The Lerouge Case by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature list TXT) 📖

Bordeaux, of which you drank the whole. You doubtless had need of some extra excitement for your subsequent plans.”

“I had no plans,” replied the prisoner with very evident uneasiness.

“You make a mistake. Two friends came to seek you. You replied to them, before sitting down to dinner, that you had a very important engagement to keep.”

“That was only a polite way of getting rid of them.”

“Why?”

“Can you not understand, sir? I was resigned, but not comforted. I was learning to get accustomed to the terrible blow. Would not one seek solitude in the great crisis of one’s life?”

“The prosecution pretends that you wished to be left alone, that you might go to La Jonchere. During the day, you said, ‘She can not resist me.’ Of whom were you speaking?”

“Of some one to whom I had written the evening before, and who had replied to me. I spoke the words, with her letter still in my hands.”

“This letter was, then, from a woman?”

“Yes.”

“What have you done with it?”

“I have burnt it.”

“This precaution leads one to suppose that you considered the letter compromising.”

“Not at all, sir; it treated entirely of private matters.”

M. Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mademoiselle d’Arlange. Should he nevertheless ask the question, and again hear pronounced the name of Claire, which always aroused such painful emotions within him? He ventured to do so, leaning over his papers, so that the prisoner could not detect his emotion.

“From whom did this letter come?” he asked.

“From one whom I can not name.”

“Sir,” said the magistrate severely, “I will not conceal from you that your position is greatly compromised. Do not aggravate it by this culpable reticence. You are here to tell everything, sir.”

“My own affairs, yes, not those of others.”

Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. He was giddy, flurried, exasperated, by the prying and irritating mode of the examination, which scarcely gave him time to breathe. The magistrate’s questions fell upon him more thickly than the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer upon the red-hot iron which he is anxious to beat into shape before it cools.

The apparent rebellion of his prisoner troubled M. Daburon a great deal. He was further extremely surprised to find the discernment of the old detective at fault; just as though Tabaret were infallible. Tabaret had predicted an unexceptionable alibi; and this alibi was not forthcoming. Why? Had this subtle villain something better than that? What artful defence had he to fall back upon? Doubtless he kept in reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps irresistible.

“Gently,” thought the magistrate. “I have not got him yet.” Then he quickly added aloud: “Continue. After dinner what did you do?”

“I went out for a walk.”

“Not immediately. The bottle emptied, you smoked a cigar in the dining-room, which was so unusual as to be noticed. What kind of cigars do you usually smoke?”

“Trabucos.”

“Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from contact with the tobacco?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Albert, much surprised at this series of questions.

“At what time did you go out?”

“About eight o’clock.”

“Did you carry an umbrella?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“I walked about.”

“Alone, without any object, all the evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now trace out your wanderings for me very carefully.”

“Ah, sir, that is very difficult to do! I went out simply to walk about, for the sake of exercise, to drive away the torpor which had depressed me for three days. I don’t know whether you can picture to yourself my exact condition. I was half out of my mind. I walked about at hazard along the quays. I wandered through the streets,—”

“All that is very improbable,” interrupted the magistrate. M. Daburon, however, knew that it was at least possible. Had not he himself, one night, in a similar condition, traversed all Paris? What reply could he have made, had some one asked him next morning where he had been, except that he had not paid attention, and did not know? But he had forgotten this; and his previous hesitations, too, had all vanished.

As the inquiry advanced, the fever of investigation took possession of him. He enjoyed the emotions of the struggle, his passion for his calling became stronger than ever.

He was again an investigating magistrate, like the fencing master, who, once practising with his dearest friend, became excited by the clash of the weapons, and, forgetting himself, killed him.

“So,” resumed M. Daburon, “you met absolutely no one who can affirm that he saw you? You did not speak to a living soul? You entered no place, not even a cafe or a theatre, or a tobacconist’s to light one of your favourite trabucos?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great misfortune; for I must inform you, that it was precisely during this Tuesday evening, between eight o’clock and midnight, that Widow Lerouge was assassinated. Justice can point out the exact hour. Again, sir, in your own interest, I recommend you to reflect,—to make a strong appeal to your memory.”

This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder seemed to astound Albert. He raised his hand to his forehead with a despairing gesture. However he replied in a calm voice,—“I am very unfortunate, sir: but I can recollect nothing.”

M. Daburon’s surprise was immense. What, not an alibi? Nothing? This could be no snare nor system of defence. Was, then, this man as cunning as he had imagined? Doubtless. Only he had been taken unawares. He had never imagined it possible for the accusation to fall upon him; and it was almost by a miracle it had done so.

The magistrate slowly raised, one by one, the large pieces of paper that covered the articles seized in Albert’s rooms.

“We will pass,” he continued, “to the examination of the charges which weigh against you. Will you please come nearer? Do you recognize these articles as belonging to yourself?”

“Yes, sir, they are all mine.”

“Well, take this foil. Who broke it?”