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

He felt sure that the disgraceful position in which the prisoner would find himself would cause him to revolt, to lose his self-control, to utter some word that might give the desired clue.

It was not until the gloomy vehicle had turned off the Pont Neuf on to the Quai de l’Horloge that the young detective became conscious of what was transpiring around him. Soon the van passed through an open gateway, and drew up in a small, damp courtyard.

Lecoq immediately alighted, and opened the door of the compartment in which the supposed murderer was confined, exclaiming as he did so: “Here we are, get out.” There was no fear of the prisoner escaping. The iron gate had been closed, and at least a dozen agents were standing near at hand, waiting to have a look at the new arrivals.

The prisoner slowly stepped to the ground. His expression of face remained unchanged, and each gesture evinced the perfect indifference of a man accustomed to such ordeals.

Lecoq scrutinized his demeanor as attentively as an anatomist might have watched the action of a muscle. He noted that the prisoner seemed to experience a sensation of satisfaction directly his foot touched the pavement of the courtyard, that he drew a long breath, and then stretched and shook himself, as if to regain the elasticity of his limbs, cramped by confinement in the narrow compartment from which he had just emerged. Then he glanced around him, and a scarcely perceptible smile played upon his lips. One might have sworn that the place was familiar to him, that he was well acquainted with these high grim walls, these grated windows, these heavy doors—in short, with all the sinister belongings of a prison.

“Good Lord!” murmured Lecoq, greatly chagrined, “does he indeed recognize the place?”

And his sense of disappointment and disquietude increased when, without waiting for a word, a motion, or a sign, the prisoner turned toward one of the five or six doors that opened into the courtyard. Without an instant’s hesitation he walked straight toward the very doorway he was expected to enter—Lecoq asked himself was it chance? But his amazement and disappointment increased tenfold when, after entering the gloomy corridor, he saw the culprit proceed some little distance, resolutely turn to the left, pass by the keeper’s room, and finally enter the registrar’s office. An old offender could not have done better.

Big drops of perspiration stood on Lecoq’s forehead. “This man,” thought he, “has certainly been here before; he knows the ropes.”

The registrar’s office was a large room heated almost to suffocation by an immense stove, and badly lighted by three small windows, the panes of which were covered with a thick coating of dust. There sat the clerk reading a newspaper, spread out over the open register—that fatal book in which are inscribed the names of all those whom misconduct, crime, misfortune, madness, or error have brought to these grim portals.

Three or four attendants, who were awaiting the hour for entering upon their duties, reclined half asleep upon the wooden benches that lined three sides of the room. These benches, with a couple of tables, and some dilapidated chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the office, in one corner of which stood a measuring machine, under which each culprit was obliged to pass, the exact height of the prisoners being recorded in order that the description of their persons might be complete in every respect.

At the entrance of the culprit accompanied by Lecoq, the clerk raised his head. “Ah!” said he, “has the van arrived?”

“Yes,” responded Lecoq. And showing the orders signed by M. d’Escorval, he added: “Here are this man’s papers.”

The registrar took the documents and read them. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “a triple assassination! Oh! oh!” The glance he gave the prisoner was positively deferential. This was no common culprit, no ordinary vagabond, no vulgar thief.

“The investigating magistrate orders a private examination,” continued the clerk, “and I must get the prisoner other clothing, as the things he is wearing now will be used as evidence. Let some one go at once and tell the superintendent that the other occupants of the van must wait.”

At this moment, the governor of the Depot entered the office. The clerk at once dipped his pen in the ink, and turning to the prisoner he asked: “What is your name?”

“May.”

“Your Christian name?”

“I have none.”

“What, have you no Christian name?”

The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily: “I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning me. I shan’t answer any one else but the magistrate. You would like to make me cut my own throat, wouldn’t you? A very clever trick, of course, but one that won’t do for me.”

“You must see that you only aggravate your situation,” observed the governor.

“Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish to ruin me. I only defend myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you can. But you had better give me back what they took from me at the station-house. My hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of this place. I want you to make a note of them on the register. Where are they?”

The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house, who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody. Lecoq now laid it upon the table.

“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” said he, “and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars.”

An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner’s features.

“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you answer?”

But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his boots.

Lecoq thought the assassin’s glance wavered as he heard this order. Was it only a fancy?

“Why must I do that?” asked the culprit.

“To pass under the beam,” replied the clerk. “We must make a note of your exact height.”

The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots. The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside. It was, moreover, noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated with mud.

“You only wear boots on Sundays, then?” remarked Lecoq.

“Why do you think that?”

“By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the ankle-bone.”

“What of that?” exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone. “Is it a crime not to have a marchioness’s feet?”

“It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events,” said the young detective slowly. “Do you think I can’t see that if the mud were picked