Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (good summer reads .TXT) 📖

“I am a magistrate, sir.”

“But you were also my friend. If anyone should have dared in my presence to accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of something infamous, I should have defended you, sir, with all my energy, without hesitation, and without a doubt. I should have defended you till absolute, undeniable evidence should have been brought forward of your culpability; and even then I should have pitied you, remembering that I had esteemed you so highly as to favor your alliance with my family. But you—I am accused, I do not know of what, falsely, wrongly; and at once you hasten hither, you believe the charge, and consent to become my judge. Well, let it be so! I washed my hands last night after coming home.”

M. Galpin had not boasted too much in praising his self-possession and his perfect control over himself. He did not move when the terrible words fell upon his ear; and he asked again in the same calm tone,—

“What has become of the water you used for that purpose?”

“It is probably still there, in my dressing-room.”

The magistrate at once went in. On the marble table stood a basin full of water. That water was black and dirty. At the bottom lay particles of charcoal. On the top, mixed with the soapsuds, were swimming some extremely slight but unmistakable fragments of charred paper. With infinite care the magistrate carried the basin to the table at which Mechinet had taken a seat; and, pointing at it, he asked M. de Boiscoran,—

“Is that the water in which you washed your hands last night after coming home?”

“Yes,” replied the other with an air of careless indifference.

“You had been handling charcoal, or some inflammable material.”

“Don’t you see?”

Standing face to face, the commonwealth attorney and clerk exchanged rapid glances. They had had the same feeling at that moment. If M. de Boiscoran was innocent, he was certainly a marvellously cool and energetic man, or he was carrying out a long-premeditated plan of action; for every one of his answers seemed to tighten the net in which he was taken. The magistrate himself seemed to be struck by this; but it was only for a moment, and then, turning to the clerk, he said,—

“Write that down!”

He dictated to him the whole evidence, most minutely and accurately, correcting himself every now and then to substitute a better word, or to improve his style. When he had read it over he said,—

“Let us go on, sir. You were out last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Having left the house at eight, you returned only around midnight.”

“After midnight.”

“You took your gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is it?”

With an air of indifference, M. de Boiscoran pointed at it in the corner of the fireplace, and said,—

“There it is!”

M. Galpin took it up quickly. It was a superb weapon, double-barrelled, of unusually fine make, and very elegant. On the beautifully carved woodwork the manufacturer’s name, Clebb, was engraven.

“When did you last fire this gun?” asked the magistrate.

“Some four or five days ago.”

“What for?”

“To shoot some rabbits who infested my woods.”

M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock with all possible care: he noticed that it was the Remington patent. Then he opened the chamber, and found that the gun was loaded. Each barrel had a cartridge in it. Then he put the gun back in its place, and, pulling from his pocket the leaden cartridge-case which Pitard had found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran, and asked him,—

“Do you recognize this?”

“Perfectly!” replied the other. “It is a case of one of the cartridges which I have probably thrown away as useless.”

“Do you think you are the only one in this country who has a gun by this maker?”

“I do not think it: I am quite sure of it.”

“So that you must, as a matter of course, have been at a spot where such a cartridge-case as this has been found?”

“Not necessarily. I have often seen children pick up these things, and play with them.”

The clerk, while he made his pen fly across his paper, could not resist the temptation of making all kinds of faces. He was too well acquainted with lawyers’ tactics not to understand M. Galpin’s policy perfectly well, and to see how cunningly it was devised to make every fact strengthen the suspicion against M. de Boiscoran.

“It is a close game,” he said to himself.

The magistrate had taken a seat.

“If that is so,” he began again, “I beg you will give me an account of how you spent the evening after eight o’clock: do not hurry, consider, take your time; for your answers are of the utmost importance.”

M. de Boiscoran had so far remained quite cool; but his calmness betrayed one of those terrible storms within, which may break forth, no one knows when. This warning, and, even more so, the tone in which it was given, revolted him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And, breaking out all of a sudden, he cried,—

“After all, sir, what do you want of me? What am I accused of?”

M. Galpin did not stir. He replied,—

“You will hear it at the proper time. First answer my question, and believe me in your own interest. Answer frankly. What did you do last night?”

“How do I know? I walked about.”

“That is no answer.”

“Still it is so. I went out with no specific purpose: I walked at haphazard.”

“Your gun on your shoulder?”

“I always take my gun: my servant can tell you so.”

“Did you cross the Seille marshes?”

“No.”

The magistrate shook his head gravely. He said,—

“You are not telling the truth.”

“Sir!”

“Your boots there at the foot of the bed speak against you. Where does the mud come from with which they are covered?”

“The meadows around Boiscoran are very wet.”