The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  Old Tabaret paused, and then, with a sudden change of tone and an ironical gesture, he added: “And that—is my explanation.”

  Father Absinthe had risen, frantic with delight. “Cristi!” he exclaimed, “that’s it! that’s it!”

  Lecoq’s approbation was none the less evident although unspoken. He could appreciate this rapid and wonderful work of induction far better than his companion.

  For a moment or two old Tabaret reclined upon his pillows enjoying the sweets of admiration; then he continued: “Do you wish for further proofs, my boy? Recollect the perseverance M. d’Escorval displayed in sending to M. Segmuller for information. I admit that a man may have a passion for his profession; but not to such an extent as that. You believed that his leg was broken. Then were you not surprised to find a magistrate, with a broken limb, suffering mortal anguish, taking such wonderful interest in a miserable murderer? I haven’t any broken bones, I’ve only got the gout; but I know very well that when I’m suffering, half the world might be judging the other half, and yet the idea of sending Mariette for information would never occur to me. Ah! a moment’s reflection would have enabled you to understand the reason of his solicitude, and would probably have given you the key to the whole mystery.”

  Lecoq, who was such a brilliant casuist in the Widow Chupin’s hovel, who was so full of confidence in himself, and so earnest in expounding his theories to simple Father Absinthe—Lecoq hung his head abashed and did not utter a word. But he felt neither anger nor impatience.

  He had come to ask advice, and was glad that it should be given him. He had made many mistakes, as he now saw only too plainly; and when they were pointed out to him he neither fumed nor fretted, nor tried to prove that he had been right when he had been wrong. This was certainly an excellent trait in his character.

  Meanwhile, M. Tabaret had poured out a great glass of some cooling drink and drained it. He now resumed: “I need not remind you of the mistake you made in not compelling Toinon Chupin to tell you all she knew about this affair while she was in your power. ‘A bird in the hand’—you know the proverb.”

  “Be assured, Monsieur Tabaret, that this mistake has cost me enough to make me realize the danger of allowing a well-disposed witness’s zeal to cool down.”

  “We will say no more about that, then. But I must tell you that three or four times, at least, it has been in your power to clear up this mystery.”

  The oracle paused, awaiting some protestation from his disciple. None came, however. “If he says this,” thought the young detective, “it must indeed be so.”

  This discretion made a great impression on old Tabaret, and increased the esteem he had conceived for Lecoq. “The first time that you were lacking in discretion,” said he, “was when you tried to discover the owner of the diamond earring found at the Poivriere.”

  “I made every effort to discover the last owner.”

  “You tried very hard, I don’t deny it; but as for making every effort—that’s quite another thing. For instance, when you heard that the Baroness de Watchau was dead, and that all her property had been sold, what did you do?”

  “You know; I went immediately to the person who had charge of the sale.”

  “Very well! and afterwards?”

  “I examined the catalogue; and as, among the jewels mentioned, I could find none that answered the description of these diamonds, I knew that the clue was quite lost.”

  “There is precisely where you are mistaken!” exclaimed old Tirauclair, exultantly. “If such valuable jewels are not mentioned in the catalogue of the sale, the Baroness de Watchau could not have possessed them at the time of her death. And if she no longer possessed them she must have given them away or sold them. And who could she have sold them to? To one of her lady friends, very probably. For this reason, had I been in your place, I should have found out the names of her intimate friends; this would have been a very easy task; and then, I should have tried to win the favor of all the lady’s-maids in the service of these friends. This would have only been a pastime for a good-looking young fellow like you. Then, I should have shown this earring to each maid in succession until I found one who said: ‘That diamond belongs to my mistress,’ or one who was seized with a nervous trembling.”

  “And to think that this idea did not once occur to me!” ejaculated Lecoq.

