CHAPTER IX.
JACQUES DANTIN, moreover, was not difficult to find in the crowd. Hestood near the funeral car; his air was very sad. Bernardet had a fineopportunity to examine him at his ease. He was an elegant looking man,slender, with a resolute air, and frowning eyebrows which gave his facea very energetic look. His head bared to the cold wind, he stood like astatue while the bearers placed the casket in the funeral car, andBernardet noticed the shaking of the head--a distressed shaking. Thelonger the police officer looked at him, studied him, the stronger grewthe resemblance to the image in the photograph. Bernardet would soonknow who this Jacques Dantin was, and even at this moment he asked aquestion or two of some of the assistants.
"Do you know who that gentleman is standing near the hearse?"
"No."
"Do you know what Jacques Dantin does? Was he one of M. Rovere'sintimate friends?"
"Jacques Dantin?"
"Yes; see, there, with the pointed beard."
"I do not know him."
Bernardet thought that if he addressed the question to M. Dantin himselfhe might learn all he wished to know at once, and he approached him atthe moment the procession started, and walked along with him almost tothe cemetery, striving to enter into conversation with him. He spoke ofthe dead man, sadly lamenting M. Rovere's sad fate. But he found hisneighbor very silent. Upon the sidewalk of the Boulevard the dense crowdstood in respectful silence and uncovered as the cortege passed, and theofficer noticed that some loose petals from the flowers dropped upon theroadway.
"There are a great many flowers," he remarked to his neighbor. "It israther surprising, as M. Rovere seemed to have so few friends."
"He has had many," the man brusquely remarked. His voice was hoarse, andquivered with emotion. Bernardet saw that he was strongly moved. Was itsorrow? Was it bitterness of spirit? Remorse, perhaps! The man did notseem, moreover, in a very softened mood. He walked along with his eyesupon the funeral car, his head uncovered in spite of the cold, andseemed to be in deep thought. The police officer studied him from acorner of his eye. His wrinkled face was intelligent, and bore anexpression of weariness, but there was something hard about the set ofthe mouth and insolent in the turned-up end of his mustache.
As they approached the cemetery at Montmartre--the journey was not along one in which to make conversation--Bernardet ventured a decisivequestion: "Did you know M. Rovere very well?"
The other replied: "Very well."
"And whom do you think could have had any interest in this matter?" Thequestion was brusque and cut like a knife. Jacques Dantin hesitated inhis reply, looking keenly as they walked along at this little man withhis smiling aspect, whose name he did not know and who had questionedhim.
"It is because I have a great interest in at once commencing myresearches," said Bernardet, measuring his words in order to note theeffect which they would produce on this unknown man. "I am a policedetective."
Oh! This time Bernardet saw Dantin shiver. There was no doubt of it;this close contact with a police officer troubled him, and he turnedpale and a quick spasm passed over his face. His anxious eyes searchedBernardet's face, but, content with stealing an occasional glance ofexamination toward his neighbor, the little man walked along with eyescast toward the ground. He studied Jacques Dantin in sudden, quick turnsof the eye.
The car advanced slowly, turned the corner of the Boulevard and passedinto the narrow avenue which led to God's Acre. The arch of the ironbridge led to the Campo-Santo like a viaduct of living beings, over tothe Land of Sleep, for it was packed with a curious crowd; it was ascene for a melodrama, the cortege and the funeral car covered withwreaths. Bernardet, still walking by Dantin's side, continued toquestion him. The agent noticed that these questions seemed to embarrassM. Rovere's pretended friend.
"Is it a long time since M. Rovere and Jacques Dantin have known eachother?"
"We have been friends since childhood."
"And did you see him often?"
"No. Life had separated us."
"Had you seen him recently? Mme. Moniche said that you had."
"Who is Mme. Moniche?"
"The concierge of the house, and a sort of housekeeper for M. Rovere."
"Ah! Yes!" said Jacques Dantin, as if he had just remembered someforgotten sight. Bernardet, by instinct, read this man's thoughts; sawagain with him also the tragic scene when the portress, suddenlyentering M. Rovere's apartments, had seen him standing, face to facewith Dantin, in front of the open safe, with a great quantity of papersspread out.
"Do you believe that he had many enemies?" asked the police agent, withdeliberate calculation.
"No," Dantin sharply replied, without hesitation. Bernardet waited amoment, then in a firm voice he said: "M. Ginory will no doubt count agood deal on you in order to bring about the arrest of the assassin."
"M. Ginory?"
"The Examining Magistrate."
"Then he will have to make haste with his investigation," Jacques Dantinreplied. "I shall soon be obliged to leave Paris." This reply astonishedBernardet. This departure, of which the motive was probably a simpleone, seemed to him strange under the tragic circumstances. M. Dantin,moreover, did not hesitate to give him, without his asking for it, hisaddress, adding that he would hold himself in readiness from his returnfrom the cemetery at the disposition of the Examining Magistrate.
