The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  Lecoq did not immediately reply to the magistrate’s successive queries, but it was easy to see from his knit brows that his mind was hard at work. “You ask me, sir,” he eventually remarked, “what reward has been promised Chupin? I ask on my part who can have promised him this reward?”

  “Who has promised it? Why, plainly the accomplice who has beaten us on every point.”

  “Yes,” rejoined Lecoq, “I suppose it must have been he. It certainly looks like his handiwork—now, what artifice can he have used? We know how he managed to have an interview with the Widow Chupin, but how has he succeeded in getting at Polyte, who is in prison, closely watched?”

  The young detective’s insinuation, vague as it was, did not escape M. Segmuller. “What do you mean?” asked the latter, with an air of mingled surprise and indignation. “You can’t suppose that one of the keepers has been bribed?”

  Lecoq shook his head, in a somewhat equivocal manner. “I mean nothing,” he replied, “I don’t suspect any one. All I want is information. Has Chupin been forewarned or not?”

  “Yes, of course he has.”

  “Then if that point is admitted it can only be explained in two ways. Either there are informers in the prison, or else Chupin has been allowed to see some visitor.”

  These suppositions evidently worried M. Segmuller, who for a moment seemed to hesitate between the two opinions; then, suddenly making up his mind, he rose from his chair, took up his hat, and said: “This matter must be cleared up. Come with me, Monsieur Lecoq.”

  A couple of minutes later, the magistrate and the detective had reached the Depot, which is connected with the Palais de Justice by a narrow passage, especially reserved for official use. The prisoners’ morning rations had just been served to them, and the governor was walking up and down the courtyard, in the company of Inspector Gevrol. As soon as he perceived M. Segmuller he hastened toward him and asked if he had not come about the prisoner May.

  As the magistrate nodded assent, the governor at once added: “Well I was only just now telling Inspector Gevrol that I was very well satisfied with May’s behavior. It has not only been quite unnecessary to place him in the strait-waistcoat again, but his mood seems to have changed entirely. He eats with a good appetite; he is as gay as a lark, and he constantly laughs and jests with his keeper.”

  Gevrol had pricked up his ears when he heard himself named by the governor, and considering this mention to be a sufficient introduction, he thought there would be no impropriety in his listening to the conversation. Accordingly, he approached the others, and noted with some satisfaction the troubled glances which Lecoq and the magistrate exchanged.

  M. Segmuller was plainly perplexed. May’s gay manner to which the governor of the Depot alluded might perhaps have been assumed for the purpose of sustaining his character as a jester and buffoon, it might be due to a certainty of defeating the judicial inquiry, or, who knows? the prisoner had perhaps received some favorable news from outside.

  With Lecoq’s last words still ringing in his ears, it is no wonder that the magistrate should have dwelt on this last supposition. “Are you quite sure,” he asked, “that no communication from outside can reach the inmates of the secret cells?”

  The governor of the Depot was cut to the quick by M. Segmuller’s implied doubt. What! were his subordinates suspected? Was his own professional honesty impugned? He could not help lifting his hands to heaven in mute protest against such an unjust charge.

  “Am I sure?” he exclaimed. “Then you can never have visited the secret cells. You have no idea, then, of their situation; you are unacquainted with the triple bolts that secure the doors; the grating that shuts out the sunlight, to say nothing of the guard who walks beneath the windows day and night. Why, a bird couldn’t even reach the prisoners in those cells.”

  Such a description was bound to reassure the most skeptical mind, and M. Segmuller breathed again: “Now that I am easy on that score,” said he, “I should like some information about another prisoner—a fellow named Chupin, who isn’t in the secret cells. I want to know if any visitor came for him yesterday.”

  “I must speak to the registrar,” replied the governor, “before I can answer you with certainty. Wait a moment though, here comes a man who can perhaps tell us. He is usually on guard at the entrance. Here, Ferraud, this way!”

