by many admirers. But never had she given any occasion to be talked about, never had her immaculate reputation been glanced at by the lightest suspicion.

  I noticed that this especially bewildered M. Mechinet.

  “It is surprising,” he said to me, “not one scandal, not one slander, not one calumny. Oh! this is not what Caroline thought. According to her, we were to find one of those lady shopkeepers, who occupy the principal place in the office, who display their beauty much more than their merchandise, and who banish to the back shop their husband—a blind idiot, or an indecent obliging scoundrel. But not at all.”

  I did not answer; I was not less disconcerted than my neighbor.

  We were now far from the evidence the concierge of the Rue le Cluse had given; so greatly varies the point of view according to the location. What at Batignolles is considered to be a blamable coquetry, is in the Rue Vivienne nothing more than an unreasonable requirement of position.

  But we had already employed too much time for our investigations to stop and exchange impressions and to discuss our conjectures.

  “Now,” said M. Mechinet, “before entering the place, let us study its approaches.”

  And trained in carrying out discreet investigations in the midst of Paris bustle, he motioned to me to follow him under a carriage entrance, exactly opposite Monistrol’s store.

  It was a modest shop, almost poor, compared with those around it. The front needed badly a painter’s brush. Above, in letters which were formerly gilt, now smoky and blackened, Monistrol’s name was displayed. On the plate-glass windows could be read: “Gold and Imitation.”

  Alas! it was principally imitation that was glistening in the show window. On the rods were hanging many plated chains, sets of jet jewelry, diadems studded with rhinestones, then imitation coral necklaces and brooches and rings; and cuff buttons set with imita
tion stones in all colors.

  All in all, a poor display, it could never tempt gimlet thieves.

  “Let us enter,” I said to M. Mechinet.

  He was less impatient than I, or knew better how to keep back his impatience, for he stopped me by the arm, saying:

  “One moment. I should like at least to catch a glimpse of Madame Monistrol.”

  In vain did we continue to stand for more than twenty minutes on our observation post; the shop remained empty, Madame Monistrol did not appear.

  “Come, Monsieur Godeuil, let us venture,” exclaimed my worthy neighbor at last, “we have been standing in one place long enough.”

  IX

  In order to reach Monistrol’s store we had only to cross the street.

  At the noise of the door opening, a little servant girl, from fifteen to sixteen years old, dirty and ill combed, came out of the back shop.

  “What can I serve the gentlemen with?” she asked.

  “Madame Monistrol?”

  “She is there, gentlemen; I am going to notify her, because you see—”

  M. Mechinet did not give her time to finish. With a movement, rather brutal, I must confess, he pushed her out of the way and entered the back shop saying:

  “All right, since she is there, I am going to speak to her.”

  As for me, I walked on the heels of my worthy neighbor, convinced that we would not leave without knowing the solution of the riddle.

  That back shop was a miserable room, serving at the same time as parlor, dining-room, and bedroom. Disorder reigned supreme; moreover there was that incoherence we notice in the house of the poor who endeavor to appear rich.

  In the back there was a bed with blue damask curtains and with pillows adorned with lace; in front of the mantelpiece stood a table all covered with the remains of a more than modest breakfast.

  In a large armchair was seated, or rather lying, a very blond young woman, who was holding in her hand a sheet of stamped paper.

  It was Madame Monistrol.

  Surely in telling us of her beauty, all the neighbors had come far below the reality. I was dazzled.

  Only one circumstance displeased me. She was in full mourning, and wore a crape dress, slightly decollete, which fitted her marvelously.

  This showed too much presence of mind for so great a sorrow. Her attire seemed to me to be the contrivance of an actress dressing herself for the role she is to play.

  As we entered, she stood up, like a frightened doe, and with a voice which seemed to be broken by tears, she asked:

  “What do you want, gentlemen?”

  M. Mechinet had also observed what I had noticed.

  “Madame,” he answered roughly, “I was sent by the Court; I am a police agent.”

  Hearing this, she fell back into her armchair with a moan that would have touched a tiger.

  Then, all at once, seized by some kind of enthusiasm, with sparkling eyes and trembling lips, she exclaimed:

  “So you have come to arrest me. God bless you. See! I am ready, take me. Thus I shall rejoin that honest man, arrested by you last evening. Whatever be his fate, I want to share it. He is as innocent as I am. No matter! If he is to be the victim of an error of human justice, it shall be for me a last joy to die with him.”

  She was interrupted by a low growl coming from one of the corners of the back shop.

  I looked, and saw a black dog, with bristling hair and bloodshot eyes, showing his teeth, and ready to jump on us.

  “Be quiet, Pluton!” called Madame Monistrol; “go and lie down; these gentlemen do not want to hurt me.”

  Slowly and without ceasing to glare at us furiously, the dog took refuge under the bed.

  “You are right to say that we do not want to hurt you, madame,” continued M. Mechinet, “we did not come to arrest you.”

  If she heard, she did not show it.