"The misfortune is that I can tell nothing, as I know nothing. I do noteven suspect who could have any interest in killing that unfortunateman. A professional criminal, without doubt."
"I do not believe so."
The cortege had now reached one of the side avenues; a white fogenveloped everything, and the marble tombs shone ghostly through it. Thespot chosen by M. Rovere himself was at the end of the Avenue de laCloche. The car slowly rolled toward the open grave. Mme. Moniche,overcome with grief, staggered as she walked along, but her husband,the tailor, seemed to be equal to the occasion and his role. They bothassumed different expressions behind their dead. And Paul Rodier walkedalong just in front of them, note book in hand. Bernardet promisedhimself to keep close watch of Dantin and see in what manner he carriedhimself at the tomb. A pressure of the crowd separated them for amoment, but the officer was perfectly satisfied. Standing on the otherside of the grave, face to face with him, was Dantin; a row of the mostcurious had pushed in ahead of Bernardet, but in this way he couldbetter see Dantin's face, and not miss the quiver of a muscle. He stoodon tiptoe and peered this way and that, between the heads, and couldthus scrutinize and analyze, without being perceived himself.
Dantin was standing on the very edge of the grave. He held himself veryupright, in a tense, almost aggressive way, and looked, from time totime, into the grave with an expression of anger and almost defiance. Ofwhat was he thinking? In that attitude, which seemed to be a revoltagainst the destiny which had come to his friend, Bernardet read a kindof hardening of the will against an emotion which might become excessiveand telltale. He was not, as yet, persuaded of the guiltiness of thisman, but he did not find in that expression of defiance the tendernesswhich ought to be shown for a friend--a lifelong friend, as Dantin hadsaid that Rovere was. And then the more he examined him--there, forexample, seeing his dark silhouette clearly defined in front of thedense white of a neighboring column--the more the aspect of this mancorresponded with that of the vision transfixed in the dead man's eye.Yes, it was the same profile of a trooper, his hand upon his hip, as ifresting upon a rapier. Bernardet blinked his eyes in order to better seethat man. He perceived a man who strongly recalled the vague form foundin that retina, and his conviction came to the aid of his instinct,gradually increased, and became, little by little, invincible,irresistible. He repeated the address which this man had given him:"Jacques Dantin, Rue de Richelieu, 114." He would make haste to givethat name to M. Ginory, and have a citation served upon him. Why shouldthis Dantin leave Paris? What was his manner of living? his means ofexistence? What were the passions, the vices, of
the man standing therewith the austere mien of a Huguenot, in front of the open grave?
Bernardet saw that, despite his strong will and his wish to stand thereimpassive, Jacques Dantin was troubled when, with a heavy sound, thecasket glided over the cords down into the grave. He bit the ends of hismustache and his gloved hand made several irresistible, nervousmovements. And the look cast into that grave! The look cast at thatcasket lying in the bottom of that grave! On that casket was a platebearing the inscription: "Louis Pierre Rovere." That mute look, rapidand grief-stricken, was cast upon that open casket, which contained thebody--the gash across its throat, dissected, mutilated; the face withthose dreadful eyes, which had been taken from their orbits, and, afterdelivering up their secret, replaced!
They now defiled past the grave, and Dantin, the first, with a handwhich trembled, sprinkled upon the casket those drops of water which arefor our dead the last tears. Ah! but he was pale, almost livid; and howhe trembled--this man with a stern face! Bernardet noticed the slightesttrace of emotion. He approached in his turn and took the holy watersprinkler; then, as he turned away, desirous of catching up with M.Dantin, he heard his name called, and, turning, saw Paul Rodier, whoseface was all smiles.
"Well! Monsieur Bernardet, what new?" he asked. The tall young man had acharming air.
"Nothing new," said the agent.
"You know that this murder has aroused a great deal of interest?"
"I do not doubt it."
"Leon Luzarche is enchanted. Yes, Luzarche, the novelist. He had begun anovel, of which the first instalment was published in the same paperwhich brought out the first news of 'The Crime of the Boulevard deClichy,' and as the paper has sold, sold, sold, he thinks that it is hisstory which has caused the immense and increased sales. No one isreading 'l'Ange-Gnome,' but the murder. All novelists ought to try tohave a fine assassination published at the same time as their serials,so as to increase the sales of the paper. What a fine collaboration,Monsieur! Pleasantry, Monsieur! Have you any unpublished facts?"
"No."
"Not one? Not a trace?"
"Nothing," Bernardet replied.
"Oh, well! I--I have some, Monsieur--but it will surprise you. Read mypaper! Make the papers sell."
