“Momentarily, yes; in fact—”
“Your husband must have been unhappy and worried about this precarious condition. He must have suffered especially for you, whom he adores; for you who are so young and beautiful; for you, more than for himself, he must have ardently desired the enjoyments of luxury and the satisfactions of self-esteem, procured by wealth.”
“Monsieur, I repeat it, my husband is innocent.”
With an air of reflection, M. Mechinet seemed to fill his nose with tobacco; then all at once he said:
“Then, by thunder! how do you explain his confessions? An innocent man does not declare himself to be guilty at the mere mentioning of the crime of which he is suspected; that is rare, madame; that is prodigious!”
A fugitive blush appeared on the cheeks of the young woman. Up to then her look had been straight and clear; now for the first time it became troubled and unsteady.
“I suppose,” she answered in an indistinct voice and with increased tears, “I believe that my husband, seized by fright and stupor at finding himself accused of so great a crime, lost his head.”
M. Mechinet shook his head.
“If absolutely necessary,” he said, “a passing delirium might be admitted; but this morning, after a whole long night of reflection, M. Monistrol persists in his first confessions.”
Was this true? Was my worthy neighbor talking at random, or else had he before coming to get me been at the prison to get news?
However it was, the young woman seemed almost to faint; hiding her head between her hands, she murmured:
“Lord God! My poor husband has become insane.”
Convinced now that I was assisting at a comedy, and that the great despair of this young woman was nothing but falsehood, I was asking myself whether for certain reasons which were escaping me she had not shaped the terrible determination taken by her husband; and whether, he being innocent, she did not know the real guilty one.
But M. Mechinet did not have the air of a man looking so far ahead.
After having given the young woman a few words of consolation too common to compromise him in any way, he gave her to understand that she would forestall many prejudices by allowing a minute and strict search through her domicile.
This opening she seized with an eagerness which was not feigned.
“Search, gentlemen!” she told us; “examine, search everywhere. It is a service which you will render me. And it will not take long. We have in our name nothing but the backshop where we are, our maid’s room on the sixth floor, and a little cellar. Here are the keys for everything.”
To my great surprise, M. Mechinet accepted; he seemed to be starting on one of the most exact and painstaking investigations.
What was his object? It was not possible that he did not have in view some secret aim, as his researches evidently had to end in nothing.
As soon as he had apparently finished he said:
“There remains the cellar to be explored.”
“I am going to take you down, monsieur,” said Madame Monistrol.
And immediately taking a burning candle, she made us cross a yard into which a door led from the back-shop, and took us across a very slippery stairway to a door which she opened, saying:
“Here it is—enter, gentlemen.”
I began to understand.
My worthy neighbor examined the cellar with a ready and trained look. It was miserably kept, and more miserably fitted out. In one corner was standing a small barrel of beer, and immediately opposite, fastened on blocks, was a barrel of wine, with a wooden tap to draw it. On the right side, on iron rods, were lined up about fifty filled bottles. These bottles M. Mechinet did not lose sight of, and found occasion to move them one by one.
And what I saw he noticed: not one of them was sealed with green wax.
Thus the cork picked up by me, and which served to protect the point of the murderer’s weapon, did not come from the Monistrols’ cellar.
“Decidedly,” M. Mechinet said, affecting some disappointment, “I do not find anything; we can go up again.”
We did so, but not in the same order in which we descended, for in returning I was the first.
Thus it was I who opened the door of the back-shop. Immediately the dog of the Monistrol couple sprang at me, barking so furiously that I jumped back.
“The devil! Your dog is vicious,” M. Mechinet said to the young woman.
She already called him off with a gesture of her hand.
“Certainly not, he is not vicious,” she said, “but he is a good watchdog. We are jewelers, exposed more than others to thieves; we have trained him.”
Involuntarily, as one always does after having been threatened by a dog, I called him by his name, which I knew:
“Pluton! Pluton!”
But instead of coming near me, he retreated growling, showing his sharp teeth.
“Oh, it is useless for you to call him,” thoughtlessly said Madame Monistrol. “He will not obey you.”
“Indeed! And why?”
“Ah! because he is faithful, as all of his breed; he knows only his master and me.”
This sentence apparently did not mean anything. For me it was like a flash of light. And without reflecting I asked:
“Where then, madame, was that faithful dog the evening of the crime?”
The effect produced on her by this direct question was such that she almost dropped the candlestick she was still holding.
“I do not know,” she stammered; “I do not remember.”
“Perhaps he followed your husband.”
“In fact, yes, it seems to me now I remember.”
“He must then have been trained to follow carriages, since you told us that you went with your husband as far as the Omnibus.”
She remained silent, and I was going to continue when M. Mechinet interrupted me. Far from taking advantage of the young woman’s troubled condition, he seemed to assume the task of reassuring her, and after having urged her to obey the summons of the investigating judge, he led me out.
