The Lynx

by Michel Corday

  “Oh, Mademoiselle…arrangements are made…this is how I proceed. I make an approximate calculation. I’m furnished with an advance, and then I begin. I don’t wring the client dry.” He turned toward Gabriel. “Refresh my memory about the affair now—and don’t be surprised if I insist on details. In our métier, a grain of dust can be important. First, tell me about Lacaze. What was he, that fellow? A friend, you say; how do you know him?”

  With a rapid glance, Mirande exhorted his sister to be brave. It was necessary for them to relive the drama once more.

  “I met Henri Lacaze at the Lycée de Sens, where we were fellow students,” Gabriel declared. “He was then a turbulent child, even violent, who suffered from scholarly discipline, but he also had a remarkably intelligent mind and a generous heart, sensible to affection and reason. He scarcely worked except on the eve of the baccalaureate, but to general amazement, he passed more brilliantly than the hard workers. When we left the school, life separated us. I met him again six years later in Paris, where he’d become fanatical about aviation. He’d just invented the famous helicoplane, of which you’ve doubtless heard mention...”

  Nitaud apologized for his ignorance. Progress moved so rapidly that the profane could not know about the helicoplane. In any case, in haste to continue his investigation usefully, he asked: “What kind of life? Bohemian?”

  Embarrassed by the presence of his sister, Gabriel meditated his response. “Bohemian? Certainly he was subject to the enthusiasm of his comrades. One lives more intensely in that milieu, where one is not certain of being alive the following day. But he amused himself intermittently, like a man who works relentlessly and who relaxes from labor in pleasure.”

  “Debts?”

  “Yes, debts. They were one of the charges in the accusation. Rather large debts, even. Debts that certainly resulted from his taste for largesse, his generosity and, it must be said, his recklessness. But debts, above all, imputable to the enormous expenses of a small factory that he had established for the manufacture of his helicoplanes. Perhaps he did not know how to impose practical direction, the surveillance that avoids wastage. In sum, his industry was the principal origin of his need for money.”

  “A liaison?”

  This time, it was Jeanne who responded on her brother’s behalf. She simply said: “We have been engaged for a year, Monsieur.”

  The policeman nodded. On that delicate point he resolved to interrogate Mirande one-to-one. Turning to the latter, he continued: “Monsieur Lacaze is violent, you said?”

  “Yes, but a violence always inspired by a sentiment of justice, or truth...”

  “For example?”

  “For example, his attitude during the course of his trial, when he questioned the prosecutor and the judges, to the detriment of their indulgence. He employed regrettable terms that certainly contributed to indispose them. During the final hearing, he showed his fist to the advocate general.”

  “In truth, if he’s innocent…,” Nitaud said, by way of excuse. “But can’t you cite me another instance from his private life—a quarrel in his factory?”

  “He was adored by his workers. I don’t see…oh, yes! I remember one adventure that comes to mind. It was at Issy-les-Moulineaux, the day of his departure for the Circuit de Nord. The aviation field was guarded militarily. Lacaze, having forgotten his card, wants to go through the cordon of troops anyway. A sub-officer stops him. Annoyed that his word is doubted, Lacaze insists, becoming heated, and one thing leading to another, finishes up by assaulting the sub-officer. The race committee had a good deal of trouble sorting the matter out—which characterizes Lacaze perfectly.”

  “Yes, I see...” The policeman pinched his chin, and then stroked his toothbrush moustache. “Let’s pass on to the victim. A cousin of Monsieur Lacaze—a cousin with an inheritance, if my memory serves me right.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Gagny. An octogenarian.”

  “Did this Monsieur Gagny have other relatives?”

  Mirande hesitated. Simone was also a cousin of old Gagny, who was, like her and Lacaze, originally from the environs of Sens, but he was reluctant to name her to the policeman. He resolved to do so, however.

  “Yes, one of our friends, Madame Castillan.

  Nitaud observed: “That lady, who similarly stands to inherit, must have benefited from Lacaze’s departure, who, by virtue of his conviction, has lost his right to the succession?”

