MONSIEUR LECOQ. Emile Gaboriau
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you that my youthful theory is better than all your experience.”
The inspector’s carelessness gave Lecoq a perfect right to secretly seek information on his own account; but by warning his superior officers before attempting anything on his own responsibility, he would protect himself against any accusation of ambition or of unduly taking advantage of his comrade. Such charges might prove most dangerous for his future prospects in a profession where so much rivalry is seen, and where wounded vanity has so many opportunities to avenge itself by resorting to all sorts of petty treason. Accordingly, he spoke to his superior officer — saying just enough to be able to remark, in case of success: “Ah! I warned you!”— just enough so as not to dispel any of Gevrol’s doubts.
The permission which Lecoq obtained to remain in charge of the bodies was his first triumph of the best possible augury; but he knew how to dissimulate, and it was in a tone of the utmost indifference that he requested one of his comrades to remain with him. Then, while the others were making ready to depart, he seated himself upon the corner of the table, apparently oblivious of all that was passing around. He did not dare to lift his head, for fear of betraying his joy, so much did he fear that his companions might read his hopes and plans in the expression of his face.
Inwardly he was wild with impatience. Though the murderer submitted with good grace to the precautions that were taken to prevent his escape, it required some time to bind the hands of the Widow Chupin, who fought and howled as if they were burning her alive. “They will never go!” Lecoq murmured to himself.
They did so at last, however. Gevrol gave the order to start, and left the house, addressing a laughing good-by to his subordinate. The latter made no reply. He followed his comrades as far as the threshold to make sure that they were really going, for he trembled at the thought that Gevrol might reflect, change his mind, and return to solve the mystery, as was his right.
His anxiety was needless, however. The squad gradually faded away in the distance, and the cries of Widow Chupin died away in the stillness of the night. It was only then that Lecoq reentered the room. He could no longer conceal his delight; his eyes sparkled as might those of a conqueror taking possession of some vast empire: he stamped his foot upon the floor and exclaimed with exultation: “Now the mystery belongs to us two alone!”
Authorized by Gevrol to choose one of his comrades to remain with him at the Poivriere, Lecoq had requested the least intelligent of the party to keep him company. He was not influenced by a fear of being obliged to share the fruits of success with his companion, but by the necessity of having an assistant from whom he could, in case of need, exact implicit obedience.
The comrade Lecoq selected was a man of about fifty, who, after a term of cavalry service, had become an agent of the prefecture. In the humble office that he occupied he had seen prefect succeed prefect, and might probably have filled an entire prison with the culprits he had arrested with his own hands. Experience had not, however, made him any the shrewder or any the more zealous. Still he had this merit, when he received an order he executed it with military exactitude, so far as he understood it. Of course if he had failed to understand it, so much the worse. It might, indeed, be said of him, that he discharged his duties like a blind man, like an old horse trained for a riding school.
When he had a moment’s leisure, and a little money in his pocket, he invariably got drunk. Indeed, he spent his life between two fits of intoxication, without ever rising above a condition of semi-lucidity. His comrades had known, but had forgotten, his name, and his partiality for a certain beverage had accordingly induced them to call him “Father Absinthe.”
With his limited powers of observation, he naturally did not observe the tone of triumph in his young companion’s voice. “Upon my word,” he remarked, when they were alone, “your idea of keeping me here was a good one, and I thank you for it. While the others spend the night paddling about in the slush, I shall get a good sleep.”
Here he stood, in a room that was splashed with blood, that was shuddering, so to speak, with crime, and yet face to face with the still warm bodies of three murdered men he could talk of sleep!
But, after all, what did it matter to him? He had seen so many similar scenes in his time. And does not habit infallibly lead to professional indifference, making the soldier cool and composed in the midst of conflict, and rendering the surgeon impassible when the patient shrieks and writhes beneath his operating knife.
“I have been upstairs, looking about,” pursued Father Absinthe; “I saw a bed up there, and we can mount guard here, by turns.”
With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted him. “You must give up that idea, Father Absinthe,” he said, “we are not here to sleep, but to collect information — to make the most careful researches, and to note all the probabilities. In a few hours the commissary of police, the legal physician, and the public prosecutor will be here. I wish to have a report ready for them.”
This proposition seemed anything but pleasing to the old police agent. “Eh! what is the use of that?” he exclaimed. “I know the General. When he goes in search of the commissary, as he has gone this evening, there is nothing more to be done. Do you think you can see anything that he didn’t see?”
“I think that Gevrol, like every one else, is liable to be mistaken. I think that he believes too implicitly in what seems to him evidence. I could swear that this affair is not what it seems to be; and I am sure that if we like we can discover the mystery which is concealed beneath present appearances.”
Although Lecoq’s vehemence was intense, he did not succeed in making any impression upon his companion, who with a yawn that threatened to dislocate his jaws replied: “Perhaps you are right; but I am going to bed. This need not prevent you from searching around, however; and if you find anything you can wake me.”
Lecoq made no sign of impatience: nor in reality was he impatient. These words afforded him the opportunity for which he was longing. “You will give me a moment first,” he remarked. “In five minutes, by your watch, I promise to let you put your finger on the mystery that I suspect here.”
“Well, go on for five minutes.”
“After that you shall be free, Father Absinthe. Only it is clear that if I unravel the mystery alone, I alone ought to pocket the reward that a solution will certainly bring.”
At the word “reward” the old police agent pricked up his ears. He was dazzled by the vision of an infinite number of bottles of the greenish liquor whose name he bore. “Convince me, then,” said he, taking a seat upon a stool, which he had lifted from the floor.
Lecoq remained standing in front of him. “To begin with,” he remarked, “whom do you suppose the person we have just arrested to be?”
“A porter, probably, or a vagabond.”
“That is to say, a man belonging to the lowest class of society: consequently, a fellow without education.”
“Certainly.”
Lecoq spoke with his eyes fixed upon those of his companion. He distrusted his own powers, as is usual with persons of real merit, but he felt that if he could succeed in making his convictions penetrate his comrade’s obtuse mind, their exactitude would be virtually proved.
“And now,” he continued, “what would you say if I showed you that this young man had received an excellent, even refined, education?”
“I should reply that it was very extraordinary. I should reply that — but what a fool I am! You have not proved it to me yet.”
“But I can do so very easily. Do you remember the words that he uttered as he fell?”
“Yes, I remember them perfectly. He said: ‘It is the Prussians who are coming.’”
“What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“What a question! I should suppose that he did not like the Prussians, and that he supposed he was offering us a terrible insult.”
Lecoq was waiting anxiously for this response. “Ah, well; Father