Chapter Chapter 2 · Daburon was a man thirty-eight years of age, and of prepossessing

appearance; sympathetic notwithstanding his coldness; wearing upon his

countenance a sweet, and rather sad expression. This settled melancholy

had remained with him ever since his recovery, two years before, from a

dreadful malady, which had well-nigh proved fatal.

Investigating magistrate since 1859, he had rapidly acquired the most

brilliant reputation. Laborious, patient, and acute, he knew with

singular skill how to disentangle the skein of the most complicated

affair, and from the midst of a thousand threads lay hold to the right

one. None better than he, armed with an implacable logic, could

solve those terrible problems in which X--in algebra, the unknown

quantity--represents the criminal. Clever in deducing the unknown from

the known, he excelled in collecting facts, and in uniting in a

bundle of overwhelming proofs circumstances the most trifling, and in

appearance the most insignificant.

Although possessed of qualifications for his office so numerous and

valuable, he was tremblingly distrustful of his own abilities and

exercised his terrible functions with diffidence and hesitation. He

wanted audacity to risk those sudden surprises so often resorted to by

his colleagues in the pursuit of truth.

Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to deceive even an accused person,

or to lay snares for him; in fact the mere idea of the possibility of a

judicial error terrified him. They said of him in the courts, “He is

a trembler.” What he sought was not conviction, nor the most probable

presumptions, but the most absolute certainty. No rest for him until the

day when the accused was forced to bow before the evidence; so much

so that he had been jestingly reproached with seeking not to discover

criminals but innocents.

The chief of detective police was none other than the celebrated Gevrol.

He is really an able man, but wanting in perseverance, and liable to be

blinded by an incredible obstinacy. If he loses a clue, he cannot bring

himself to acknowledge it, still less to retrace his steps. His audacity

and coolness, however, render it impossible to disconcert him; and

being possessed of immense personal strength, hidden under a most

meagre appearance, he has never hesitated to confront the most daring of

malefactors.

But his specialty, his triumph, his glory, is a memory of faces, so

prodigious as to exceed belief. Let him see a face for five minutes, and

it is enough. Its possessor is catalogued, and will be recognised at any

time. The impossibilities of place, the unlikelihood of circumstances,

the most incredible disguises will not lead him astray. The reason for

this, so he pretends, is because he only looks at a man’s eyes, without

noticing any other features.

This faculty was severely tested some months back at Poissy, by the

following experiment. Three prisoners were draped in coverings so as

to completely disguise their height. Over their faces were thick veils,

allowing nothing of the features to be seen except the eyes, for which

holes had been made; and in this state they were shown to Gevrol.

Without the slightest hesitation he recognised the prisoners and named

them. Had chance alone assisted him?

The subordinate Gevrol had brought with him, was an old offender,

reconciled to the law. A smart fellow in his profession, crafty as

a fox, and jealous of his chief, whose abilities he held in light

estimation. His name was Lecoq.

The commissary, by this time heartily tired of his responsibilities,

welcomed the investigating magistrate and his agents as liberators. He

rapidly related the facts collected and read his official report.

“You have proceeded very well,” observed the investigating magistrate.

“All is stated clearly; yet there is one fact you have omitted to

ascertain.”

“What is that, sir?” inquired the commissary.

“On what day was Widow Lerouge last seen, and at what hour?”

“I was coming to that presently. She was last seen and spoken to on the

evening of Shrove Tuesday, at twenty minutes past five. She was then

returning from Bougival with a basketful of purchases.”

“You are sure of the hour, sir?” inquired Gevrol.

“Perfectly, and for this reason; the two witnesses who furnished me

with this fact, a woman named Tellier and a cooper who lives hard by,

alighted from the omnibus which leaves Marly every hour, when they

perceived the widow in the cross-road, and hastened to overtake her.

They conversed with her and only left her when they reached the door of

her own house.”

“And what had she in her basket?” asked the investigating magistrate.

“The witnesses cannot say. They only know that she carried two sealed

bottles of wine, and another of brandy. She complained to them of

headache, and said, ‘Though it is customary to enjoy oneself on Shrove

Tuesday, I am going to bed.’”

“So, so!” exclaimed the chief of detective police. “I know where to

search!”

