The Widow Lerouge Part 17

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 pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sa.s.sinated. 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 pa.s.s," 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?"

"I, sir, in fencing with M. de Courtivois, who can bear witness to it."

"He will be heard. Where is the broken end?"

"I do not know. You must ask Lubin, my valet."

"Exactly. He declares that he has hunted for it, and cannot find it. I must tell you that the victim received the fatal blow from the sharpened end of a broken foil. This piece of stuff, on which the a.s.sa.s.sin wiped his weapon, is a proof of what I state."

"I beseech you, sir, to order a most minute search to be made. It is impossible that the other half of the foil is not to be found."

"Orders shall be given to that effect. Look, here is the exact imprint of the murderer's foot traced on this sheet of paper. I will place one of your boots upon it and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracing with the utmost precision. This plaster was poured into the hollow left by the heel: you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in shape to the heels of your own boots. I perceive, too, the mark of a peg, which appears in both."

Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the magistrate. It was plain that he was struggling against a growing terror. Was he attacked by that fright which overpowers the guilty when they see themselves on the point of being confounded. To all the magistrate's remarks, he answered in a low voice,-"It is true-perfectly true."

"That is so," continued M. Daburon; "yet listen further, before attempting to defend yourself. The criminal had an umbrella. The end of this umbrella sank in the clayey soil; the round of wood which is placed at the end of the silk, was found moulded in the clay. Look at this clod of clay, raised with the utmost care; and now look at your umbrella. Compare the rounds. Are they alike, or not?"

"These things, sir," attempted Albert, "are manufactured in large quant.i.ties."

"Well, we will pa.s.s over that proof. Look at this cigar end, found on the scene of the crime, and tell me of what brand it is, and how it was smoked."

"It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder."

"Like these?" persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and the amber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount's library.

"Yes!" murmured Albert, "it is a fatality-a strange coincidence."

"Patience, that is nothing, as yet. The a.s.sa.s.sin wore gloves. The victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kid remained in her nails. These have been preserved, and are here. They are of a lavender colour, are they not? Now, here are the gloves which you wore on Tuesday. They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Compare these pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond? Are they not of the same colour, the same skin?"

It was useless to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidence was there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy himself solely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon did not lose sight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold perspiration bathed his temples, and glided drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembled so much that they were of no use to him. In a chilling voice he kept repeating: "It is horrible, horrible!"

"Finally," pursued the inexorable magistrate, "here are the trousers you wore on the evening of the murder. It is plain that not long ago they were very wet; and, besides the mud on them, there are traces of earth. Besides that they are torn at the knees. We will admit, for the moment that you might not remember where you went on that evening; but who would believe that you do not know when you tore your trousers and how you frayed your gloves?"

What courage could resist such a.s.saults? Albert's firmness and energy were at an end. His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a chair, exclaiming,-"It is enough to drive me mad!"

"Do you admit," insisted the magistrate, whose gaze had become firmly fixed upon the prisoner, "do you admit that Widow Lerouge could only have been stabbed by you?"

"I admit," protested Albert, "that I am the victim of one of those terrible fatalities which make men doubt the evidence of their reason. I am innocent."

"Then tell me where you pa.s.sed Tuesday evening."

"Ah, sir!" cried the prisoner, "I should have to-" But, restraining himself, he added in a faint voice, "I have made the only answer that I can make."

M. Daburon rose, having now reached his grand stroke.

"It is, then, my duty," said he, with a shade of irony, "to supply your failure of memory. I am going to remind you of where you went and what you did. On Tuesday evening at eight o'clock, after having obtained from the wine you drank, the dreadful energy you needed, you left your home. At thirty-five minutes past eight, you took the train at the St. Lazare station. At nine o'clock, you alighted at the station at Rueil."

And, not disdaining to employ Tabaret's ideas, the investigating magistrate repeated nearly word for word the tirade improvised the night before by the amateur detective.

He had every reason, while speaking, to admire the old fellow's penetration. In all his life, his eloquence had never produced so striking an effect. Every sentence, every word, told. The prisoner's a.s.surance, already shaken, fell little by little, just like the outer coating of a wall when riddled with bullets.

Albert was, as the magistrate perceived, like a man, who, rolling to the bottom of a precipice, sees every branch and every projecture which might r.e.t.a.r.d his fall fail him, and who feels a new and more painful bruise each time his body comes in contact with them.

"And now," concluded the investigating magistrate, "listen to good advice: do not persist in a system of denying, impossible to sustain. Give in. Justice, rest a.s.sured, is ignorant of nothing which it is important to know. Believe me; seek to deserve the indulgence of your judges, confess your guilt."