Then when we were outside he said:
“Are you losing your head?”
The reproach hurt me.
“Is it losing one’s head,” I said, “to find the solution of the problem? Now I have it, that solution. Monistrol’s dog shall guide us to the truth.”
My hastiness made my worthy neighbor smile, and in a fatherly tone he said to me:
“You are right, and I have well understood you. Only if Madame Monistrol has penetrated into your suspicions, the dog before this evening will be dead or will have disappeared.”
X
I had committed an enormous imprudence, it was true. Nevertheless, I had found the weak point; that point by which the most solid system of defense may be broken down.
I, voluntary recruit, had seen clearly where the old stager was losing himself, groping about. Any other would, perhaps, have been jealous and would have had a grudge against me. But not he.
He did not think of anything else but of profiting by my fortunate discovery; and, as he said, everything was easy enough now, since the investigation rested on a positive point of departure.
We entered a neighboring restaurant to deliberate while lunching.
The problem, which an hour before seemed unsolvable, now stood as follows:
It had been proved to us, as much as could be by evidence, that Monistrol was innocent. Why had he confessed to being guilty? We thought we could guess why, but that was not the question of the moment. We were equally certain that Madame Monistrol had not budged from her home the night of the murder. But everything tended to show that she was morally an accomplice to the crime; that she had known of it, even if she did not advise and prepare it, and that, on the other hand, she knew t
he murderer very well.
Who was he, that murderer?
A man whom Monistrol’s dog obeyed as well as his master, since he had him follow him when he went to the Batignolles.
Therefore, it was an intimate friend of the Monistrol household. He must have hated the husband, however, since he had arranged everything with an infernal skill, so that the suspicion of the crime should fall on that unfortunate.
On the other hand, he must have been very dear to the woman, since, knowing him, she did not give him up, and without hesitation sacrificed to him her husband.
Well!
Oh! my God! The conclusion was all in a definite shape. The murderer could only be a miserable hypocrite, who had taken advantage of the husband’s affection and confidence to take possession of the wife.
In short, Madame Monistrol, belieing her reputation, certainly had a lover, and that lover necessarily was the culprit.
All filled by this certitude, I was torturing my mind to think of some infallible stratagem which would lead us to this wretch.
“And this,” I said to M. Mechinet, “is how I think we ought to operate. Madame Monistrol and the murderer must have agreed that after the crime they would not see each other for some time; this is the most elementary prudence. But you may believe that it will not be long before impatience will conquer the woman, and that she will want to see her accomplice. Now place near her an observer who will follow her everywhere, and before twice forty-eight hours have passed the affair will be settled.”
Furiously fumbling after his empty snuff-box, M. Mechinet remained a moment without answering, mumbling between his teeth I know not what unintelligible words.
Then suddenly, leaning toward me, he said:
“That isn’t it. You have the professional genius, that is certain, but it is practise that you lack. Fortunately, I am here. What! a phrase regarding the crime puts you on the trail, and you do not follow it.”
“How is that?”
“That faithful dog must be made use of.”
“I do not quite catch on.”
“Then know how to wait. Madame Monistrol will go out at about two o’clock, in order to be at the court-house at three; the little maid will be alone in the shop. You will see. I only tell you that.”
I insisted in vain; he did not want to say anything more, taking revenge for his defeat by this innocent spite. Willing or unwilling, I had to follow him to the nearest cafe, where he forced me to play dominoes.
Preoccupied as I was, I played badly, and he, without shame, was taking advantage of it to beat me, when the clock struck two.
“Up, men of the post,” he said to me, letting go of his dice.
He paid, we went out, and a moment later we were again on duty under the carriage entrance from which we had before studied the front of the Monistrol store.
We had not been there ten minutes, when Madame Monistrol appeared in the door of her shop, dressed in black, with a long crape veil, like a widow.
“A pretty dress to go to an examination,” mumbled M. Mechinet.
She gave a few instructions to her little maid, and soon left.
My companion patiently waited for five long minutes, and when he thought the young woman was already far away, he said to me:
“It is time.”
And for the second time we entered the jewelry store.
The little maid was there alone, sitting in the office, for pastime nibbling some pieces of sugar stolen from her mistress.
As soon as we appeared she recognized us, and reddening and somewhat frightened, she stood up. But without giving her time to open her mouth, M. Mechinet asked:
“Where is Madame Monistrol?”
“Gone out, monsieur.”
“You are deceiving me. She is there in the back shop.”
“I swear to you, gentlemen, that she is not. Look in, please.”
With the most disappointed looks, M. Mechinet was striking his forehead, repeating:
“How disagreeable. My God! how distressed that poor Madame Monistrol will be.” And as the little maid was looking at him with her mouth wide open and with big, astonished eyes, he continued:
“But, in fact, you, my pretty girl, you can perhaps take the place of your mistress. I came back because I lost the address of the gentleman on whom she asked me to call.”