“You think so?” inquired M. Daburon.

“Why, it is clear enough. We must find the tall sunburnt man, the

gallant in the blouse. The brandy and the wine were intended for his

entertainment. The widow expected him to supper. He came, sure enough,

the amiable gallant!”

“Oh!” cried the corporal of gendarmes, evidently scandalised, “she was

very old, and terribly ugly!”

Gevrol surveyed the honest fellow with an expression of contemptuous

pity. “Know, corporal,” said he, “that a woman who has money is always

young and pretty, if she desires to be thought so!”

“Perhaps there is something in that,” remarked the magistrate; “but it

is not what strikes me most. I am more impressed by the remark of this

unfortunate woman. ‘If I wished for more, I could have it.’”

“That also attracted my attention,” acquiesced the commissary.

But Gevrol no longer took the trouble to listen. He stuck to his

own opinion, and began to inspect minutely every corner of the room.

Suddenly he turned towards the commissary. “Now that I think of it,”

cried he, “was it not on Tuesday that the weather changed? It had been

freezing for a fortnight past, and on that evening it rained. At what

time did the rain commence here?”

“At half-past nine,” answered the corporal. “I went out from supper to

make my circuit of the dancing halls, when I was overtaken opposite the

Rue des Pecheurs by a heavy shower. In less than ten minutes there was

half an inch of water in the road.”

“Very well,” said Gevrol. “Then if the man came after half-past nine his

shoes must have been very muddy. If they were dry, he arrived sooner.

This must have been noticed, for the floor is a polished one. Were there

any imprints of footsteps, M. Commissary?”

“I must confess we never thought of looking for them.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chief detective, in a tone of irritation, “that is

vexatious!”

“Wait,” added the commissary; “there is yet time to see if there are

any, not in this room, but in the other. We have disturbed absolutely

nothing there. My footsteps and the corporal’s will be easily

distinguished. Let us see.”

As the commissary opened the door of the second chamber, Gevrol stopped

him. “I ask permission, sir,” said he to the investigating magistrate,

“to examine the apartment before any one else is permitted to enter. It

is very important for me.”

“Certainly,” approved M. Daburon.

Gevrol passed in first, the others remaining on the threshold. They

all took in at a glance the scene of the crime. Everything, as the

commissary had stated, seemed to have been overturned by some furious

madman. In the middle of the room was a table covered with a fine linen

cloth, white as snow. Upon this was placed a magnificent wineglass of

the rarest manufacture, a very handsome knife, and a plate of the finest

porcelain. There was an opened bottle of wine, hardly touched, and

another of brandy, from which about five or six small glassfuls had been

taken.

On the right, against the wall, stood two handsome walnut-wood

wardrobes, with ornamental locks; they were placed one on each side of

the window; both were empty, and the contents scattered about on all

sides. There were clothing, linen, and other effects unfolded, tossed

about, and crumpled. At the end of the room, near the fireplace, a large

cupboard used for keeping the crockery was wide open. On the other side

of the fireplace, an old secretary with a marble top had been forced,

broken, smashed into bits, and rummaged, no doubt, to its inmost

recesses. The desk, wrenched away, hung by a single hinge. The drawers

had been pulled out and thrown upon the floor.

To the left of the room stood the bed, which had been completely

disarranged and upset. Even the straw of the mattress had been pulled

out and examined.

“Not the slightest imprint,” murmured Gevrol disappointed. “He must have

arrived before half-past nine. You can all come in now.”

He walked right up to the corpse of the widow, near which he knelt.

“It can not be said,” grumbled he, “that the work is not properly done!

the assassin is no apprentice!”

Then looking right and left, he continued: “Oh! oh! the poor devil was

busy with her cooking when he struck her; see her pan of ham and eggs

upon the hearth. The brute hadn’t patience enough to wait for the

dinner. The gentleman was in a hurry, he struck the blow fasting;

therefore he can’t invoke the gayety of dessert in his defense!”

“It is evident,” said the commissary to the investigating magistrate,

“that robbery was the motive of the crime.”

“It is probable,” answered Gevrol in a sly way; “and that accounts for

the absence of the silver spoons from the table.”