  The dramatic events had fallen upon Mirande so rapidly that the observation in question had never crossed his mind. He made an evasive gesture. “It’s possible.”

  But the policeman persisted: “Did the police look in that direction?”

  This time, Mirande rebelled. “With what right and for what reason? The Court was not brushed by any such suspicion. In any case, Madame Castillan is rich herself, very rich, worthy of all respect. No, no, it’s absolutely necessary to set that idea aside.”

  The policeman did not insist. “So be it. Let’s pass on to the crime.”

  Gabriel prepared to recount it, but he was anxious about his sister’s nervous condition. The evocation of the fatal night troubled him in advance.

  “Do you want to leave us?” he asked.

  But she stiffened herself, and refused with an imperious shake of the head. Gabriel had to resign himself.

  “Monsieur Gagny,” he replied to the policeman, “was killed in the town house he owned in the Avenue Raphael, at 22A. We know the house for having gone into it on the day that Lacaze introduced his fiancée to his cousin.”

  “How did he receive you?”

  “Badly.”

  “For what reasons?”

  “No reason. We were treated like everyone else, as importunate individuals. The old man lived wrapped up in himself, in sordid avarice.”

  “He was very rich, was he not?”

  “His fortune was estimated at some ten millions.”

  “How had he acquired them?”

  “By hoarding money avidly and subsisting meanly.”

  “That considerable fortune must have had an origin, however?”

  “Yes, the paternal heritage and that of his wife, who died a long time ago. He had accumulated the interest for some fifty years—Monsieur Gagny was eight-three when he was murdered.”

  “The upkeep of the town house, though—the charges, the servants—represented expenses.”

  “I repeat Monsieur,” Gabriel insisted, “that old Gagny was implausibly miserly. He did not travel, did not belong to any club and did not permit himself any pleasure. He wore his clothes until they were completely worn out, picked his own vegetables from his garden, transformed into a kitchen garden, supped on a morsel of cheese and a crust of bread. His entire staff consisted of two domestics; when the wife became infirm he even reduced her wages. An unattractive man, in truth.”

  “Why, then, did he live in a house in the Avenue Raphael? Why didn’t he sell it in order to lodge in a maid’s room on some sixth floor?”

  “Because he had to accommodate some splendid furniture and a collection of rare paintings he inherited from his father. All those objects were acquiring value over time; keeping them was, therefore, a fashion of hoarding.”

  “In sum, a madman?”

  “Yes a madman,” Gabriel affirmed. “Possessed by gold. A sick man who must have been confined to bed the day he lent money to Lacaze.”

  Monsieur Nitaud started. “Ah! So Lacaze had borrowed money from him?”

  “Yes, Monsieur—a trivial sum; five hundred francs to pay his workers, once, when he was in a hole. He had to beg to obtain them.”

  “If only he’d asked us for them!” Jeanne lamented. “We could have saved him from a step that perhaps served to doom him in the mind of the judges. But he was too proud…much too proud to address himself to us.”

  Monsieur Nitaud resumed teasing his moustache, His eyes fixed on the floor, he reflected. His brow furrowed. Assuredly, he had taken unfavorable note of the loan. He continued “I believe I
remember that on the evening of the murder, Lacaze, who admitted it during the hearing, went to see Gagny again to ask for money?”

  “Indeed,” Mirande replied. “Lacaze requested, that evening, further assistance from his cousin. Harassed by his creditors, he needed ten thousand francs, under pain of bankruptcy. At eight o’clock he went to ring the bell at the gate of the garden that separates the house from the avenue.”

  “That’s the vegetable garden you mentioned?”

  “No, this garden is a kind of forecourt planted with trees. The kitchen garden is behind the house. It’s separated from the Boulevard Suchet by another house. I stress that detail, which has some importance. So, Lacaze rang, and was introduced by Justin, the domestic. The conversation was calm at first, but then became animated to the point that Justin declared himself surprised by violent outbursts of voices. Lacaze withdrew proffering insults; he didn’t try to hide that.”

  “What insults? Threats?”