“What gentleman?”
“You know. Monsieur—well, I have forgotten his name now. Monsieur—upon my word! you know, only him—that gentleman whom your devilish dog obeys so well.”
“Oh! M. Victor?”
“That’s just it. What is that gentleman doing?”
“He is a jeweler’s workman; he is a great friend of monsieur; they were working together when monsieur was a jeweler’s workman, before becoming proprietor, and that is why he can do anything he wants with Pluton.”
“Then you can tell me where this M. Victor resides?”
“Certainly. He lives in the Rue du Roi-Dore, No. 23.”
She seemed so happy, the poor girl, to be so well informed; but as for me, I suffered in hearing her so unwittingly denounce her mistress.
M. Mechinet, more hardened, did not have any such scruples. And even after we had obtained our information, he ended the scene with a sad joke.
As I opened the door for us to go out, he said to the young girl:
“Thanks to you. You have just rendered a great service to Madame Monistrol, and she will be very pleased.”
XI
As soon as I was on the sidewalk I had but one thought: and that was to shake out our legs and to run to the Rue du Roi-Dore and arrest this Victor, evidently the real culprit.
One word from M. Mechinet fell on my enthusiasm like a shower-bath.
“And the court,” he said to me. “Without a warrant by the investigating judge I can not do anything. It is to the court-house that we must run.”
“But we shall meet there Madame Monistrol, and if she sees us she will have her accomplice warned.”
“Be it so,” answered M. Mechinet, with a badly disguised bitterness. “Be it so, the culprit will escape and formality will have been saved. However, I shall prevent that danger. Let us walk, let us walk faster.”
And, in fact, the hope of success gave him deer legs. Reaching the court-house, he jumped, four steps at a time, up the steep stairway leading to the floor on which were the judges of investigation, and, addressing the chief bailiff, he inquired whether the magistrate in charge of the case of the “little old man of Batignolles” was in his room.
“He is there,” answered the bailiff, “with a witness, a young lady in black.”
“It is she!” said my companion to me. Then to the bailiff: “You know me,” he continued. “Quick, give me something to write on, a few words which you will take to the judge.”
The bailiff went off with the note, dragging his boots along the dusty floor, and was not long in returning with the announcement that the judge was awaiting us in No. 9.
In order to see M. Mechinet, the magistrate had left Madame Monistrol in his office, under his clerk’s guard, and had borrowed the room of one of his colleagues.
“What has happened?” he asked in a tone which enabled me to measure the abyss separating a judge from a poor detective.
Briefly and clearly M. Mechinet described the steps taken by us, their results and our hopes.
Must we say it? The magistrate did not at all seem to share our convictions.
“But since Monistrol confesses,” he repeated with an obstinacy which was exasperating to me.
However, after many explanations, he said:
“At any rate, I am going to sign a warrant.”
The valuable paper once in his possession, M. Mechinet escaped so quickly that I nearly
fell in precipitating myself after him down the stairs. I do not know whether it took us a quarter of an hour to reach the Rue du Roi-Dore. But once there: “Attention,” said M. Mechinet to me.
And it was with the most composed air that he entered in the narrow passageway of the house bearing No. 23.
“M. Victor?” he asked of the concierge.
“On the fourth floor, the right-hand door in the hallway.”
“Is he at home?”
“Yes.”
M. Mechinet took a step toward the staircase, but seemed to change his mind, and said to the concierge:
“I must make a present of a good bottle of wine to that dear Victor. With which wine-merchant does he deal in this neighborhood?”
“With the one opposite.”
We were there in a trice, and in the tone of a customer M. Mechinet ordered:
“One bottle, please, and of good wine—of that with the green seal.”
Ah! upon my word! That thought would never have come to me at that time. And yet it was very simple.
When the bottle was brought, my companion exhibited the cork found at the home of M. Pigoreau, called Antenor, and we easily identified the wax.
To our moral certainty was now added a material certainty, and with a firm hand M. Mechinet knocked at Victor’s door.
“Come in,” cried a pleasant-sounding voice.
The key was in the door; we entered, and in a very neat room I perceived a man of about thirty, slender, pale, and blond, who was working in front of a bench.
Our presence did not seem to trouble him.
“What do you want?” he politely asked.
M. Mechinet advanced toward him, and, taking him by the arm, said:
“In the name of the law, I arrest you.”
The man became livid, but did not lower his eyes.
“Are you making fun of me?” he said with an insolent air. “What have I done?”
M. Mechinet shrugged his shoulders.
“Do not act like a child,” he answered; “your account is settled. You were seen coming out from old man Antenor’s home, and in my pocket I have a cork which you made use of to prevent your dagger from losing its point.”
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 97