“Look here! Some pieces of gold in this drawer!” exclaimed Lecoq, who

had been searching on his own account, “just three hundred and twenty

francs!”

“Well, I never!” cried Gevrol, a little disconcerted. But he soon

recovered from his embarrassment, and added: “He must have forgotten

them; that often happens. I have known an assassin, who, after

accomplishing the murder, became so utterly bewildered as to depart

without remembering to take the plunder, for which he had committed the

crime. Our man became excited perhaps, or was interrupted. Some one may

have knocked at the door. What makes me more willing to think so is,

that the scamp did not leave the candle burning. You see he took the

trouble to put it out.”

“Pooh!” said Lecoq. “That proves nothing. He is probably an economical

and careful man.”

The investigations of the two agents were continued all over the house;

but their most minute researches resulted in discovering absolutely

nothing; not one piece of evidence to convict; not the faintest

indication which might serve as a point of departure. Even the dead

woman’s papers, if she possessed any, had disappeared. Not a letter, not

a scrap of paper even, to be met with. From time to time Gevrol stopped

to swear or grumble. “Oh! it is cleverly done! It is a tiptop piece of

work! The scoundrel is a cool hand!”

“Well, what do you make of it?” at length demanded the investigating

magistrate.

“It is a drawn game monsieur,” replied Gevrol. “We are baffled for the

present. The miscreant has taken his measures with great precaution;

but I will catch him. Before night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit.

Besides, he is sure to fall into our hands. He has carried off the plate

and the jewels. He is lost!”

“Despite all that,” said M. Daburon, “we are no further advanced than we

were this morning!”

“Well!” growled Gevrol. “A man can only do what he can!”

“Ah!” murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, however, “why is

not old Tirauclair here?”

“What could he do more than we have done?” retorted Gevrol, directing a

furious glance at his subordinate. Lecoq bowed his head and was silent,

inwardly delighted at having wounded his chief.

“Who is old Tirauclair?” asked M. Daburon. “It seems to me that I have

heard the name, but I can’t remember where.”

“He is an extraordinary man!” exclaimed Lecoq. “He was formerly a clerk

at the Mont de Piete,” added Gevrol; “but he is now a rich old fellow,

whose real name is Tabaret. He goes in for playing the detective by way

of amusement.”

“And to augment his revenues,” insinuated the commissary.

“He?” cried Lecoq. “No danger of that. He works so much for the glory

of success that he often spends money from his own pocket. It’s

his amusement, you see! At the Prefecture we have nicknamed him

‘Tirauclair,’ from a phrase he is constantly in the habit of repeating.

Ah! he is sharp, the old weasel! It was he who in the case of that

banker’s wife, you remember, guessed that the lady had robbed herself,

and who proved it.”

“True!” retorted Gevrol; “and it was also he who almost had poor Dereme

guillotined for killing his wife, a thorough bad woman; and all the

while the poor man was innocent.”

“We are wasting our time, gentlemen,” interrupted M. Daburon. Then,

addressing himself to Lecoq, he added:--“Go and find M. Tabaret. I have

heard a great deal of him, and shall be glad to see him at work here.”

Lecoq started off at a run, Gevrol was seriously humiliated. “You have

of course, sir, the right to demand the services of whom you please,”

commenced he, “but yet--”

“Do not,” interrupted M. Daburon, “let us lose our tempers, M. Gevrol.

I have known you for a long time, and I know your worth; but to-day we

happen to differ in opinion. You hold absolutely to your sunburnt man

in the blouse, and I, on my side, am convinced that you are not on the

right track!”

“I think I am right,” replied the detective, “and I hope to prove it. I

shall find the scoundrel, be he whom he may!”

“I ask nothing better,” said M. Daburon.

“Only, permit me, sir, to give--what shall I say without failing in

respect?--a piece of advice?”

“Speak!”

“I would advise you, sir, to distrust old Tabaret.”

“Really? And for what reason?”

