Monsieur Lecoq, v. 1 by Emile Gaboriau (people reading books txt) 📖

“About eleven o’clock.”

“Go on.”

“As soon as they sat down they ordered a bowl of wine, a la Frangaise. Without boasting, I may say that I haven’t an equal in preparing that drink. Of course, I waited on them, and afterward, having a blouse to mend for my boy, I went upstairs to my room, which is just over the shop.”

“Leaving the people alone?”

“Yes, my judge.”

“That showed a great deal of confidence on your part.”

The widow sadly shook her head. “People as poor as I am don’t fear the thieves,” she sighed.

“Go on—go on.”

“Well, I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out: ‘Eh! old woman!’ So I went down, and found a tall, big-bearded man, who had just come in. He asked for a glass of brandy, which I brought to a table where he had sat down by himself.”

“And then did you go upstairs again?” interrupted the magistrate.

The exclamation was ironical, of course, but no one could have told from the Widow Chupin’s placid countenance whether she was aware that such was the case.

“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied in the most composed manner. “Only this time I had scarcely taken up my needle when I heard a terrible uproar in the shop. I hurried downstairs to put a stop to it—but heaven knows my interference would have been of little use. The three men who had come in first of all had fallen upon the newcomer, and they were beating him, my good sir, they were killing him. I screamed. Just then the man who had come in alone drew a revolver from his pocket; he fired and killed one of his assailants, who fell to the ground. I was so frightened that I crouched on the staircase and threw my apron over my head that I might not see the blood run. An instant later Monsieur Gevrol arrived with his men; they forced open the door, and behold—”

The Widow Chupin here stopped short. These wretched old women, who have trafficked in every sort of vice, and who have tasted every disgrace, at times attain a perfection of hypocrisy calculated to deceive the most subtle penetration. Any one unacquainted with the antecedents of the landlady of the Poivriere would certainly have been impressed by her apparent candor, so skillfully did she affect a display of frankness, surprise, and fear. Her expression would have been simply perfect, had it not been for her eyes, her small gray eyes, as restless as those of a caged animal, and gleaming at intervals with craftiness and cunning.

There she stood, mentally rejoicing at the success of her narrative, for she was convinced that the magistrate placed implicit confidence in her revelations, although during her recital, delivered, by the way, with conjurer-like volubility, not a muscle of M. Segmuller’s face had betrayed what was passing in his mind. When she paused, out of breath, he rose from his seat, and without a word approached his clerk to inspect the notes taken during the earlier part of the examination.

From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did not cease watching the prisoner. “She thinks that it’s all over,” he muttered to himself; “she fancies that her deposition is accepted without question.”

If such were, indeed, the widow’s opinion, she was soon to be undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words to the smiling Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fireplace, convinced that the moment had now come to abandon defensive tactics, and open fire on the enemy’s position.

“So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you tell us that you didn’t remain for a single moment with the people who came into your shop that evening!”

“Not a moment.”

“They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited on them, and then left them to themselves?”

“Yes, my good sir.”

“It seems to me impossible that you didn’t overhear some words of their conversation. What were they talking about?”

“I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers.”

“Didn’t you hear anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of commiseration. “In other words,” he remarked, “you refuse to inform justice—”

“Oh, my good sir!”

“Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about leaving the shop and mending your son’s clothes in your bedroom are so many inventions. You have concocted them so as to be able to say to me: ‘I didn’t see anything; I didn’t hear anything.’ If such is your system of defense, I warn you that it will be impossible for you to maintain it, and I may add that it would not be admitted by any tribunal.”

“It is not a system of defense; it is the truth.”

M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment; then, suddenly, he exclaimed: “Then you have nothing to tell me about this miserable assassin?”

“But he is not an assassin, my good sir.”

“What do you mean by such an assertion?”

“I mean that he only killed the others in protecting himself. They picked a quarrel with him; he was alone against three, and saw very plainly that he could expect no mercy from brigands who—”

The color rose to the Widow Chupin’s cheeks, and she suddenly checked herself, greatly embarrassed, and evidently regretting that she had not bridled her tongue. It is true she might reasonably hope, that the magistrate had imperfectly heard her words, and had failed to seize their full purport, for two or three red-hot coals having fallen from the grate on the hearth, he had taken up the tongs, and seemed to be engrossed in the task of artistically arranging the fire.

“Who can tell me—who can prove to me that, on the contrary, it was not this man who first attacked the others?” he murmured, thoughtfully.

“I can,” stoutly declared the widow, already forgetful of her prudent hesitation, “I can swear it.”

M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment written upon his face. “How can you know that?” he said slowly. “How can you swear it? You were in your bedroom when the quarrel began.”

Silent and motionless in his corner, Lecoq was inwardly jubilant. This was a most happy result, he thought, but a few questions more, and the old woman would be obliged to contradict herself. What she had already said sufficed to show that she must have a secret interest in the matter, or else she would never have been so imprudently earnest in defending the prisoner.

“However, you have probably been led to this conclusion by your knowledge of the murderer’s character,” remarked M. Segmuller, “you are apparently well acquainted with him.”