  The man to whom the governor called hastened to obey the summons.

  “Do you know whether any one asked to see the prisoner Chupin yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir, I went to fetch Chupin to the parlor myself.”

  “And who was his visitor?” eagerly asked Lecoq, “wasn’t he a tall man; very red in the face—”

  “Excuse me, sir, the visitor was a lady—his aunt, at least so Chupin told me.”

  Neither M. Segmuller nor Lecoq could restrain an exclamation of surprise. “What was she like?” they both asked at the same time.

  “She was short,” replied the attendant, “with a very fair complexion and light hair; she seemed to be a very respectable woman.”

  “It must have been one of the female fugitives who escaped from the Widow Chupin’s hovel,” exclaimed Lecoq.

  Gevrol, hitherto an attentive listener, burst into a loud laugh. “Still that Russian princess,” said he.

  Neither the magistrate nor the young detective relished this unseasonable jest. “You forget yourself, sir,” said M. Segmuller severely. “You forget that the sneers you address to your comrade also apply to me!”

  The General saw that he had gone too far; and while glancing hatefully at Lecoq, he mumbled an apology to the magistrate. The latter did not apparently hear him, for, bowing to the governor, he motioned Lecoq to follow him away.

  “Run to the Prefecture of Police,” he said as soon as they were out of hearing, “and ascertain how and under what pretext this woman obtained permission to see Polyte Chupin.”

  XVII

  On his way back to his office, M. Segmuller mentally reviewed the position of affairs; and came to the conclusion that as he had failed to take the citadel of defense by storm, he must resign himself to a regular protracted siege. He was exceedingly annoyed at the constant failures that had attended all Lecoq’s efforts; for time was on the wing, and he knew that in a criminal investigation delay only increased the uncertainty of success. The more promptly a crime is followed by judicial action the easier it is to find the culprit, and prove his guilt. The longer investigation is delayed the more difficult it becomes to adduce conclusive evidence.

  In the present instance there were various matters that M. Segmuller might at once attend to. With which should he begin? Ought he not to confront May, the Widow Chupin, and Polyte with the bodies of their victims? Such horrible meetings have at times the most momentous results, and more than one murderer when unsuspectedly brought into the presence of his victim’s lifeless corpse has changed color and lost his assurance.

  Then there were other witnesses whom M. Segmuller might examine. Papillon, the cab-driver; the concierge of the house in the Rue de Bourgogne—where the two women flying from the Poivriere had momentarily taken refuge; as well as a certain Madame Milner, landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg. In addition, it would also be advisable to summon, with the least possible delay, some of the people residing in the vicinity of the Poivriere; together with some of Polyte’s habitual companions, and the landlord of the Rainbow, where the victims and the murderer had apparently passed the evening of the crime. Of course, there was no reason to expect any great revelations from any of these witnesses, still they might know something, they might have an opinion to express, and in the present darkness one single ray of light, however faint, might mean salvation.

  Obeying the magistrate’s orders, Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just finished drawing up at least a dozen summonses, when Lecoq returned from the Prefecture. M. Segmuller at once asked him the result of his errand.

  “Ah, sir,” replied the young detective, “I have a fresh proof of that my
sterious accomplice’s skill. The permit that was used yesterday to see young Chupin was in the name of his mother’s sister, a woman named Rose Pitard. A visiting card was given her more than a week ago, in compliance with a request indorsed by the commissary of police of her district.”

  The magistrate’s surprise was so intense that it imparted to his face an almost ludicrous expression. “Is this aunt also in the plot?” he murmured.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Lecoq, shaking his head. “At all events, it wasn’t she who went to the prison parlor yesterday. The clerks at the Prefecture remember the widow’s sister very well, and gave me a full description of her. She’s a woman over five feet high, with a very dark complexion; and very wrinkled and weatherbeaten about the face. She’s quite sixty years old; whereas, yesterday’s visitor was short and fair, and not more than forty-five.”