  “No—appreciations, in truth very vivid, of his cousin’s avarice, but nothing that marked his intention of harming the old man. The gate was closed behind him by Justin, and locked with a double turn, as was customary. And he went away.”

  “To go where?”

  “To Issy-les-Moulineaux, to undertake a night flight in his helicoplane.”

  “Well, that’s an alibi!” exclaimed Nitaud.

  “Which, unfortunately, couldn’t be corroborated, for the helicoplane can take off at the discretion of its pilot alone. Numerous witnesses came forward to affirm that at the tribunal. Lacaze thus accomplished his nocturnal excursion alone.”

  “Alone—that’s unfortunate,” murmured the policeman. But he glimpsed the young woman’s anxiety, and dissimulated his bad impression as best he could. “At what time did he return from his expedition?”

  “About four o’clock in the morning.”

  “And the medical report estimated Gagny’s time of death…?”

  “At about two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Who discovered the crime?”

  “Justin, the old domestic, when, as was his custom, he brought his master’s breakfast. He immediately went to inform the Commissaire de Police of the occurrence, who preceded with the usual investigations.”

  “And what did they reveal?”

  “Monsieur Gagny had died from a thrust to the heart delivered by a perforating instrument. He was lying at the foot of his bed, in a chemise, and did not seem to have offered any resistance. He had not even cried out, for the domestics affirmed that they had not heard anything. The sureness of the thrust, delivered exactly to the region of the heart, and accompanied by very little effusion of blood, seemed to indicate that the murderer possessed certain notions of anatomy, or that it was not his first murder. The instrument of the crime was found near the corpse: a commercial file with three faces, recently sharpened. It presented the particularity that it was stamped by a hot iron with an L.”

  “Lacaze’s initial. Does your friend mark his instruments like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “That file had been stolen from him!” Jeanne exclaimed, before even leaving the policeman time to reflect on that grave detail.

  But Gabriel moderated her impulsion: “Wait—let me finish. Monsieur Nitaud needs to know everything.” Then, addressing the stranger, he said: “In the room, moreover, there was no evidence that theft had been the motive or the crime. The writing-desk, full of title-deeds, was intact. None of the paintings was missing, or precious trinkets that might have been easily carried away. The coolness, the method, and if I might put it thus, the neatness of the act gave the impression that the murderer had been carrying out an order...”

  “Naturally,” Jeanne added, “the Court saw in the criminal’s disinterest a further charge against my fiancé. It was claimed that only Henri had an interest in not stealing what he would inherit. But I ask you, Monsieur, would he not at least have simulated a break-in? Would he have made use of a weapon that could denounce him? Come on! A child would have thought twice about it.”

  Nitaud did not reply. He addressed Gabriel: “Was it perceived, the following day, that a file was missing from Lacaze’s workshop?”

  “There was no way of telling. There was such disorder in our friend’s abode...”

  “Leaving that implement near the body thus served the prosecution?”

  “It spoke for itself. Its discovery was the examining magistrate’s principal argument for arresting Lacaze. In addition, that magistrate gave evidence throughout the affair of a revolting partiality.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Monsieur Dutoit.”

  At that name the policeman started. “Ah! It’s Dutoit…I know the fellow. He’s a complete idiot. I once had dealing with him, and it was in consequence of those difficulties that I had to resign. I admit that it’s unfortunate that a man’s fate might depend on an imbecile of that stripe.”

  This time, Jeanne was radiant.

  “I’m not even sorry to find myself facing that individual again,” Nitaud continued. “But let’s pass on. Tell me how the prosecution explained the arrival and departure of the murderer.”

  “Behind the house, as I told you,” Gabriel said, “there’s a kitchen garden separated from the Boulevard Suchet by a property that’s for rent. The criminal must have gone though that empty house, climbed over the boundary wall, come through the vegetable garden...”

  “Without leaving any traces?”

  “None. The soil was dry. Then he introduced himself into Gagny’s house.”

  “How? Hadn’t the door been locked?”

