Monsieur Lecoq, v. 1, Emile Gaboriau [books to get back into reading .txt] 📗
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
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The keeper’s face brightened up. “In that case,” said he, “I have a letter for you, written by your comrade, who was obliged to go away. Here it is.”
The young detective at once tore open the envelope and read: “Monsieur Lecoq—”
“Monsieur?” This simple formula of politeness brought a faint smile to his lips. Was it not, on Father Absinthe’s part, an evident recognition of his colleague’s superiority. Indeed, our hero accepted it as a token of unquestioning devotion which it would be his duty to repay with a master’s kind protection toward his first disciple. However, he had no time to waste in thought, and accordingly at once proceeded to peruse the note, which ran as follows:
“Monsieur Lecoq—I had been standing on duty since the opening of the Morgue, when at about nine o’clock three young men entered, arm-in-arm. From their manner and appearance, I judged them to be clerks in some store or warehouse. Suddenly I noticed that one of them turned as white as his shirt; and calling the attention of his companions to one of the unknown victims, he whispered: ‘Gustave!’
“His comrades put their hands over his mouth, and one of them exclaimed: ‘What are you about, you fool, to mix yourself up with this affair! Do you want to get us into trouble?’
“Thereupon they went out, and I followed them. But the person who had first spoken was so overcome that he could scarcely drag himself along; and his companions were obliged to take him to a little restaurant close by. I entered it myself, and it is there I write this letter, in the mean time watching them out of the corner of my eye. I send this note, explaining my absence, to the head keeper, who will give it you. You will understand that I am going to follow these men. A. B. S.”
The handwriting of this letter was almost illegible; and there were mistakes in spelling in well-nigh every line; still, its meaning was clear and exact, and could not fail to excite the most flattering hopes.
Lecoq’s face was so radiant when he returned to the cab that, as the old coachman urged on his horse, he could not refrain from saying: “Things are going on to suit you.”
A friendly “hush!” was the only response. It required all Lecoq’s attention to classify this new information. When he alighted from the cab in front of the Palais de Justice, he experienced considerable difficulty in dismissing the old cabman, who insisted upon remaining at his orders. He succeeded at last, however, but even when he had reached the portico on the left side of the building, the worthy fellow, standing up, still shouted at the top of his voice: “At M. Trigault’s house—don’t forget—Father Papillon—No. 998—1,000 less 2—”
Lecoq had entered the left wing of the Palais. He climbed the stairs till he had reached the third floor, and was about to enter the long, narrow, badly-lighted corridor known as the Galerie de l’Instruction, when, finding a doorkeeper installed behind a heavy oaken desk, he remarked: “M. d’Escorval is, of course, in his office?”
The man shook his head. “No,” said he, “M. d’Escorval is not here this morning, and he won’t be here for several weeks.”
“Why not! What do you mean?”
“Last night, as he was alighting from his carriage, at his own door, he had a most unfortunate fall, and broke his leg.”
IX
Some men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a pair of high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in stylish livery; and as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable cushions, they become the object of many an envious glance. Sometimes, however, the coachman has taken a drop too much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the horses run away and a general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate owner, in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and fractures his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day; and their long list should make humble foot-passengers bless the lowly lot which preserves them from such peril.
On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face wore such an expression of consternation that the doorkeeper could not help laughing. “What is there so very extraordinary about that I’ve told you?” he asked.
“I—oh! nothing—”
The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had just been struck by the strange coincidence of two events—the supposed murderer’s attempted suicide, and the magistrate’s fall. Still, he did not allow the vague presentiment that flitted through his mind to assume any definite form. For after all, what possible connection could there be between the two occurrences? Then again, he never allowed himself to be governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an axiom he afterward professed: “Distrust all circumstances that seem to favor your secret wishes.”
Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d’Escorval’s accident; could he have prevented it, he would have gladly done so. Still, he could not help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.
This thought caused a sensation of relief—almost one of light-heartedness. “In that case,” said the young detective to the doorkeeper, “I shall have nothing to do here this morning.”
“You must be joking,” was the reply. “Does the world stop moving because one man is disabled? The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the urgent business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has already been divided among the other magistrates.”
“I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other night just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau.”
“Eh! Why didn’t you say so at once? A messenger has been sent to the prefecture after you already. M. Segmuller has charge of the case, and he’s waiting for you.”
Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq’s forehead. He was trying to remember the magistrate that bore this name, and wondered whether he was a likely man to espouse his views.
“Yes,” resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, “M. Segmuller—you don’t seem to know him. He is a worthy man, not quite so grim as most of our gentlemen. A prisoner he had examined said one day: ‘That devil there has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he’s a good fellow!”
His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports, Lecoq went and tapped at a door that was indicated to him, and which bore the number—22.
“Come in!” called out a pleasant voice.
The young detective entered, and found himself face to face with a man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpulent, who at once exclaimed: “Ah! you are Lecoq. Very well—take a seat. I am busy just now looking over the papers of the case, but
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