Monsieur Lecoq Émile Gaboriau (popular books of all time .txt) 📖

He no longer had to occupy himself with imaginary deductions, as in former times when in the employ of his patron, the astronomer. Once again did the fact prove stranger than fiction. Here was reality⁠—a terrible reality personified by the corpses of three victims lying on the marble slabs at the Morgue. Still, if the catastrophe itself was a patent fact, its motive, its surroundings, could only be conjectured. Who could tell what circumstances had preceded and paved the way for this tragical denouement?

It is true that all doubt might be dispelled by one discovery⁠—the identity of the murderer. Who was he? Who was right, Gevrol or Lecoq? The former’s views were shared by the officials at the prison; the latter stood alone. Again, the former’s opinion was based upon formidable proof, the evidence of sight; while Lecoq’s hypothesis rested only on a series of subtle observations and deductions, starting from a single sentence that had fallen from the prisoner’s lips.

And yet Lecoq resolutely persisted in his theory, guided by the following reasons. He learnt from M. d’Escorval’s clerk that when the magistrate had examined the prisoner, the latter not only refused to confess, but answered all the questions put to him in the most evasive fashion. In several instances, moreover, he had not replied at all. If the magistrate had not insisted, it was because this first examination was a mere formality, solely intended to justify the somewhat premature delivery of the order to imprison the accused.

Now, under these circumstances, how was one to explain the prisoner’s attempt at self-destruction? Prison statistics show that habitual offenders do not commit suicide. When apprehended for a criminal act, they are sometimes seized with a wild frenzy and suffer repeated nervous attacks; at others they fall into a dull stupor, just as some glutted beast succumbs to sleep with the blood of his prey still dripping from his lips. However, such men never think of putting an end to their days. They hold fast to life, no matter how seriously they may be compromised. In truth, they are cowards.

On the other hand, the unfortunate fellow who, in a moment of frenzy, commits a crime, not unfrequently seeks to avoid the consequences of his act by self-destruction.

Hence, the prisoner’s frustrated attempt at suicide was a strong argument in favor of Lecoq’s theory. This wretched man’s secret must be a terrible one since he held it dearer than life, since he had tried to destroy himself that he might take it unrevealed to the grave.

Four o’clock was striking when Lecoq sprang from his bed on which he had thrown himself without undressing; and five minutes later he was walking down the Rue Montmartre. The weather was still cold and muggy; and a thick fog hung over the city. But the young detective was too engrossed with his own thoughts to pay attention to any atmospherical unpleasantness. Walking with a brisk stride, he had just reached the church of Saint Eustache, when a coarse, mocking voice accosted him with the exclamation: “Ah, ha! my fine fellow!”

He looked up and perceived Gevrol, who, with three of his men, had come to cast his nets round about the markets, whence the police generally return with a good haul of thieves and vagabonds.

“You are up very early this morning, Monsieur Lecoq,” continued the inspector; “you are still trying to discover our man’s identity, I suppose?”

“Still trying.”

“Is he a prince in disguise, or only a marquis?”

“One or the other, I am quite certain.”

“All right then. In that case you will not refuse us the opportunity to drink to your success.”

Lecoq consented, and the party entered a wine-shop close by. When the glasses were filled, Lecoq turned to Gevrol and exclaimed: “Upon my word, General, our meeting will save me a long walk. I was going to the prefecture to request you, on M. d’Escorval’s behalf, to send one of our comrades to the Morgue this morning. The affair at the Poivrière has been noised about, and all the world will be there, so he desires some officer to be present to watch the crowd and listen to the remarks of the visitors.”

“All right; Father Absinthe shall be there when the doors open.”

To send Father Absinthe where a shrewd and subtle agent was required was a mockery. Still Lecoq did not protest, for it was better to be badly served than to be betrayed; and he could at least trust Father Absinthe.

“It doesn’t much matter,” continued Gevrol; “but you should have informed me of this last evening. However, when I reached the prefecture you had gone.”

“I had some work to do.”

“Yes?”

“At the station-house near the Barrière d’Italie. I wanted to know whether the floor of the cell was paved or tiled.” So saying, Lecoq paid the score, saluted his superior officer, and went out.

“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, striking his glass violently upon the counter. “Thunder! how that fellow provokes me! He does not know the A.B.C. of his profession. When he can’t discover anything, he invents wonderful stories, and then misleads the magistrates with his high-sounding phrases, in the hope of gaining promotion. I’ll give him advancement with a vengeance! I’ll teach him to set himself above me!”

Lecoq had not been deceived. The evening before, he had visited the station-house where the prisoner had first been confined, and had compared the soil of the cell floor with the dust he had placed in his pocket; and he carried away with him, as he believed, one of those crushing proofs that often suffice to extort from the most obstinate criminal a complete confession. If Lecoq was in haste to part company with Gevrol, it was because he was anxious to pursue his investigations still further, before appearing in M. d’Escorval’s presence. He was determined to find the cabdriver who had been stopped by the two women in the Rue du Chevaleret; and with this object in view, he had obtained at the prefecture the names and addresses of all the cab-owners hiring