  “Wait, wait, I am coming to the second mistake you made,” retorted the oracle. “What did you do when you obtained possession of the trunk which May pretended was his? Why you played directly into this cunning adversary’s hand. How could you fail to see that this trunk was only an accessory article; a bit of ‘property’ got ready in ‘mounting’ the ‘comedy’? You should have known that it could only have been deposited with Madame Milner by the accomplice, and that all its contents must have been purchased for the occasion.”

  “I knew this, of course; but even under these circumstances, what could I do?”

  “What could you do, my boy? Well, I am only a poor old man, but I should have interviewed every clothier in Paris; and at last some one would have exclaimed: ‘Those articles! Why, I sold them to an individual like this or that—who purchased them for one of his friends whose measure he brought with him.’”

  Angry with himself, Lecoq struck his clenched hand violently upon the table beside him. “Sacrebleu!” he exclaimed, “that method was infallible, and so simple too! Ah! I shall never forgive myself for my stupidity as long as I live!”

  “Gently, gently!” interrupted old Tirauclair. “You are going too far, my dear boy. Stupidity is not the proper word at all; you should say carelessness, thoughtlessness. You are young—what else could one expect? What is far less inexcusable is the manner in which you conducted the chase, after the prisoner was allowed to escape.”

  “Alas!” murmured the young man, now completely discouraged; “did I blunder in that?”

  “Terribly, my son; and here is where I really blame you. What diabolical influence induced you to follow May, step by step, like a common policeman?”

  This time Lecoq was stupefied. “Ought I to have allowed him to escape me?” he inquired.

  “No; but if I had been by your side in the gallery of the Odeon, when you so clearly divined the prisoner’s intentions, I should have said to you: ‘This fellow, friend Lecoq, will hasten to Madame Milner’s house to inform her of his escape. Let us run after him.’ I shouldn’t have tried to prevent his seeing her, mind. But when he had left the Hotel de Mariembourg, I should have added: ‘Now, let him go where he chooses; but attach yourself to Madame Milner; don’t lose sight of her; cling to her as closely as her own shadow, for she will lead you to the accomplice—that is to say—to the solution of the mystery.’”

  “That’s the truth; I see it now.”

  “But instead of that, what did you do? You ran to the hotel, you terrified the boy! When a fisherman has cast his bait and the fish are swimming near, he doesn’t sound a gong to frighten them all away!”

  Thus it was that old Tabaret reviewed the entire course of investigation and pursuit, remodeling it in accordance with his own method of induction. Lecoq had originally had a magnificent inspiration. In his first investigations he had displayed remarkable talent; and yet he had not succeeded. Why? Simply because he had neglected the axiom with which he started: “Always distrust what seems probable!”

  But the young man listened to the oracle’s “summing up” with divided attention. A thousand projects were darting through his brain, and at length he could no longer restrain himself. “You have saved me from despair,” he exclaimed, “I thought everything was lost; but I see that my blunders can be repaired. What I neglected to do, I can do now; there is still time. Haven’t I the diamond earring, as well as various effects belonging to the prisoner, still in my possession? Madame Milner still owns the Hotel de Mariembourg, and I will watch her.”

  “And what for, my boy?”

  “What for? Why, to find my fugitive, to be sure!”

>   Had the young detective been less engrossed with his idea, he would have detected a slight smile that curved Papa Tirauclair’s thick lips.

  “Ah, my son! is it possible that you don’t suspect the real name of this pretended buffoon?” inquired the oracle somewhat despondently.

  Lecoq trembled and averted his face. He did not wish Tabaret to see his eyes. “No,” he replied, “I don’t suspect—”

  “You are uttering a falsehood!” interrupted the sick man. “You know as well as I do, that May resides in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that he is known as the Duc de Sairmeuse.”

  On hearing these words, Father Absinthe indulged in a hearty laugh: “Ah! that’s a good joke!” he exclaimed. “Ah, ha!”

  Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, however. “Well, yes, Monsieur Tabaret,” said he, “the idea did occur to me; but I drove it away.”

  “And why, if you please?”

