Monsieur Lecoq

Front matter

Class_HZ3

Rook Qrll^N\o

CopiglitN?_6__

Chapter I

On the 20th of February, 18 — , a Sunday that ' hanced to be Shrove Sunday, about eleven o’clock in ciie evening, a party of agents of the safetyervice left the police station at the old Barriere Vltalie.

y ""he mission of this party was to explore that '3 precinct which extends from the road to .tainebleau to the Seine, and from the outer po’devards to the fortifications.

This quarter of the city had at that time anyhing but an enviable reputation. To venture 4iere at night was considere so dangerous that ibldiers from the forts, who came to Paris with jermission to attend the theater, were ordered to yait at the barriere.^ and not to pass through he perilous locality except in parties of three ‘ir four.

I After midnight, these gloomy and. narrow streets became the haunt of flocks of homeless v^ag^iaonds. Escaped criminals and malefactors Bade this quarter their rendezvous. If the day lad L. :5en a lucky one they made merry over their poils. sleep overtook them they hid in

■ ov imong the rubbish in deserted

f ' ises.

.‘llverv f been made to dislodge these .

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dangerous guests, but the most energetic measures had failed of success.

Watched, hunted, and in imminent danger of arrest though they were, they always returned with idiotic obstinacy, obeying, as one might suppose, some mysterious law of attraction.

Hence, the police had there an immense trap, constantly baited, to which their game came of their own accord to be caught.

The result of a tour of inspection was so certain, that it was with an assured tone the officer in charge of the post called to the squad as they departed :

“I will prepare lodgings for our guests. Good luck to jmu, and much pleasure!” \

Tl^is last wish was pure irony, for the weather was the most disagreeable that could be imagiined.

A very heavy snow storm had prevailed foj' several days. It was nov/ beginning to thaw and on ail the frequented thoroughfares the slush was ankle-deep. It was still cold, however; damp chill filled the air, and penetrated to th( very marrow of one’s bones. Besides, there waJ a dense fog, so dense that one could not see one’j hands before one’s face.

“What a beastly job!” growled one of the agents.

• “Yes,” replied the inspector who commanded the squad; “ I think if you had an income of thirty thousand francs you would not be here.’^

The laugh that greeted this commonplace joke was not so much . flattery as homage to a recog- j nized and established superiority. C

The inspector was, in fact, one of the most’ esteemed members of the force ; a man who had proved his worth.

His powers of penetration were not, perhaps, very great; but he thoroughly understood his business, its resources, its labyrinths, and it^ artifices. Long practice had giyen him imper-

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turbable coolness, a great confidence in himself, and a sort of coarse diplomacy, that answered in place of shrewdness.

To his failings and to his virtues he added incontestable courage.

He laid his hand upon the coliar of the most dangerous malefactor as tranquilly as a devotee dips his finger in a basin of ho]:v water.

He was a man about forty-six years of age, stTuagly built, v/ith rugged features, a heavy mustache, and rather small, gray eyes, hidden by bushy eyebrows.

His name was Gevrol, but he was universally known as “General.”

This sobriquet was pleasing to his vanity, v/hich was not slight, as his subordinates well knew; and, doubtless, he felt that he ought to receive from them the consideration due a person of that exalted rank.

“If you begin to complain already,” he added gruffiy, “ what will you do by aud by?”

In fact it was too soon to complain.

The little party were then passing up the Rue de Choisy. The people upon the sidewalks were orderly; and the lights of the wineshops illuminated the street.

For all these places were open. There is no fog nor thaw that is potent enough to dismay lovers of pleasure. And a boisterous crowd of maskers filled each saloon and public ball-room.

Through the open windows came, alternately, the sounds of loud voices and bursts of noisy music. Occasionally a drunken man staggered along the pavement, or a masked figure crept along in the shadow of the houses.

Before certain establishments Gevrol commanded a halt. He. gave a peculiar whistle and almost immediately a man came out. It was another member of the force. His report was listened to, and then the squad passed on.

“To the left boys!” ordered Gevrol; ‘Sve will

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take the Rue d’lvry, aud then cut through the shortest way to the Rue de Chevaleret/’

From this point the expedition became reall}^ disagreeable.

Their way led through an unfinished street that had not even been named, full of mud-puddles and deep holes and obstructed with all sorts of rubbish.

There were no longer any lights or drinki;\e' saloons.; no footsteps, no voices; nothing but solitude,^ gloom and silence.

One might have supposed one’s self a hundred leagues from Paris, had it not boon for the deep and continuous murmur that always arises from a large city, like the hollow roaring of a torrent in the depths of a cave.

All the men had turned up their pantaloons, and were advancing slowly, picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing upon his prey.

They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des- Rentiers, when suddenly a wild shriek rent the air.

At this place, and at this hour, this cry was so frightfully significant that all the men paused as by a common impulse.

‘^‘Did you hear that. General? ” asked one of the police, in a Ionv voice.

“Yes, there is murder going on not far from here — but where? Silence! let us listen.”

They all stood motionless, with anxious ears, holding their breath, and soon a second cry, o.r rather a wild howl, resounded.

“Ah!” exclaimed the captain of the guard, “ it is at the Poiv^riere.” *

This peculiar appellation described exactly .uo place which it designated, and the guests tl>at were wont to frequent it.