  “If that’s the case,” interrupted M. Segmuller, “this visitor must be one of our fugitives.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who do you suppose she was, then?”

  “Why, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg—that clever woman who succeeded so well in deceiving me. But she had better take care! There are means of verifying my suspicions.”

  The magistrate scarcely heard Lecoq’s last words, so enraged was he at the inconceivable audacity and devotion displayed by so many people: all of whom were apparently willing to run the greatest risks so long as they could only assure the murderer’s incognito.

  “But how could the accomplice have known of the existence of this permit?” he asked after a pause.

  “Oh, nothing could be easier, sir,” replied Lecoq. “When the Widow Chupin and the accomplice had that interview at the station-house near the Barriere d’Italie, they both realized the necessity of warning Polyte. While trying to devise some means of getting to him, the old woman remembered her sister’s visiting card, and the man made some excuse to borrow it.”

  “Yes, such must be the case,” said M. Segmuller, approvingly. “It will be necessary to ascertain, however—”

  “And I will ascertain,” interrupted Lecoq, with a resolute air, “if you will only intrust the matter to me, sir. If you will authorize me I will have two spies on the watch before tonight, one in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, and the other at the door of the Hotel de Mariembourg. If the accomplice ventured to visit Toinon or Madame Milner he would be arrested; and then we should have our turn!”

  However, there was no time to waste in vain words and idle boasting. Lecoq therefore checked himself, and took up his hat preparatory to departure. “Now,” said he, “I must ask you, sir, for my liberty; if you have any orders, you will find a trusty messenger in the corridor, Father Absinthe, one of my colleagues. I want to find out something about Lacheneur’s letter and the diamond earring.”

  “Go, then,” replied M. Segmuller, “and good luck to you!”

  Good luck! Yes, indeed, Lecoq looked for it. If up to the present moment he had taken his successive defeats good-humoredly, it was because he believed that he had a talisman in his pocket which was bound to insure ultimate victory.

  “I shall be very stupid if I can’t discover the owner of such a valuable jewel,” he soliloquized, referring to the diamond earring. “And when I find the owner I shall at the same time discover our mysterious prisoner’s identity.”

  The first step to be taken was to ascertain whom the earring had been bought from. It would naturally be a tedious process to go from jeweler to jeweler and ask: “Do you know this jewel, was it set by you, and if so whom did you sell it to?” But fortunately Lecoq was acquainted with a man whose knowledge of the trade might at once throw light on the matter. This individual was an old Hollander, named Van Numen, who as a connoisseur in precious stones, was probably without his rival in Paris. He was employed by the Prefecture of Police as an expert in all such matters. He was considered rich. Despite his shabby appearance, he was rightly considered rich, and, in point of fact, he was indeed far more wealthy than people generally supposed. Diamonds were his especial passion, and he always had several in his pocket, in a little box which he would pull out and open at least a dozen times an hour, just as a snuff-taker continually produces his snuffbox.

  This worthy man greeted Lecoq very affably. He put on his glasses, examined the jewel with a grimace of satisfaction, and, in the tone of an oracle, remarked: “That stone is worth eight thousand francs, and it was set by Doisty, in the Rue de la Paix.”

  Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered this well-known jeweler’s establishment. Van Numen had not been mistaken. Doisty immediately recognized the earring, which had, indeed, come from his shop. But whom had he sold it to? He could not recollect, for it had passed out of his hands three or four years before.

  “Wait a moment though,” said he, “I will just ask my wife, who has a wonderful memory.”

  Madame Doisty truly deserved this eulogium. A single glance at the jewel enabled her to say that she had seen this earring before, and that the pair had been purchased from them by the Marchioness d’Arlange.

  “You must recollect,” she added, turning to her husband, “that the Marchioness only gave us nine thousand francs on account, and that we had all the trouble in the world to make her pay the balance.”

  Her husband did remember this circumstance; and in recording his recollection, he exchanged a significant glance with his wife.