“The old fellow allows himself to be carried away too much by

appearances. He has become an amateur detective for the sake of

popularity, just like an author; and, as he is vainer than a peacock,

he is apt to lose his temper and be very obstinate. As soon as he finds

himself in the presence of a crime, like this one, for example, he

pretends he can explain everything on the instant. And he manages to

invent a story that will correspond exactly with the situation. He

professes, with the help of one single fact, to be able to reconstruct

all the details of an assassination, as a savant pictures an

antediluvian animal from a single bone. Sometimes he divines correctly;

very often, though, he makes a mistake. Take, for instance, the case of

the tailor, the unfortunate Dereme, without me--”

“I thank you for your advice,” interrupted M. Daburon, “and will profit

by it. Now commissary,” he continued, “it is most important to ascertain

from what part of the country Widow Lerouge came.”

The procession of witnesses under the charge of the corporal of

gendarmes were again interrogated by the investigating magistrate.

But nothing new was elicited. It was evident that Widow Lerouge had been

a singularly discreet woman; for, although very talkative, nothing in

any way connected with her antecedents remained in the memory of the

gossips of La Jonchere.

All the people interrogated, however, obstinately tried to impart to

the magistrate their own convictions and personal conjectures. Public

opinion sided with Gevrol. Every voice denounced the tall sunburnt man

with the gray blouse. He must surely be the culprit. Everyone remembered

his ferocious aspect, which had frightened the whole neighbourhood. He

had one evening menaced a woman, and another day beaten a child. They

could point out neither the child nor the woman; but no matter: these

brutal acts were notoriously public. M. Daburon began to despair of

gaining the least enlightenment, when some one brought the wife of a

grocer of Bougival, at whose shop the victim used to deal, and a child

thirteen years old, who knew, it was said, something positive.

The grocer’s wife first made her appearance. She had heard Widow Lerouge

speak of having a son still living.

“Are you quite sure of that?” asked the investigating magistrate.

“As of my existence,” answered the woman, “for, on that evening, yes, it

was evening, she was, saving your presence, a little tipsy. She remained

in my shop more than an hour.”

“And what did she say?”

“I think I see her now,” continued the shopkeeper: “she was leaning

against the counter near the scales, jesting with a fisherman of Marly,

old Husson, who can tell you the same; and she called him a fresh water

sailor. ‘My husband,’ said she, ‘was a real sailor, and the proof is,

he would sometimes remain years on a voyage, and always used to bring me

back cocoanuts. I have a son who is also a sailor, like his dead father,

in the imperial navy.’”

“Did she mention her son’s name?”

“Not that time, but another evening, when she was, if I may say so, very

drunk. She told us that her son’s name was Jacques, and that she had not

seen him for a very long time.”

“Did she speak ill of her husband?”

“Never! She only said he was jealous and brutal, though a good man at

bottom, and that he led her a miserable life. He was weak-headed, and

forged ideas out of nothing at all. In fact he was too honest to be

wise.”

“Did her son ever come to see her while she lived here?”

“She never told me of it.”

“Did she spend much money with you?”

“That depends. About sixty francs a month; sometimes more, for she

always buys the best brandy. She paid cash for all she bought.”

The woman knowing no more was dismissed. The child, who was now brought

forward, belonged to parents in easy circumstances. Tall and strong

for his age, he had bright intelligent eyes, and features expressive of

watchfulness and cunning. The presence of the magistrate did not seem to

intimidate him in the least.

“Let us hear, my boy,” said M. Daburon, “what you know.”

“Well, sir, a few days ago, on Sunday last, I saw a man at Madame

Lerouge’s garden-gate.”

“At what time of the day?”

“Early in the morning. I was going to church, to serve in the second

mass.”

“Well,” continued the magistrate, “and this man was tall and sunburnt,

and dressed in a blouse?”

“No, sir, on the contrary, he was short, very fat, and old.”

“You are sure you are not mistaken?”

“Quite sure,” replied the urchin, “I saw him close face to face, for I

spoke to him.”

“Tell me, then, what occurred?”

“Well, sir, I was passing when I saw this fat man at the gate. He

appeared very much vexed, oh! but awfully vexed! His face was red, or

rather purple, as far as the middle of his head, which I could see very

well, for it was bare, and had very little hair on it.”

“And did he speak to you first?”