M. Daburon did not believe that his prisoner would still persist in a.s.serting his innocence. He imagined he would be overwhelmed and confounded, that he would throw himself at his feet, begging for mercy. But he was mistaken.

Albert, in spite of his great prostration, found, in one last effort of his will, sufficient strength to recover himself and again protest,-"You are right, sir," he said in a sad, but firm voice; "everything seems to prove me guilty. In your place, I should have spoken as you have done; yet all the same, I swear to you that I am innocent."

"Come now, do you really-" began the magistrate.

"I am innocent," interrupted Albert; "and I repeat it, without the least hope of changing in any way your conviction. Yes, everything speaks against me, everything, even my own bearing before you. It is true, my courage has been shaken by these incredible, miraculous, overwhelming coincidences. I am overcome, because I feel the impossibility of proving my innocence. But I do not despair. My honour and my life are in the hands of G.o.d. At this very hour when to you I appear lost,-for I in no way deceive myself, sir,-I do not despair of a complete justification. I await confidently."

"What do you mean?" asked the magistrate.

"Nothing but what I say, sir."

"So you persist in denying your guilt?"

"I am innocent."

"But this is folly-"

"I am innocent."

"Very well," said M. Daburon; "that is enough for to-day. You will hear the official report of your examination read, and will then be taken back to solitary confinement. I exhort you to reflect. Night will perhaps bring on a better feeling; if you wish at any time to speak to me, send word, and I will come to you. I will give orders to that effect. You may read now, Constant."

When Albert had departed under the escort of the gendarmes, the magistrate muttered in a low tone, "There's an obstinate fellow for you." He certainly no longer entertained the shadow of a doubt. To him, Albert was as surely the murderer as if he had admitted his guilt Even if he should persist in his system of denial to the end of the investigation, it was impossible, that, with the proofs already in the possession of the police, a true bill should not be found against him. He was therefore certain of being committed for trial at the a.s.sizes. It was a hundred to one, that the jury would bring in a verdict of guilty.

Left to himself, however, M. Daburon did not experience that intense satisfaction, mixed with vanity, which he ordinarily felt after he had successfully conducted an examination, and had succeeded in getting his prisoner into the same position as Albert. Something disturbed and shocked him. At the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at ease. He had triumphed; but his victory gave him only uneasiness, pain, and vexation. A reflection so simple that he could hardly understand why it had not occurred to him at first, increased his discontent, and made him angry with himself.

"Something told me," he muttered, "that I was wrong to undertake this business. I am punished for not having obeyed that inner voice. I ought to have declined to proceed with the investigation. The Viscount de Commarin, was, all the same, certain to be arrested, imprisoned, examined, confounded, tried, and probably condemned. Then, being in no way connected with the trial, I could have reappeared before Claire. Her grief will be great. As her friend, I could have soothed her, mingled my tears with hers, calmed her regrets. With time, she might have been consoled, and perhaps have forgotten him. She could not have helped feeling grateful to me, and then who knows-? While now, whatever may happen, I shall be an object of loathing to her: she will never be able to endure the sight of me. In her eyes I shall always be her lover's a.s.sa.s.sin. I have with my own hands opened an abyss! I have lost her a second time, and by my own fault."

The unhappy man heaped the bitterest reproaches upon himself. He was in despair. He had never so hated Albert,-that wretch, who, stained with a crime, stood in the way of his happiness. Then too he cursed old Tabaret! Alone, he would not have decided so quickly. He would have waited, thought over the matter, matured his decision, and certainly have perceived the inconveniences, which now occurred to him. The old fellow, always carried away like a badly trained bloodhound, and full of stupid enthusiasm, had confused him, and led him to do what he now so much regretted.

It was precisely this unfavorable moment that M. Tabaret chose for reappearing before the magistrate. He had just been informed of the termination of the inquiry; and he arrived, impatient to know what had pa.s.sed, swelling with curiosity, and full of the sweet hope of hearing of the fulfilment of his predictions.

"What answers did he make?" he asked even before he had closed the door.

"He is evidently guilty," replied the magistrate, with a harshness very different to his usual manner.

Old Tabaret, who expected to receive praises by the basketful, was astounded at this tone! It was therefore, with great hesitancy that he offered his further services.

"I have come," he said modestly, "to know if any investigations are necessary to demolish the alibi pleaded by the prisoner."

"He pleaded no alibi," replied the magistrate, dryly.

"How," cried the detective, "no alibi? Pshaw! I ask pardon: he has of course then confessed everything."