  “Now,” said the detective, “I should like to have this marchioness’s address.”

  “She lives in the Faubourg St. Germain,” replied Madame Doisty, “near the Esplanade des Invalides.”

  Lecoq had refrained from any sign of satisfaction while he was in the jeweler’s presence. But directly he had left the shop he evinced such delirious joy that the passers-by asked themselves in amazement if he were not mad. He did not walk, but fairly danced over the stones, gesticulating in the most ridiculous fashion as he addressed this triumphant monologue to the empty air: “At last,” said he, “this affair emerges from the mystery that has enshrouded it. At last I reach the veritable actors in the drama, the exalted personages whose existence I had suspected. Ah! Gevrol, my illustrious General! you talked about a Russian princess, but you will be obliged to content yourself with a simple marchioness.”

  But the vertigo that had seized the young detective gradually disappeared. His good sense reasserted itself, and, looking calmly at the situation, he felt that he should need all his presence of mind, penetration, and sagacity to bring the expedition to a successful finish. What course should he pursue, on entering the marchioness’s presence, in order to draw from her a full confession and to obtain full particulars of the murder, as well as the murderer’s name!

  “It will be best to threaten her, to frighten her into confession,” he soliloquized. “If I give her time for reflection, I shall learn nothing.”

  He paused in his cogitations, for he had reached the residence of the Marchioness d’Arlange—a charming mansion with a courtyard in front and garden in the rear. Before entering, he deemed it advisable to obtain some information concerning the inmates.

  “It is here, then,” he murmured, “that I am to find the solution of the enigma! Here, behind these embroidered curtains, dwells the frightened fugitive of the other night. What agony of fear must torture her since she has discovered the loss of her earring!”

  For more than an hour, standing under a neighbor’s porte cochere, Lecoq remained watching the house. He would have liked to see the face of any one; but the time passed by and not even a shadow could be detected behind the curtain; not even a servant passed across the courtyard. At last, losing patience, the young detective determined to make inquiries in the neighborhood, for he could not take a decisive step without obtaining some knowledge of the people he was to encounter. While wondering where he could obtain the information he required, he perceived, on the opposite side of the street, the keeper of a wine-shop smoking on his doorstep.

  At once approaching an
d pretending that he had forgotten an address, Lecoq politely asked for the house where Marchioness d’Arlange resided. Without a word, and without condescending to take his pipe from his mouth, the man pointed to the mansion which Lecoq had previously watched.

  There was a way, however, to make him more communicative, namely, to enter the shop, call for something to drink, and invite the landlord to drink as well. This was what Lecoq did, and the sight of two well-filled glasses unbound, as by enchantment, the man’s hitherto silent tongue. The young detective could not have found a better person to question, for this same individual had been established in the neighborhood for ten years, and enjoyed among the servants of the aristocratic families here residing a certain amount of confidence.

  “I pity you if you are going to the marchioness’s house to collect a bill,” he remarked to Lecoq. “You will have plenty of time to learn the way here before you see your money. You will only be another of the many creditors who never let her bell alone.”

  “The deuce! Is she as poor as that?”

  “Poor! Why, every one knows that she has a comfortable income, without counting this house. But when one spends double one’s income every year, you know—”

  The landlord stopped short, to call Lecoq’s attention to two ladies who were passing along the street, one of them, a woman of forty, dressed in black; the other, a girl half-way through her teens. “There,” quoth the wine-seller, “goes the marchioness’s granddaughter, Mademoiselle Claire, with her governess, Mademoiselle Smith.”

  Lecoq’s head whirled. “Her granddaughter!” he stammered.

  “Yes—the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it.”

  “How old is the marchioness, then?”

  “At least sixty: but one would never suspect it. She is one of those persons who live a hundred years. And what an old wretch she is too. She would think no more of knocking me over the head than I would of emptying this glass of wine—”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq, “but does she live alone in that great house?”