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

out with extraordinary vehemence,—

“How do I know? Besides, what have I to do with my friend’s name and profession? I learned from him that they wanted workmen. I called at the navy department, they engaged me; and that is all.”

Standing quietly in one of the corners of the cell, the old chief surgeon lost not a word, not a gesture, of the murderer. And he could hardly refrain from rubbing his hands with delight as he noticed the marvellous skill of the magistrate in seizing upon all those little signs, which, when summed up at the end of an investigation, form an overwhelming mass of evidence against the criminal. The magistrate, in the meantime, went on with the same impassive air,—

“Let us leave that question, then, since it seems to irritate you, and let us go on to your residence here. How have you supported yourself at Saigon?”

“By my work, forsooth! I have two arms; and I am not a good-for- nothing.”

“You have found employment, you say, as engraver on metal?”

“No.”

“But you said”—

Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, could hardly conceal his impatience.

“If you won’t let me have my say,” he broke out insolently, “it isn’t worth while questioning me.”

The magistrate seemed not to notice it. He answered coldly,—

“Oh! talk as much as you want. I can wait.”

“Well, then, the day after we had landed, M. Farniol, the owner of the French restaurant, offered me a place as waiter. Of course I accepted, and stayed there a year. Now I wait at table at the Hotel de France, kept by M. Roy. You can send for my two masters; they will tell you whether there is any complaint against me.”

“They will certainly be examined. And where do you live?”

“At the Hotel de France, of course, where I am employed.”

The magistrate’s face looked more and more benevolent. He asked next,—

“And that is a good place,—to be waiter at a restaurant or a hotel?”

“Why, yes—pretty good.”

“They pay well; eh?”

“That depends,—sometimes they do; at other times they don’t. When it is the season”—

“That is so everywhere. But let us be accurate. You have been now eighteen months in Saigon; no doubt you have laid up something?”

The man looked troubled and amazed, as if he had suddenly found out that the apparent benevolence of the magistrate had led him upon slippery and dangerous ground. He said evasively,—

“If I have put anything aside, it is not worth mentioning.”

“On the contrary, let us mention it. How much about have you saved?”

Bagnolet’s looks, and the tremor of his lips, showed the rage that was devouring him.

“I don’t know,” he said sharply.

The magistrate made a gesture of surprise which was admirable. He added,—

“What! You don’t know how much you have laid up? That is too improbable! When people save money, one cent after another, to provide for their old age, they know pretty well”—

“Well, then, take it for granted that I have saved nothing.”

“As you like it. Only it is my duty to show you the effect of your declaration. You tell me you have not laid up any money, don’t you? Now, what would you say, if, upon search being made, the police should find a certain sum of money on your person or elsewhere?”

“They won’t find any.”

“So much the better for you; for, after what you said, it would be a terrible charge.”

“Let them search.”

“They are doing it now, and not only in your room, but also elsewhere. They will soon know if you have invested any money, or if you have deposited it with any of your acquaintances.”

“I may have brought some money with me from home.”

“No; for you have told me that you could no longer live in Paris, finding no work.”

Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, made such a sudden and violent start, that the surgeon thought he was going to attack the magistrate. He felt he had been caught in a net the meshes of which were drawing tighter and tighter around him; and these apparently inoffensive questions assumed suddenly a terrible meaning.

“Just answer me in one word,” said the magistrate. “Did you bring any money from France, or did you not?”

The man rose, and his lips opened to utter a curse; but he checked himself, sat down again, and, laughing ferociously, he said,—

“Ah! you would like to ‘squeeze’ me, and make me cut my own throat. But luckily, I can see through you; and I refuse to answer.”

“You mean you want to consider. Have a care! You need not consider in order to tell the truth.”

And, as the man remained obstinately silent, the magistrate began again after a pause, saying,—

“You know what you are accused of? They suspect that you fired at Lieut. Champcey with intent to kill.”

“That is an abominable lie!”

“So you say. How did you hear that the officers of ‘The Conquest’ had arranged a large hunting-party?”

“I had heard them speak of it at table d’hote.”

“And you left your service in order to attend this hunt, some twelve miles from Saigon? That is certainly singular.”

“Not at all; for I am very fond of hunting. And then I thought, if I could bring back a large quantity of game, I would probably be able to sell it very well.”

“And you would have added the profit to your other savings, wouldn’t you?”

Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, was stung by the point of this ironical question, as if he had received a sharp cut. But, as he said nothing, the magistrate continued,—

“Explain to us how the thing happened.”

On this ground the murderer knew he was at home, having had ample time to get ready; and with an accuracy which did great honor to his memory, or to his veracity, he repeated what he had told the surgeon on the spot, and at the time of the catastrophe. He only added, that he had concealed himself, because he had seen at once to what terrible charges he would be exposed by his awkwardness. And as he continued his account, warming up