The Clique of Gold, Emile Gaboriau [if you liked this book .txt] 📗

As soon as he was alone, the doctor threw himself on his bed; but he could not sleep. He had never in his life been so much puzzled. He felt as if this crime was the result of some terrible but mysterious intrigue; and the very fact of having, as he fancied, raised a corner of the veil, made him burn with the desire to draw it aside altogether.

“Why,” he said to himself, “why might not the scamp whom we hold be the author of the other two attempts likewise? There is nothing improbable in that supposition. The man, once engaged, might easily have been put on board ‘The Conquest;’ and he might have left France saying to himself that it would be odd indeed, if during a long voyage, or in a land like this, he did not find a chance to earn his money without running much risk.”

The result of his meditations was, that the chief surgeon appeared, at nine o’clock, at the office of the state attorney. He placed the matter before him very fully and plainly; and, an hour afterwards, he crossed the yard on his way to the prison, accompanied by a magistrate and his clerk.

“How is the man the sailors brought here last night?” he asked the jailer.

“Badly, sir. He would not eat.”

“What did he say when he got here?”

“Nothing. He seemed to be stupefied.”

“You did not try to make him talk?”

“Why, yes, a little. He answered that he had done some mischief; that he was in despair, and wished he were dead.”

The magistrate looked at the surgeon as if he meant to say, “Just as I expected from what you told me!” Then, turning again to the jailer, he said,—

“Show us to the prisoner’s cell.”

The murderer had been put into a small but tidy cell in the first story. When they entered, they found him seated on his bed, his heels on the bars, and his chin in the palm of his hands. As soon as he saw the surgeon, he jumped up, and with outstretched arms and rolling eyes, exclaimed,—

“The officer has died!”

“No,” replied the surgeon, “no! Calm yourself. The wound is a very bad one; but in a fortnight he will be up again.”

These words fell like a heavy blow upon the murderer. He turned pale; his lips quivered; and he trembled in all his limbs. Still he promptly mastered this weakness of the flesh; and falling on his knees, with folded hands, he murmured in the most dramatic manner,—

“Then I am not a murderer! O Great God, I thank thee!”

And his lips moved as if he were uttering a fervent prayer.

It was evidently a case of coarsest hypocrisy; for his looks contradicted his words and his voice. The magistrate, however, seemed to be taken in.

“You show proper feelings,” he said. “Now get up and answer me. What is your name?”

“Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet.”

“What age?”

“Thirty-five years.”

“Where were you born?”

“At Bagnolet, near Paris. And on that account, my friend”—

“Never mind. Your profession?”

The man hesitated. The magistrate added,—

“In your own interest I advise you to tell the truth. The truth always comes out in the end; and your position would be a very serious one if you tried to lie. Answer, therefore, directly.”

“Well, I am an engraver on metal; but I have been in the army; I served my time in the marines.”

“What brought you to Cochin China?”

“The desire to find work. I was tired of Paris. There was no work for engravers. I met a friend who told me the government wanted good workmen for the colonies.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

A slight blush passed over the man’s cheek’s, and he answered hastily,—

“I have forgotten his name.”

The magistrate seemed to redouble his attention, although he did not show it.

“That is very unfortunate for you,” he answered coldly. “Come, make an effort; try to remember.”

“I know I cannot; it is not worth the trouble.”

“Well; but no doubt you recollect the profession of the man who knew so well that government wanted men in Cochin China? What was it?”

The man, this time, turned crimson with rage, and cried