"No," said the magistrate impatiently, "he has confessed nothing. He acknowledges that the proofs are decisive: he cannot give an account of how he spent his time; but he protests his innocence."

In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring wildly, and altogether in the most grotesque att.i.tude his astonishment could effect. He was literally thunderstruck. In spite of his anger, M. Daburon could not help smiling; and even Constant gave a grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm of laughter.

"Not an alibi, nothing?" murmured the old fellow. "No explanations? The idea! It is inconceivable! Not an alibi? We must then be mistaken: he cannot be the criminal. That is certain!"

The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must have been waiting the result of the examination at the wine shop round the corner, or else that he had gone mad.

"Unfortunately," said he, "we are not mistaken. It is but too clearly shown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you like, you can ask Constant for his report of the examination, and read it over while I put these papers in order."

"Very well," said the old fellow with feverish anxiety.

He sat down in Constant's chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table, thrusting his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read the report through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and distorted features.

"Sir," said he to the magistrate in a strange voice, "I have been the involuntary cause of a terrible mistake. This man is innocent."

"Come, come," said M. Daburon, without stopping his preparations for departure, "you are going out of your mind, my dear M. Tabaret. How, after all that you have read there, can-"

"Yes, sir, yes: it is because I have read this that I entreat you to pause, or we shall add one more mistake to the sad list of judicial errors. Read this examination over carefully; there is not a reply but which declares this unfortunate man innocent, not a word but which throws out a ray of light. And he is still in prison, still in solitary confinement?"

"He is; and there he will remain, if you please," interrupted the magistrate. "It becomes you well to talk in this manner, after the way you spoke last night, when I hesitated so much."

"But, sir," cried the old detective, "I still say precisely the same. Ah, wretched Tabaret! all is lost; no one understands you. Pardon me, sir, if I lack the respect due to you; but you have not grasped my method. It is, however, very simple. Given a crime, with all the circ.u.mstances and details, I construct, bit by bit, a plan of accusation, which I do not guarantee until it is entire and perfect. If a man is found to whom this plan applies exactly in every particular the author of the crime is found: otherwise, one has laid hands upon an innocent person. It is not sufficient that such and such particulars seem to point to him; it must be all or nothing. This is infallible. Now, in this case, how have I reached the culprit? Through proceeding by inference from the known to the unknown. I have examined his work; and I have formed an idea of the worker. Reason and logic lead us to what? To a villain, determined, audacious, and prudent, versed in the business. And do you think that such a man would neglect a precaution that would not be omitted by the stupidest tyro? It is inconceivable. What! this man is so skillful as to leave such feeble traces that they escape Gevrol's practised eye, and you think he would risk his safety by leaving an entire night unaccounted for? It's impossible! I am as sure of my system as of a sum that has been proved. The a.s.sa.s.sin has an alibi. Albert has pleaded none; then he is innocent."

M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he would have looked at a remarkable monomaniac. When the old fellow had finished,-"My worthy M. Tabaret," the magistrate said to him: "you have but one fault. You err through an excess of subtlety, you accord too freely to others the wonderful sagacity with which you yourself are endowed. Our man has failed in prudence, simply because he believed his rank would place him above suspicion."

"No, sir, no, a thousand times no. My culprit,-the true one,-he whom we have missed catching, feared everything. Besides, does Albert defend himself? No. He is overwhelmed because he perceives coincidences so fatal that they appear to condemn him, without a chance of escape. Does he try to excuse himself? No. He simply replies, 'It is terrible.' And yet all through his examination I feel reticence that I cannot explain."

"I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident as though he had confessed everything. I have more than sufficient proofs for that."

"Ah, sir, proofs! There are always enough of those against an arrested man. They existed against every innocent man who was ever condemned. Proofs! Why, I had them in quant.i.ties against Kaiser, the poor little tailor, who-"

"Well," interrupted the magistrate, hastily, "if it is not he, the most interested one, who committed the crime, who then is it? His father, the Count de Commarin?"

"No: the true a.s.sa.s.sin is a young man."

M. Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his preparations. He took up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave, replied: "You must then see that I am right. Come and see me by-and-by, M. Tabaret, and make haste and get rid of all your foolish ideas. To-morrow we will talk the whole matter over again. I am rather tired to-night." Then he added, addressing his clerk, "Constant, look in at the record office, in case the prisoner Commarin should wish to speak to me."

He moved towards the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit.

"Sir," said the old man, "in the name of heaven listen to me! He is innocent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to find the real culprit. Sir, think of your remorse should you cause an-"