  “Carefully barricaded, in fact, as were the windows. But there’s another door leading to the basements. One gets to it by going down a few steps under the perron. The door is glazed and furnished with strong bars. Now, it was customary to leave the key inside the lock. The criminal broke the glass, cutting himself, as traces of blood were found on the door. He only had to put his hand through that opening to turn the key and draw the bolts. From then on he was inside the house and nothing was easier than to reach the floor where the victim’s bedroom was.”

  “That denotes a certain knowledge of the location, at any rate,” the policeman reflected. Then he added: “He cut himself, you say?”

  Gabriel understood all the interest that the police had attached to that question. He was about to respond, but Jeanne got in ahead of him again.

  “Once again, Henri was unfortunate. That same evening, during his nocturnal flight, while adjusting a metal fitment on his airplane, he cut his wrist.”

  “They must have searched for traces of that accident on the apparatus? The aviator’s blood ought to have remained on the wire?”

  “No, he’d wiped it away,” she confessed, lowering her head in dejection.

  An oppressive silence followed. Nitaud seemed inclined toward culpability. His lips formed a significant moue.

  A clock chimed midnight. The policeman awoke from his meditation. “And no other indication in the house as to the identity of the criminal?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did they search for fingerprints on the doorknobs, the banisters and the bedroom furniture?”

  “A search was made. They were contradictory. In any case, I repeat that the criminal didn’t touch anything.”

  “And Henri Lacaze’s fingerprints were found,” Jeanne emphasized, “because he had visited his cousin a few hours previously.”

  Nitaud shook his head. The edifice established by the examining magistrate seemed solidly built. For once, his enemy Dutoit had been served by circumstances.

  He summarized his thoughts without worrying about sparing his listeners: “Well, it doesn’t look good for your friend. If he’s innocent...”

  “He is!” exclaimed Jeanne. “I swear on everything I hold most sacred in the world.” She added, violently: “You believe it, don’t you? Say that you believe it!”

  “Evi…dently,” stammered the policeman, “since you af
firm it…and I’d like nothing better than to be convinced. But the law? The law can’t be content with a young woman’s oath...it requires evidence. Now, admit that our friend has not been able to furnish any...that, on the contrary, all the circumstances overwhelm him. Think, then: only one man had an interest in killing Gagny: him, the heir threatened with bankruptcy. And then, what do you expect? It’s unfortunate that Lacaze argued with his cousin, that his alibi can’t be established, that he injured himself that same night, that the murderer took nothing away…yes, he’s truly unlucky!”

  But he observed so much distress on the part of the two young people that he did not want to leave without offering them some hope.

  As he picked up his hat, he said: “In sum, I don’t have anything to encourage me in recommencing the investigation, except for your conviction. It’s a little thin. But it’s a stimulant all the same, for you seem to me to be worthy people. I shall, therefore, set to work and try to find something new.”

  He stood up, and unable this time to contain his rancor, raised a menacing index finger. “And if I can stick Dutoit’s nose into a judiciary error, I’d gladly work for that result alone. For now, au revoir.”

  In spite of that sally, the policeman left them with a disappointing impression. Jeanne did not hide her despair. Sobbing, she threw herself into her brother’s arms. He hugged her and consoled her.

  Oh, how he would have liked to give her something more than banal words! How he would have liked to cry: “Hope! Be certain. We shall triumph. We were weak, it’s true, we were blind—but now, thanks to Brion, we have Power, we have Light!”

  PART TWO

  I

  In waves of dust and gusts of heat, in the racket of horns, sirens and clutch-releases, automobiles were returning to Dorville-sur-Mer after a day of races. In fits and starts they filed past the facades of hotels, cafés and restaurants aligned along the quay of the harbor. They maneuvered with a miraculous smoothness, avoiding scrapes and collisions that seemed inevitable. The light vehicles, profiled with the last possible intervals, slid between the more imposing limousines like sloops between the warships of a squadron. The sea breeze was agitating the bright veils that surrounded the faces of women. The declining sun illuminated sparks in the copper fittings of the hoods. Here and here, a correct carriage, or a cavalier leaping from his anxious horse, found themselves close to that stream of metal, and the sight of them seemed anachronistic.