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

This time the pride of success got completely the better of the imperturbable coldness of the magistrate. He uttered a low cry of satisfaction, and could not refrain from casting a look of triumph at Daniel and the doctor, which said clearly,—

“Well? What did I tell you?”

It was for a second only; the next instant his features resumed their icy immobility; and, turning to the accused, he said in a tone of command,—

“Hand me the notes!”

Crochard did not stir; but his livid countenance betrayed the fierce suffering he endured. Certainly, at this moment, he did not play a part. To take from him his three thousand francs, the price of the meanest and most execrable crime; the three thousand francs for the sake of which he had risked the scaffold,—this was like tearing his entrails from him.

Like an enraged brute who sees that the enemy is all-powerful, he gathered all his strength, and, with a furious look, glanced around the room to see if he could escape anywhere, asking himself, perhaps, upon which of the men he ought to throw himself for the purpose.

“The notes!” repeated the inexorable lawyer. “Must I order force to be used?”

Convinced of the uselessness of resistance, and of the folly of any attempt at escape, the wretch hung his head.

“But I cannot undo the seams of my trousers with my nails,” he said. “Let them give me a knife or a pair of scissors.”

They were careful not to do so. But, at a sign given by the magistrate, one of the gendarmes approached, and, drawing a penknife from his pocket, ripped the seam at the place which the prisoner pointed out. A genuine convulsion of rage seized the assassin, when a little paper parcel appeared, folded up, and compressed to the smallest possible size. By a very curious phenomenon, which is, however, quite frequently observed in criminals, he was far more concerned about his money than about his life, which was in such imminent danger.

“That is my money!” he raged. “No one has a right to take it from me. It is infamous to ill use a man who has been unfortunate, and to rob him.”

The magistrate, no doubt quite accustomed to such scenes, did not even listen to Crochard, but carefully opened the packet. It contained three notes of a thousand francs each, wrapped up in a sheet of letter-paper, which was all greasy, and worn out in the folds. The bank-notes had nothing peculiar; but on the sheet of paper, traces could be made out of lines of writing; and at least two words were distinctly legible,—University and Street.

“What paper is this, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.

“I don’t know. I suppose I picked it up somewhere.”

“What? Are you going to lie again? What is the use? Here is evidently the address of some one who lives in University Street.”

Daniel was trembling on his bed.

“Ah, sir!” he exclaimed, “I used to live in University Street, Paris.”

A slight blush passed over the lawyer’s face, a sign of unequivocal satisfaction in him. He uttered half loud, as if replying to certain objections in his own mind,—

“Everything is becoming clear.”

And yet, to the great surprise of his listeners, he abandoned this point; and, returning to the prisoner, he asked him,—

“So you acknowledge having received money for the murder of Lieut. Champcey?”

“I never said so.”

“No; but the three thousand francs found concealed on your person say so very clearly. From whom did you receive this money?”

“From nobody. They are my savings.”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders; and, looking very sternly at Crochard, he said,—

“I have before compelled you to make a certain confession. I mean to do so again and again. You will gain nothing, believe me, by struggling against justice; and you cannot save the wretches who tempted you to commit this crime. There is only one way left to you, if you wish for mercy; and that is frankness. Do not forget that!”

The assassin was, perhaps, better able to appreciate the importance of such advice than anybody else there present. Still he remained silent for more than a minute, shaken by a kind of nervous tremor, as if a terrible struggle was going on in his heart. He was heard to mutter,—

“I do not denounce anybody. A bargain is a bargain. I am not a tell- tale.”

Then, all of a sudden, making up his mind, and showing himself just the man the magistrate had expected to find, he said with a cynic laugh,—

“Upon my word, so much the worse for them! Since I am in the trap, let the others be caught as well! Besides, who would have gotten the big prize, if I had succeeded? Not I, most assuredly; and yet it was I who risked most. Well, then, the man who hired me to ‘do the lieutenant’s business’ is a certain Justin Chevassat.”

The most intense disappointment seized both Daniel and the surgeon. This was not the name they had been looking for with such deep anxiety.

“Don’t you deceive me, Crochard?” asked the lawyer, who alone had been able to conceal all he felt.

“You may take my head if I lie!”

Did he tell the truth? The lawyer thought he did; for, turning to Daniel, he asked,—

“Do you know anybody by the name of Chevassat, M. Champcey?”

“No. It is the first time in my life I hear that name.”

“Perhaps that Chevassat was only an agent,” suggested the doctor.

“Yes, that may be,” replied the lawyer; “although, in such matters, people generally do their own work.”

And, continuing his examination, he asked the accused,—

“Who is this Justin Chevassat?”

“One of my friends.”

“A friend richer than yourself, I should think?”

“As to that—why, yes; since he has always plenty of money in his pockets, dresses in the last fashion, and drives his carriage.”

“What is he doing? What is his profession?”

“Ah! as to that, I know nothing about it. I never asked him, and he never told me. I once said to him, ‘Do you know you look like a prodigiously lucky fellow?’ And he replied, ‘Oh, not as much so as you think;’ but that is all.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Paris, Rue Louis, 39.”

“Do