  “This morning already,” she said, “I received this paper here, commanding me to appear later in the day, at three o’clock, at the court-house, in the office of the investigating judge. What do they want of me? my God! What do they want of me?”

  “To obtain explanations which will prove, I hope, your husband’s innocence. So, madame, do not consider me an enemy. What I want is to get at the truth.”

  He produced his snuff-box, hastily poked his fingers therein, and in a solemn tone, which I did not recognize in him, he resumed:

  “It is to tell you, madame, of what importance will be your answers to the questions which I shall have the honor of asking you. Will it be convenient for you to answer me frankly?”

  For a long time she rested her large blue eyes, drowned in tears, on my worthy neighbor, and in a tone of painful resignation she said:

  “Question me, monsieur.”

  For the third time I repeat it, I was absolutely without experience; I was troubled over the manner in which M. Mechinet had begun this examination.

  It seemed to me that he betrayed his perplexity, and that, instead of pursuing an aim established in advance, he was delivering his blows at random.

  Ah! if I were allowed to act! Ah! if I had dared.

  He, impenetrable, had seated himself opposite Madame Monistrol.

  “You must know, madame,” he began, “that it was the night before last, at eleven o’clock, that M. Pigoreau, called Antenor, your husband’s uncle, was murdered.”

  “Alas!”

  “Where was M. Monistrol at that hour?”

  “My God! that is fatality.”

  M. Mechinet did not wince.

  “I am asking you, madame,” he insisted, “where your husband spent the evening of the day before yesterday?”

  The young woman needed time to answer, because she sobbed so that it seemed to choke her. Finally mastering herself, she moaned:

  “The day before yesterday my husband spent the evening out of the house.”

  “Do you know where he was?”

  “Oh! as to that, yes. One of our workmen, who lives in Montrouge, had to deliver for us a set of false pearls, and did not deliver it. We were taking the risk of being obliged to keep the order on our account, which would have been a disaster, as we are not rich. That is why, at dinner, my husband told me: ‘I am going to see that fellow.’ And, in fact, toward nine o’clock, he went out, and I even went with him as far as the omnibus, where he got in in my presence, Rue Richelieu.”

  I was breathing more easily. This, perhaps, was an alibi after all.

  M. Mechinet had the same thought, and, more gently, he resumed:

  “If it is so, your workman will be able to affirm that he saw M. Monistrol at his house at eleven o’clock.”

  “Alas! no.”

  “How? Why?”

  “Because he had gone out. My husband did not see him.”

  “That is indeed fatal. But it may be that the concierge noticed M. Monistrol.”

  “Our workman lives in a house where there is no concierge.”

  That may have been the truth; it was certainly a terrible charge against the unfortunate prisoner.

  “And at what time did your husband return?” continued M. Mechinet.

  “A little after midnight.”

  “Did you not find that he was absent a very long time?”

  “Oh! yes. And I even reproved him for it. He told me as an excuse that he had taken the longest way, that he had sauntered on the road, and that he had stopped in a cafe to drink a glass of beer.”

  “How did he look when he came home?”

  “It seemed to me that he was vexed; but that was natural.”

  “What clothes did he wear?”

  “The same he had on when he was arrested.”

  “You did not observe in him anything out of t
he ordinary?”

  “Nothing.”

  Standing a little behind M. Mechinet, I could, at my leisure, observe Madame Monistrol’s face and catch the most fleeting signs of her emotion.

  She seemed overwhelmed by an immense grief, large tears rolled down her pale cheeks; nevertheless, it seemed to me at times that I could discover in the depth of her large blue eyes something like a flash of joy.

  Is it possible that she is guilty? And as this thought, which had already come to me before, presented itself more obstinately, I quickly stepped forward, and in a rough tone asked her:

  “But you, madame, where were you on that fatal evening at the time your husband went uselessly to Montrouge, to look for his workman?”

  She cast on me a long look, full of stupor, and softly answered:

  “I was here, monsieur; witnesses will confirm it to you.”

  “Witnesses!”

  “Yes, monsieur. It was so hot that evening that I had a longing for ice-cream, but it vexed me to eat it alone. So I sent my maid to invite my neighbors, Madame Dorstrich, the bootmaker’s wife, whose store is next to ours, and Madame Rivaille, the glove manufacturer, opposite us. These two ladies accepted my invitation and remained here until half-past eleven. Ask them, they will tell you. In the midst of such cruel trials that I am suffering, this accidental circumstance is a blessing from God.”

  Was it really an accidental circumstance?

  That is what we were asking ourselves, M. Mechinet and I, with glances more rapid than a flash.

  When chance is so intelligent as that, when it serves a cause so directly, it is very hard not to suspect that it had been somewhat prepared and led on.

  But the moment was badly chosen for this discovery of our bottom thoughts.

  “You have never been suspected, you, madame,” imprudently stated M. Mechinet. “The worst that may be supposed is that your husband perhaps told you something of the crime before he committed it.”

  “Monsieur—if you knew us.”

  “Wait. Your business is not going very well, we were told; you were embarrassed.”