“Yes, sir, he saw me, and called out, ‘Halloa! youngster!’ as I came

up to him, and he asked me if I had got a good pair of legs? I answered

yes. Then he took me by the ear, but without hurting me, and said,

‘Since that is so, if you will run an errand for me, I will give you

ten sous. Run as far as the Seine; and when you reach the quay, you will

notice a large boat moored. Go on board, and ask to see Captain Gervais:

he is sure to be there. Tell him that he can prepare to leave, that I am

ready.’ Then he put ten sous in my hand; and off I went.”

“If all the witnesses were like this bright little fellow,” murmured the

commissary, “what a pleasure it would be!”

“Now,” said the magistrate, “tell us how you executed your commission?”

“I went to the boat, sir, found the man, and I told him; and that’s

all.”

Gevrol, who had listened with the most lively attention, leaned over

towards the ear of M. Daburon, and said in a low voice: “Will you permit

me, sir, to ask the brat a few questions?”

“Certainly, M. Gevrol.”

“Come now, my little friend,” said Gevrol, “if you saw this man again,

would you know him?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then there was something remarkable about him?”

“Yes, I should think so! his face was the colour of a brick!”

“And is that all?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“But you must remember how he was dressed; had he a blouse on?”

“No; he wore a jacket. Under the arms were very large pockets, and from

out of one of them peeped a blue spotted handkerchief.”

“What kind of trousers had he on?”

“I do not remember.”

“And his waistcoat?”

“Let me see,” answered the child. “I don’t think he wore a waistcoat.

And yet,--but no, I remember he did not wear one; he had a long cravat,

fastened near his neck by a large ring.”

“Ah!” said Gevrol, with an air of satisfaction, “you are a bright boy;

and I wager that if you try hard to remember you will find a few more

details to give us.”

The boy hung down his head, and remained silent. From the knitting of

his young brows, it was plain he was making a violent effort of memory.

“Yes,” cried he suddenly, “I remember another thing.”

“What?”

“The man wore very large rings in his ears.”

“Bravo!” cried Gevrol, “here is a complete description. I shall find the

fellow now. M. Daburon can prepare a warrant for his appearance whenever

he likes.”

“I believe, indeed, the testimony of this child is of the highest

importance,” said M. Daburon; and turning to the boy added, “Can you

tell us, my little friend, with what this boat was loaded?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t see because it was decked.”

“Which way was she going, up the Seine or down?”

“Neither, sir, she was moored.”

“We know that,” said Gevrol. “The magistrate asks you which way the prow

of the boat was turned,--towards Paris or towards Marly?”

“The two ends of the boat seemed alike to me.”

The chief of the detective of police made a gesture of disappointment.

“At least,” said he, addressing the child again, “you noticed the name

of the boat? you can read I suppose. One should always know the names of

the boats one goes aboard of.”

“No, I didn’t see any name,” said the little boy.

“If this boat was moored at the quay,” remarked M. Daburon, “it was

probably noticed by the inhabitants of Bougival.”

“That is true, sir,” approved the commissary.

“Yes,” said Gevrol, “and the sailors must have come ashore. I shall find

out all about it at the wine shop. But what sort of a man was Gervais,

the master, my little friend?”

“Like all the sailors hereabouts, sir.”

The child was preparing to depart when M. Daburon recalled him.

“Before you go, my boy, tell me, have you spoken to any one of this

meeting before to-day?”

“Yes, sir, I told all to mamma when I got back from church, and gave her

the ten sous.”

“And you have told us the whole truth?” continued the magistrate. “You

know that it is a very grave matter to attempt to impose on justice. She

always finds it out, and it is my duty to warn you that she inflicts the

most terrible punishment upon liars.”

The little fellow blushed as red as a cherry, and held down his head.

“I see,” pursued M. Daburon, “that you have concealed something from us.

Don’t you know that the police know everything?”

“Pardon! sir,” cried the boy, bursting into tears,--“pardon. Don’t

punish me, and I will never do so again.”

“Tell us, then, how you have deceived us?”

“Well, sir, it was not ten sous that the man gave me, it was twenty

sous. I only gave half to mamma; and I kept the rest to buy marbles

with.”

“My little friend,” said the investigating magistrate, “for this time I

forgive you. But let it be a lesson for the remainder of your life. You

may go now, and remember it is useless to try and hide the truth; it

always comes to light!”