The Lerouge Case, Émile Gaboriau [old books to read TXT] 📗

betray himself? What trap could he prepare? To what new and infallible stratagem could he have recourse?

The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but impracticable combinations, always stopped by that exacting jury, so obnoxious to the agents of the Rue de Jerusalem. He was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear the door open, and was utterly unconscious of the magistrate’s presence.

M. Daburon’s voice aroused him from his reverie.

“You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left you so long alone.”

The old fellow rose and bowed respectfully.

“By my faith, sir,” replied he, “I have not had the leisure to perceive my solitude.”

M. Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing his agent before a small table encumbered with papers and documents relating to the crime. He appeared very much fatigued.

“I have reflected a good deal,” he commenced, “about this affair⁠—”

“And I,” interrupted old Tabaret, “was just asking myself what was likely to be the attitude assumed by the viscount at the moment of his arrest. Nothing is more important, according to my idea, than his manner of conducting himself then. Will he fly into a passion? Will he attempt to intimidate the agents? Will he threaten to turn them out of the house? These are generally the tactics of titled criminals. My opinion, however, is, that he will remain perfectly cool. He will declare himself the victim of a misunderstanding, and insist upon an immediate interview with the investigating magistrate. Once that is accorded him, he will explain everything very quickly.”

The old fellow spoke of matters of speculation in such a tone of assurance that M. Daburon was unable to repress a smile.

“We have not got as far as that yet,” said he.

“But we shall, in a few hours,” replied M. Tabaret quickly. “I presume you will order young M. de Commarin’s arrest at daybreak.”

The magistrate trembled, like the patient who sees the surgeon deposit his case of instruments upon the table on entering the room.

The moment for action had come. He felt now what a distance lies between a mental decision and the physical action required to execute it.

“You are prompt, M. Tabaret,” said he; “you recognize no obstacles.”

“None, having ascertained the criminal. Who else can have committed this assassination? Who but he had an interest in silencing Widow Lerouge, in suppressing her testimony, in destroying her papers? He, and only he. Poor Noel! who is as dull as honesty, warned him, and he acted. Should we fail to establish his guilt, he will remain de Commarin more than ever; and my young barrister will be Noel Gerdy to the grave.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

The old man fixed his eyes upon the magistrate with a look of astonishment.

“You see, then, some difficulties, sir?” he asked.

“Most decidedly!” replied M. Daburon. “This is a matter demanding the utmost circumspection. In cases like the present, one must not strike until the blow is sure, and we have but presumptions. Suppose we are mistaken. Justice, unhappily, cannot repair her errors. Her hand once unjustly placed upon a man, leaves an imprint of dishonour that can never be effaced. She may perceive her error, and proclaim it aloud, but in vain! Public opinion, absurd and idiotic, will not pardon the man guilty of being suspected.”

It was with a sinking heart that the old fellow listened to these remarks. He would not be withheld by such paltry considerations.

“Our suspicions are well grounded,” continued the magistrate. “But, should they lead us into error, our precipitation would be a terrible misfortune for this young man, to say nothing of the effect it would have in abridging the authority and dignity of justice, of weakening the respect which constitutes her power. Such a mistake would call for discussion, provoke examination, and awaken distrust, at an epoch in our history when all minds are but too much disposed to defy the constituted authorities.”

He leaned upon the table, and appeared to reflect profoundly.

“I have no luck,” thought old Tabaret. “I have to do with a trembler. When he should act, he makes speeches; instead of signing warrants, he propounds theories. He is astounded at my discovery, and is not equal to the situation. Instead of being delighted by my appearance with the news of our success, he would have given a twenty-franc piece, I dare say, to have been left undisturbed. Ah! he would very willingly have the little fishes in his net, but the big ones frighten him. The big fishes are dangerous, and he prefers to let them swim away.”

“Perhaps,” said M. Daburon, aloud, “it will suffice to issue a search-warrant, and a summons for the appearance of the accused.”

“Then all is lost!” cried old Tabaret.

“And why, pray?”

“Because we are opposed by a criminal of marked ability. A most providential accident has placed us upon his track. If we give him time to breathe, he will escape.”

The only answer was an inclination of the head, which M. Daburon may have intended for a sign of assent.

“It is evident,” continued the old fellow, “that our adversary has foreseen everything, absolutely everything, even the possibility of suspicion attaching to one in his high position. Oh! his precautions are all taken. If you are satisfied with demanding his appearance, he is saved. He will appear before you as tranquilly as your clerk, as unconcerned as if he came to arrange the preliminaries of a duel. He will present you with a magnificent alibi, an alibi that can not be gainsayed. He will show you that he passed the evening and the night of Tuesday with personages of the highest rank. In short, his little machine will be so cleverly constructed, so nicely arranged, all its little wheels will play so well, that there will be nothing left for you but to open the door and usher him out with the most humble apologies. The only means of securing conviction is to surprise the miscreant by a rapidity against which it is impossible he can be on his guard. Fall upon him like a thunderclap, arrest him as he wakes, drag