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

The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must have been waiting the result of the examination at the wine shop round the corner, or else that he had gone mad.

“Unfortunately,” said he, “we are not mistaken. It is but too clearly shown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you like, you can ask Constant for his report of the examination, and read it over while I put these papers in order.”

“Very well,” said the old fellow with feverish anxiety.

He sat down in Constant’s chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table, thrusting his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read the report through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and distorted features.

“Sir,” said he to the magistrate in a strange voice, “I have been the involuntary cause of a terrible mistake. This man is innocent.”

“Come, come,” said M. Daburon, without stopping his preparations for departure, “you are going out of your mind, my dear M. Tabaret. How, after all that you have read there, can⁠—”

“Yes, sir, yes: it is because I have read this that I entreat you to pause, or we shall add one more mistake to the sad list of judicial errors. Read this examination over carefully; there is not a reply but which declares this unfortunate man innocent, not a word but which throws out a ray of light. And he is still in prison, still in solitary confinement?”

“He is; and there he will remain, if you please,” interrupted the magistrate. “It becomes you well to talk in this manner, after the way you spoke last night, when I hesitated so much.”

“But, sir,” cried the old detective, “I still say precisely the same. Ah, wretched Tabaret! all is lost; no one understands you. Pardon me, sir, if I lack the respect due to you; but you have not grasped my method. It is, however, very simple. Given a crime, with all the circumstances and details, I construct, bit by bit, a plan of accusation, which I do not guarantee until it is entire and perfect. If a man is found to whom this plan applies exactly in every particular the author of the crime is found: otherwise, one has laid hands upon an innocent person. It is not sufficient that such and such particulars seem to point to him; it must be all or nothing. This is infallible. Now, in this case, how have I reached the culprit? Through proceeding by inference from the known to the unknown. I have examined his work; and I have formed an idea of the worker. Reason and logic lead us to what? To a villain, determined, audacious, and prudent, versed in the business. And do you think that such a man would neglect a precaution that would not be omitted by the stupidest tyro? It is inconceivable. What! this man is so skillful as to leave such feeble traces that they escape Gevrol’s practised eye, and you think he would risk his safety by leaving an entire night unaccounted for? It’s impossible! I am as sure of my system as of a sum that has been proved. The assassin has an alibi. Albert has pleaded none; then he is innocent.”

M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he would have looked at a remarkable monomaniac. When the old fellow had finished⁠—“My worthy M. Tabaret,” the magistrate said to him: “you have but one fault. You err through an excess of subtlety, you accord too freely to others the wonderful sagacity with which you yourself are endowed. Our man has failed in prudence, simply because he believed his rank would place him above suspicion.”

“No, sir, no, a thousand times no. My culprit⁠—the true one⁠—he whom we have missed catching, feared everything. Besides, does Albert defend himself? No. He is overwhelmed because he perceives coincidences so fatal that they appear to condemn him, without a chance of escape. Does he try to excuse himself? No. He simply replies, ‘It is terrible.’ And yet all through his examination I feel reticence that I cannot explain.”

“I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident as though he had confessed everything. I have more than sufficient proofs for that.”

“Ah, sir, proofs! There are always enough of those against an arrested man. They existed against every innocent man who was ever condemned. Proofs! Why, I had them in quantities against Kaiser, the poor little tailor, who⁠—”

“Well,” interrupted the magistrate, hastily, “if it is not he, the most interested one, who committed the crime, who then is it? His father, the Count de Commarin?”

“No: the true assassin is a young man.”

M. Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his preparations. He took up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave, replied: “You must then see that I am right. Come and see me by-and-by, M. Tabaret, and make haste and get rid of all your foolish ideas. Tomorrow we will talk the whole matter over again. I am rather tired tonight.” Then he added, addressing his clerk, “Constant, look in at the record office, in case the prisoner Commarin should wish to speak to me.”

He moved towards the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit.

“Sir,” said the old man, “in the name of heaven listen to me! He is innocent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to find the real culprit. Sir, think of your remorse should you cause an⁠—”

But the magistrate would not hear more. He pushed old Tabaret quickly aside, and hurried out.

The old man now turned to Constant. He wished to convince him. Lost trouble: the tall clerk hastened to put his things away, thinking of his soup, which was getting cold.

So that M. Tabaret soon found himself locked out of the room and alone in the dark passage. All the usual sounds of the Palais had ceased: the place was silent as the tomb. The old detective desperately tore his hair with both hands.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “Albert is innocent; and it is I who have cast