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

said: ‘That diamond belongs to my mistress,’ or one who was seized with a nervous trembling.”

“And to think that this idea did not once occur to me!” ejaculated Lecoq.

“Wait, wait, I am coming to the second mistake you made,” retorted the oracle. “What did you do when you obtained possession of the trunk which May pretended was his? Why you played directly into this cunning adversary’s hand. How could you fail to see that this trunk was only an accessory article; a bit of ‘property’ got ready in ‘mounting’ the ‘comedy’? You should have known that it could only have been deposited with Madame Milner by the accomplice, and that all its contents must have been purchased for the occasion.”

“I knew this, of course; but even under these circumstances, what could I do?”

“What could you do, my boy? Well, I am only a poor old man, but I should have interviewed every clothier in Paris; and at last some one would have exclaimed: ‘Those articles! Why, I sold them to an individual like this or that—who purchased them for one of his friends whose measure he brought with him.’”

Angry with himself, Lecoq struck his clenched hand violently upon the table beside him. “Sacrebleu!” he exclaimed, “that method was infallible, and so simple too! Ah! I shall never forgive myself for my stupidity as long as I live!”

“Gently, gently!” interrupted old Tirauclair. “You are going too far, my dear boy. Stupidity is not the proper word at all; you should say carelessness, thoughtlessness. You are young—what else could one expect? What is far less inexcusable is the manner in which you conducted the chase, after the prisoner was allowed to escape.”

“Alas!” murmured the young man, now completely discouraged; “did I blunder in that?”

“Terribly, my son; and here is where I really blame you. What diabolical influence induced you to follow May, step by step, like a common policeman?”

This time Lecoq was stupefied. “Ought I to have allowed him to escape me?” he inquired.

“No; but if I had been by your side in the gallery of the Odeon, when you so clearly divined the prisoner’s intentions, I should have said to you: ‘This fellow, friend Lecoq, will hasten to Madame Milner’s house to inform her of his escape. Let us run after him.’ I shouldn’t have tried to prevent his seeing her, mind. But when he had left the Hotel de Mariembourg, I should have added: ‘Now, let him go where he chooses; but attach yourself to Madame Milner; don’t lose sight of her; cling to her as closely as her own shadow, for she will lead you to the accomplice—that is to say—to the solution of the mystery.’”

“That’s the truth; I see it now.”

“But instead of that, what did you do? You ran to the hotel, you terrified the boy! When a fisherman has cast his bait and the fish are swimming near, he doesn’t sound a gong to frighten them all away!”

Thus it was that old Tabaret reviewed the entire course of investigation and pursuit, remodeling it in accordance with his own method of induction. Lecoq had originally had a magnificent inspiration. In his first investigations he had displayed remarkable talent; and yet he had not succeeded. Why? Simply because he had neglected the axiom with which he started: “Always distrust what seems probable!”

But the young man listened to the oracle’s “summing up” with divided attention. A thousand projects were darting through his brain, and at length he could no longer restrain himself. “You have saved me from despair,” he exclaimed, “I thought everything was lost; but I see that my blunders can be repaired. What I neglected to do, I can do now; there is still time. Haven’t I the diamond earring, as well as various effects belonging to the prisoner, still in my possession? Madame Milner still owns the Hotel de Mariembourg, and I will watch her.”

“And what for, my boy?”

“What for? Why, to find my fugitive, to be sure!”

Had the young detective been less engrossed with his idea, he would have detected a slight smile that curved Papa Tirauclair’s thick lips.

“Ah, my son! is it possible that you don’t suspect the real name of this pretended buffoon?” inquired the oracle somewhat despondently.

Lecoq trembled and averted his face. He did not wish Tabaret to see his eyes. “No,” he replied, “I don’t suspect—”

“You are uttering a falsehood!” interrupted the sick man. “You know as well as I do, that May resides in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that he is known as the Duc de Sairmeuse.”

On hearing these words, Father Absinthe indulged in a hearty laugh: “Ah! that’s a good joke!” he exclaimed. “Ah, ha!”

Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, however. “Well, yes, Monsieur Tabaret,” said he, “the idea did occur to me; but I drove it away.”

“And why, if you please?”

“Because—because—”

“Because you would not believe in the logical sequence of your premises; but I am consistent, and I say that it seems impossible the murderer arrested in the Widow Chupin’s drinking den should be the Duc de Sairmeuse. Hence, the murderer arrested there, May, the pretended buffoon, is the Duc de Sairmeuse!”