"But"--began the officer.
"See here! Professional secret! Only, have you thought of the woman inblack who came occasionally to see the ex-Consul?"
"Certainly."
"Well, she must be made to come back--that woman in black. It is not aneasy thing to do. But I believe that I have ferreted her out. Yes, inone of the provinces."
"Where?"
"Professional secret," repeated the reporter, laughing.
"And if M. Ginory asks for your professional secret?"
"I will answer him as I answer you. Read my paper! Read _Lutece_!"
"But the Judge, to him"----
"Professional secret," said Paul Rodier for the third time. "But what aromance it would make! The Woman in Black!"
While listening, Bernardet had not lost sight of M. Dantin, who, in thecentre of one of the avenues, stood looking at the slowly moving crowdof curiosity seekers. He seemed to be vainly searching for a familiarface. He looked haggard. Whether it was grief or remorse, he certainlyshowed violent emotion. The police officer divined that a sharp strugglewas taking place within that man's heart, and the sadness was great withwhich he watched that crowd in order to discover some familiar face, buthe beheld only those of the curious. What Bernardet considered of thegreatest importance was not to lose sight of this person of whoseexistence he was ignorant an hour before; and who, to him, was theperpetrator of the deed or an accomplice. He followed Dantin at adistance, who, from the cemetery at Montmartre went on foot directly tothe Rue de Richelieu, and stopped at the number he had given, 114.
Bernardet allowed some minutes to pass after the man on whose track hewas had entered. Then he asked the concierge if M. Jacques Dantin wasat home. He questioned him closely and became convinced that M.Rovere's friend had really lived there two years and had no profession.
"Then," said the police agent, "it is not this Dantin for whom I amlooking. He is a banker." He excused himself, went out, hailed a fiacre,and gave the order: "To the Prefecture."
His report to the Chief, M. Morel, was soon made. He listened to himwith attention, for he had absolute confidence in the police officer."Never any _gaff_ with Bernardet," M. Morel was wont to say. He, likeBernardet, soon felt convinced that this man was probably the murdererof the ex-Consul.
"As to the motive which led to the crime, we shall know it later."
He wished, above everything else, to have strict inquiries made intoDantin's past life, in regard to his present existence; and theinquiries would be compared with his answers to the questions which M.Ginory would ask him when he had been cited as a witness.
"Go at once to M. Ginory's room, Bernardet," said the Chief. "Duringthis time I would learn a little about what kind of a man this is."
Bernardet had only to cross some corridors and mount a few steps toreach the gallery upon which M. Ginory's room opened. While waiting tobe admitted he passed up and down; seated on benches were a number ofmalefactors, some of whom knew him well, who were waiting examination.He was accustomed to see this sight daily, and without being moved, butthis time he was overcome by a sort of agony, a spasm which contractedeven his fingers and left his nerves in as quivering a state as doesinsomnia. Truly, in the present case he was much more concerned than inan ordinary manhunt. The officer experienced the fear which an inventorfeels before the perfection of a new discovery. He had undertaken aformidable problem, apparently insoluble, and he desired to solve it.Once or twice he took out from the pocket of his redingote an old worncase and looked at the proofs of the retina which he had pasted on acard. There could be no doubt. This figure, a little confused, had thevery look of the man who had bent over the grave. M. Ginory would bestruck by it when he had Jacques Dantin before him. Provided theExamining Magistrate still had the desire which Bernardet had incited inhim, to push the matter to the end. Fortunately M. Ginory was verycurious. With this curiosity anything might happen. The time seemedlong. What if this Dantin, who spoke of leaving Paris, should disappear,should escape the examination? What miserable little affair occupied M.Ginory? Would he ever be at liberty?
The door opened, a man in a blouse was led out; the registrar appearedon the threshold and Bernardet asked if he could not see M. Ginoryimmediately, as he had an important communication to make to him.
"I will not detain him long," he said.
Far from appearing annoyed, the Magistrate seemed delighted to see theofficer. He related to him all he knew, how he had seen the man at M.Rovere's funeral. That Mme. Moniche had recognized him as the one whomshe had surprised standing with M. Rovere before the open safe. That hehad signed his name and took first rank in the funeral cortege, less byreason of an old friendship which dated from childhood than by thatstrange and impulsive sentiment which compels the guilty man to hauntthe scene of his crime, to remain near his victim, as if the murder, theblood, the corpse, held for him a morbid fascination.
"I shall soon know," said M. Ginory. He dictated to the registrar acitation to appear before him, rang the bell and gave the order to servethe notice on M. Dantin at the given address and to bring him to thePalais.
"Do not lose sight of him," he said to Bernardet, and began some otherexaminations. Bernardet bowed and his eyes shone like those of a sleuthhound on the scent of his prey.
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