Monsieur Lecoq, v. 1, Emile Gaboriau [books to get back into reading .txt] 📗

and then added: “And to think that one of these dead men is perhaps Lacheneur himself!”

“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq. “The spurious soldier, being the last to die, had seen his companions fall. If he had supposed Lacheneur to be dead, he would not have spoken of vengeance.”

Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pretended to pay no attention to the proceedings, now approached. He was not the man to yield even to the strongest evidence. “If Monsieur, the Commissary, will listen to me, he shall hear my opinion, which is a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq’s fancies.”

Before he could say any more, the sound of a vehicle stopping before the door of the cabin interrupted him, and an instant afterward the investigating magistrate entered the room.

All the officials assembled at the Poivriere knew at least by sight the magistrate who now made his appearance, and Gevrol, an old habitue of the Palais de Justice, mechanically murmured his name: “M. Maurice d’Escorval.”

He was the son of that famous Baron d’Escorval, who, in 1815, sealed his devotion to the empire with his blood, and upon whom Napoleon, in the Memorial of St. Helena, pronounced this magnificent eulogium: “Men as honest as he may, I believe, exist; but more honest, no, it is not possible.”

Having entered upon his duties as magistrate early in life, and being endowed with remarkable talents, it was at first supposed that the younger D’Escorval would rise to the most exalted rank in his profession. But he had disappointed all such prognostications by resolutely refusing the more elevated positions that were offered to him, in order to retain his modest but useful functions in the public prosecutor’s offices at Paris. To explain his repeated refusals, he said that life in the capital had more charms for him than the most enviable advancement in provincial centres. But it was hard to understand this declaration, for in spite of his brilliant connections and large fortune, he had, ever since the death of his eldest brother, led a most retired life, his existence merely being revealed by his untiring labors and the good he did to those around him.

He was now about forty-two years of age, but appeared much younger, although a few furrows already crossed his brow. One would have admired his face, had it not been for the puzzling immobility that marred its beauty, the sarcastic curl of his thin lips, and the gloomy expression of his pale-blue eyes. To say that he was cold and grave, did not express the truth, it was saying too little. He was gravity and coldness personified, with a shade of hauteur added.

Impressed by the horror of the scene the instant he placed his foot upon the threshold, M. d’Escorval acknowledged the presence of the physicians and the commissary by a slight nod of the head. The others in the room had no existence so far as he was concerned. At once his faculties went to work. He studied the ground, and carefully noted all the surroundings with the attentive sagacity of a magistrate who realizes the immense weight of even the slightest detail, and who fully appreciates the eloquence of circumstantial evidence.

“This is a serious affair,” he said gravely; “very serious.”

The commissary’s only response was to lift his eyes to heaven. A gesture that plainly implied, “I quite agree with you!” The fact is, that for the past two hours the worthy commissary’s responsibility had weighed heavily upon him, and he secretly blessed the investigating magistrate for relieving him of it.

“The public prosecutor was unable to accompany me,” resumed M. d’Escorval, “he has not the gift of omnipresence, and I doubt if it will be possible for him to join me here. Let us, therefore, begin operations at once.”

The curiosity of those present had become intense; and the commissary only expressed the general feeling when he said: “You have undoubtedly questioned the murderer, sir, and have learnt—”

“I have learnt nothing,” interrupted M. d’Escorval, apparently much astonished at the interruption.

He took a chair and sat himself down, and while his clerk was busy in authenticating the commissary’s proces-verbal, he began to read the report prepared by Lecoq.

Pale, agitated, and nervous, the young police agent tried to read upon the magistrate’s impassive face the impression produced by the document. His future depended upon the magistrate’s approval or disapproval; and it was not with a fuddled mind like that of Father Absinthe that he had now to deal, but with a superior intelligence.

“If I could only plead my own cause,” he thought. “What are cold written phrases in comparison with spoken, living words, palpitating with emotion and imbued with the convictions of the speaker.”

However, he was soon reassured. The magistrate’s face retained its immobility, but again and again did M. d’Escorval nod his head in token of approval, and occasionally some point more ingenious than the others extorted from his lips the exclamations: “Not bad—very good!”

When he had finished the perusal he turned to the commissary and remarked: “All this is very unlike your report of this morning, which represented the affair as a low broil between a party of miserable vagabonds.”

The observation was only too just and fair; and the commissary deeply regretted that he had trusted to Gevrol’s representations, and remained in bed. “This morning,” he responded evasively, “I only gave you my first impressions. These have been modified by subsequent researches, so that—”

“Oh!” interrupted the magistrate, “I did not intend to reproach you; on the contrary, I must congratulate you. One could not have done better nor acted more promptly. The investigation that has been carried out shows great penetration and research, and the results are given with unusual clearness, and wonderful precision.”

Lecoq’s head whirled.

The commissary hesitated for an instant. At first he was sorely tempted to confiscate this praise to his own profit. If he drove away the unworthy thought, it was because he was an honest man, and more than that, because he was not displeased to have the opportunity to do Gevrol a bad turn and punish him for his presumptuous folly.

“I must confess,” he said with some embarrassment, “that the merit of this investigation does not belong to me.”

“To whom, then, shall I attribute it—to the inspector?” thought M. d’Escorval, not without surprise, for having occasionally employed Gevrol, he did not expect from him such ingenuity and sagacity as was displayed in this report. “Is it you, then, who have conducted this investigation so ably?” he asked.

“Upon my word, no!” responded Inspector Gevrol. “I, myself, am not so clever as all that. I content myself with telling what I actually discover; and I only give proofs when I have them in hand. May I be hung if the grounds of this report have any existence save in the brains of the man who imagined them.” Perhaps the inspector really believed what he said, being one of those persons who are blinded by vanity to such a degree that, with the most convincing evidence before their eyes, they obstinately deny it.

“And yet,” insisted the magistrate, “these women whose footprints have been detected must have existed. The accomplice who