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

it. I must tell you that the victim received the fatal blow from the sharpened end of a broken foil. This piece of stuff, on which the assassin wiped his weapon, is a proof of what I state.”

“I beseech you, sir, to order a most minute search to be made. It is impossible that the other half of the foil is not to be found.”

“Orders shall be given to that effect. Look, here is the exact imprint of the murderer’s foot traced on this sheet of paper. I will place one of your boots upon it and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracing with the utmost precision. This plaster was poured into the hollow left by the heel: you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in shape to the heels of your own boots. I perceive, too, the mark of a peg, which appears in both.”

Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the magistrate. It was plain that he was struggling against a growing terror. Was he attacked by that fright which overpowers the guilty when they see themselves on the point of being confounded. To all the magistrate’s remarks, he answered in a low voice⁠—“It is true⁠—perfectly true.”

“That is so,” continued M. Daburon; “yet listen further, before attempting to defend yourself. The criminal had an umbrella. The end of this umbrella sank in the clayey soil; the round of wood which is placed at the end of the silk, was found moulded in the clay. Look at this clod of clay, raised with the utmost care; and now look at your umbrella. Compare the rounds. Are they alike, or not?”

“These things, sir,” attempted Albert, “are manufactured in large quantities.”

“Well, we will pass over that proof. Look at this cigar end, found on the scene of the crime, and tell me of what brand it is, and how it was smoked.”

“It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder.”

“Like these?” persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and the amber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount’s library.

“Yes!” murmured Albert, “it is a fatality⁠—a strange coincidence.”

“Patience, that is nothing, as yet. The assassin wore gloves. The victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kid remained in her nails. These have been preserved, and are here. They are of a lavender colour, are they not? Now, here are the gloves which you wore on Tuesday. They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Compare these pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond? Are they not of the same colour, the same skin?”

It was useless to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidence was there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy himself solely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon did not lose sight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold perspiration bathed his temples, and glided drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembled so much that they were of no use to him. In a chilling voice he kept repeating: “It is horrible, horrible!”

“Finally,” pursued the inexorable magistrate, “here are the trousers you wore on the evening of the murder. It is plain that not long ago they were very wet; and, besides the mud on them, there are traces of earth. Besides that they are torn at the knees. We will admit, for the moment that you might not remember where you went on that evening; but who would believe that you do not know when you tore your trousers and how you frayed your gloves?”

What courage could resist such assaults? Albert’s firmness and energy were at an end. His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a chair, exclaiming⁠—“It is enough to drive me mad!”

“Do you admit,” insisted the magistrate, whose gaze had become firmly fixed upon the prisoner, “do you admit that Widow Lerouge could only have been stabbed by you?”

“I admit,” protested Albert, “that I am the victim of one of those terrible fatalities which make men doubt the evidence of their reason. I am innocent.”

“Then tell me where you passed Tuesday evening.”

“Ah, sir!” cried the prisoner, “I should have to⁠—” But, restraining himself, he added in a faint voice, “I have made the only answer that I can make.”

M. Daburon rose, having now reached his grand stroke.

“It is, then, my duty,” said he, with a shade of irony, “to supply your failure of memory. I am going to remind you of where you went and what you did. On Tuesday evening at eight o’clock, after having obtained from the wine you drank, the dreadful energy you needed, you left your home. At thirty-five minutes past eight, you took the train at the St. Lazare station. At nine o’clock, you alighted at the station at Rueil.”

And, not disdaining to employ Tabaret’s ideas, the investigating magistrate repeated nearly word for word the tirade improvised the night before by the amateur detective.

He had every reason, while speaking, to admire the old fellow’s penetration. In all his life, his eloquence had never produced so striking an effect. Every sentence, every word, told. The prisoner’s assurance, already shaken, fell little by little, just like the outer coating of a wall when riddled with bullets.

Albert was, as the magistrate perceived, like a man, who, rolling to the bottom of a precipice, sees every branch and every projecture which might retard his fall fail him, and who feels a new and more painful bruise each time his body comes in contact with them.

“And now,” concluded the investigating magistrate, “listen to good advice: do not persist in a system of denying, impossible to sustain. Give in. Justice, rest assured, is ignorant of nothing which it is important to know. Believe me; seek to deserve the indulgence of your judges, confess your guilt.”

M. Daburon did not believe that his prisoner would still persist in asserting his innocence. He imagined he would be overwhelmed and confounded, that he would throw himself at his feet, begging for mercy. But he was