  “Because—because—”

  “Because you would not believe in the logical sequence of your premises; but I am consistent, and I say that it seems impossible the murderer arrested in the Widow Chupin’s drinking den should be the Duc de Sairmeuse. Hence, the murderer arrested there, May, the pretended buffoon, is the Duc de Sairmeuse!”

  XXV

  How this idea had entered old Tabaret’s head, Lecoq could not understand. A vague suspicion had, it is true, flitted through his own mind; but it was in a moment of despair when he was distracted at having lost May, and when certain of Couturier’s remarks furnished the excuse for any ridiculous supposition. And yet now Father Tirauclair calmly proclaimed this suspicion—which Lecoq had not dared seriously to entertain, even for an instant—to be an undoubted fact.

  “You look as if you had suddenly fallen from the clouds,” exclaimed the oracle, noticing his visitor’s amazement. “Do you suppose that I spoke at random like a parrot?”

  “No, certainly not, but—”

  “Tush! You are surprised because you know nothing of contemporary history. If you don’t wish to remain all your life a common detective, like your friend Gevrol, you must read, and make yourself familiar with all the leading events of the century.”

  “I must confess that I don’t see the connection.”

  M. Tabaret did not deign to reply. Turning to Father Absinthe, he requested the old detective, in the most affable tones, to go to the library and fetch two large volumes entitled: “General Biography of the Men of the Present Age,” which he would find in the bookcase on the right. Father Absinthe hastened to obey; and as soon as the books were brought, M. Tabaret began turning the pages with an eager hand, like a person seeking some word in a dictionary.

  “Esbayron,” he muttered, “Escars, Escayrac, Escher, Escodica—at last we have it—Escorval! Listen attentively, my boy, and you will be enlightened.”

  This injunction was entirely unnecessary. Never had the young detective’s faculties been more keenly on the alert. It was in an emphatic voice that the sick man then read: “Escorval (Louis-Guillaume, baron d’).—Diplomatist and politician, born at Montaignac, December 3d, 1769; of an old family of lawyers. He was completing his studies in Paris at the outbreak of the Revolution and embraced the popular cause with all the ardor of youth. But, soon disapproving the excesses committed in the name of Liberty, he sided with the Reactionists, advised, perhaps, by Roederer, who was one of his relatives. Commended to the favor of the First Counsel by M. de Talleyrand, he began his diplomatic career with a mission to Switzerland; and during the existence of the First Empire he was entrusted with many important negotiations. Devoted to the Emperor, he found himself gravely compromised at the advent of the Second Restoration. At the time of the celebrated rising at Montaignac, he was arrested on the double charge of high treason and conspiracy. He was tried by a military commission, and condemned to death. The sentence was not executed, however. He owed his life to the noble devotion and heroic energy of a priest, one of his friends, the Abbe Midon, cure of the little village of Sairmeuse. The baron d’Escorval had only one son, who embraced the judicial profession at a very early age.”

  Lecoq was intensely disappointed. “I understand,” he remarked. “This is the biography of our magistrate’s father. Only I don’t see that it teaches us anything.”

  An ironical smile curved old Tirauclair’s lips. “It teaches us that M. d’Escorval’s father was condemned to death,” he replied. “That’s something, I assure you. A little patience, and you will soon know everything.”

  Having found a new leaf, he recommenced to read: “Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Victor de Tingry, Duc de).—A French general and politician, born at the chateau de Sairmeuse, near Montaignac, in 1758. The Sairmeuse family is one of the oldest and most illustrious in France. It must not be confounded with the ducal family of Sermeuse, whose name is written with an ‘e.’ Leaving France at the beginning of the Revolution, Anne de Sairmeuse began by serving in the army of Conde. Some years later he offered his sword to Russia; and it is asserted by some of his biographers that he was fighting in the Russian ranks at the time of the disastrous retreat from Moscow. Returning to France with the Bourbons, he became notorious by the intensity of his ultra-royalist opinions. It is certain that he had the good fortune to regain possession of his immense family estates; and the rank and dignities which he had gained in foreign lands were confirmed. Appointed by the king to preside at the military commission charged with arresting and trying the conspirators of Montaignac his zeal and severity resulted in the capture and conviction of all the parties implicated.”

  Lecoq sprang up with sparkling eyes. “I see it clearly now,” he exclaimed. “The father of the present Duc de Sairmeuse tried to have the father of the present M. d’Escorval beheaded.”

  M. Tabaret was the picture of complacency. “You see the assistance history gives,” said he. “But I have not finished, my boy; the present Duc de Sairmeuse also has his article which will be of interest to us. So listen: Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Martial)—Son of the preceding, was born in London toward the close of the last century; received his early education in England, and completed it at the Court of Austria, which he subsequently visited on several confidential missions. Heir to the opinions, prejudices, and animosities of his father, he placed at the service of his party a highly cultivated intellect, unusual penetration, and extraordinary abilities. A leader at a time when political passion was raging highest, he had the courage to assume the sole responsibility of the most unpopular measures. The hostility he encountered, however eventually obliged him to retire from office, leaving behind him animosities likely to terminate only with his life.”

  The sick man closed the book, and with assumed modesty, he asked: “Ah, well! What do you think of my little method of induction?”

  But Lecoq was too much engrossed with his own thoughts to reply to this question. “I think,” he remarked, “that if the Duc de Sairmeuse had disappeared for two months—the period of May’s imprisonment, all Paris would have known of it—and so—”

  “You are dreaming,” interrupted Tabaret. “Why with his wife and his valet de chambre for accomplices, the duke could absent himself for a year if he liked, and yet all his servants would believe him to be in the house.”

  “I admit that,” said Lecoq, at last; “but unfortunately, there is one circumstance which completely upsets the theory we have built up so laboriously.”

  “And what is that if you please?”

  “If the man who took part in the broil at the Poivriere had been the Duc de Sairmeuse, he would have disclosed his name—he would have declared that, having been attacked, he had only defended himself—and his name alone would have opened the prison doors. Instead of that, what did the prisoner do? He attempted to kill himself. Would a grand seigneur, like the Duc de Sairmeuse, to whom life must be a perpetual enchantment, have thought of committing suicide?”

  A mocking whistle from the old Tabaret interrupted the speaker. “You seem to have forgotten the last sentence in his biography: ‘M
. Sairmeuse leaves behind him ill-will and hatred.’ Do you know the price he might have been compelled to pay for his liberty! No—no more do I. To explain his presence at the Poivriere, and the presence of a woman, who was perhaps his wife, who knows what disgraceful secrets he would have been obliged to reveal? Between shame and suicide, he chose suicide. He wished to save his name and honor intact.”

  Old Tirauclair spoke with such vehemence that even Father Absinthe was deeply impressed, although, to tell the truth, he had understood but little of the conversation.

  As for Lecoq, he rose very pale, his lips trembling a little. “You will excuse my hypocrisy, Monsieur Tabaret,” he said in an agitated voice. “I only offered these last objections for form’s sake. I had thought of what you now say, but I distrusted myself, and I wanted to hear you say it yourself.” Then with an imperious gesture, he added: “Now, I know what I have to do.”

  Old Tabaret raised his hands toward heaven with every sign of intense dismay. “Unhappy man!” he exclaimed; “do you think of going to arrest the Duc de Sairmeuse! Poor Lecoq! Free, this man is almost omnipotent, and you, an infinitesimal agent of police, would be shattered as easily as glass. Take care, my boy, don’t attack the duke. I wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. You might imperil your life.”

  The young detective shook his head. “Oh! I don’t deceive myself,” said he. “I know that the duke is far beyond my reach—at least for the present. But he will be in my power again, the day I learn his secret. I don’t fear danger; but I know, that if I am to succeed, I must conceal myself, and so I will. Yes, I will remain in the shade until I can unveil this mystery; but then I shall reappear in my true character. And if May be really the Duc de Sairmeuse, I shall have my revenge.”