In figurative language that has its source in

Pepper-box.

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^ount Parna,ssus, they say that a man is “pep- )ei’ed” when he leaves his good sense in the bottom of his glass; hence the sobriquet of “stealers of pepper” given to the rascals whose specialty it to plunder inoffensive and helpless drunken ri.

“What!” added Gevrol, “you do not know Mother Chupin’s drinking saloon there, on the right. Run!”

And setting the example, he dashed off in the direction indicated. His men followed, and in less than a minute they reached a hovel, sinister uf aspect, and standing alone.

It was indeed from this house that the cries had proceeded. They were i-epeated, and were immediately followed by two pistol shots.

The house was hermetically closed, but through the* heart-shaped windows covered with shutters filtered a reddish light like that of a fire.

^ , One of the policemen darted to one of these windows, and raising himself up by clinging to the shutters with his hands, he endeavored to peer through the cracks, and to see what was passing within.

Gevrol himself ran to the door. “Open! ” he commanded, striking it heavily.

No response.

But they could hear plainly the sound of a terrible struggle — of fierce imprecations, hollow groans, and occasionally the sobs of a woman.

“Horrible!” cried the policeman, who was peering through the shutters; “ it is horrible!”

This exclamation decided Gevrol.

“Open, in the name of the law! ” he cried, a third time.

Jviid no person responding, with a blow of his shoulder that was as violent as a blow from a batte.- hig-ram, he dashed open the door.

Then the horror-stricken accent of the man who had been peering through the shutter was explained.

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' The room presented such a spectacle that ? I the agents, and even Gevrol himself, remain tU for a moment rooted to their places, cold with unspeakable horror.

Everything about the place denoted that it had been the scene of a terrible struggle, one of t;hose savage conflicts that too often stain the drinking saloons of the barriere with blood.

The lights had been extinguished at the beginning of the strife, but a huge fire of pine logs illuminated the remotest corners of the room.

Tables, glasses, decanters, household utensils, and stools had been overturned, thrown in every direction, trodden upon, and shivered into fragments.

Near the fireplace two men were stretched upon the floor. They were lying motionless upon t^ir backs, their arms crossed. A third was lying in the middle of the room.

A woman crouched upon the lower steps of a staircase leading up to the floor above. She h^d thrown her apron over her head, and was uttering inarticulate moans.

Opposite them, on the threshold of a wide open door leading into an adjoining room, stood a young man, a heavy oaken table forming a rampart before him.

He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard.

His clothing, which was like that worn by porters about the wharves and railway stations, was torn to fragments, and soiled with dust and wine and blood.

This certainly was the murderer. The expression of his face was terrible. A mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer distorted his features. In his neck and on his cheek were two wounds that were bleeding profusely.

In his right hand, covered with a handkerchief, he held a pistol which he aimed at the intruders.

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“Surrender! ” cried Gevrol.

The man’s lips moved, but in spite of a visible effort he could not articulate a syllable.

“Don’t do any mischief,” continued the inspector, “we are in force, you cannot escape; so lay down your arms.”

I “I am innocent,” exclaimed the man, in a [hoarse, strained voice.

L “Naturally, but we do not see it.”

“I have been attacked; ask that old woman. I defended myself; I have killed — I had a righi to do so; it was in self-defense!”

The gesture with which he enforced these words was so menacing that one of the policemen drew Gevrol violently to one side, saying as he did so:

“Take care. General, take care! The revolvei has fiv^e barrels, and we have heard but tw( \shots.”

But the inspector was inaccessible to fear; Iil freed himself from the grasp of his subordinate and again stepped forward, speaking in a still calmer tone:

“No foolishness, my boy; if your case is a good one, which is possible after all, do not spoil it.”

A frightful indecision betrayed itself on the young man’s features.- He held Gevrol’s life at the end of his finger; was he about to press the trigger?

No, he suddenl.y threw his weapon to the floor, saying:

“Come and take me! ”

And turning, he darted into the adjoining room, hoping doubtless to escape by some place of egress known to himself.

Gevrol had expected this movement. He sprang after him with outstretched arms, but the table retarded him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the wretch escapes us!”

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But the fate of the fugitive was already decided.

While Gevrol was parleying, one of the policemen— the one who had peered through the window— had made a circuit of the house and hr ^ effected an entrance through the back door.

As the murderer was darting out, this man j sprang upon him, seized him, and with surprisg ing strength and agility dragged him back.

The murderer tried to resist; in vain. He had lost his strength; he tattered and fell upon the table that had protected him, murmuring loud enough for every one to hear:

“Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!”

This simple and decisive maneuver on the part of the subordinate had won the victory, and must Oave delighted the inspector.

“Good, my boy,” said he, “very good! Ah! you have a talent for your business, and you will do well if ever an opportunity — ”

He checked himself; all his followers so evidently shared his enthusiasm that a feeling of jealousy overtook him. He felt his prestige dimihiching, and hastened to add :

“The idea had occurred to me; but I could not give the order without warning the scoundrel himself.”

This remark was superfluous. All the men had gathered around the murderer. They surrounded him, and, after binding' his feet and hands, they fastened him securely to a chair.

He offered no resistance. His wild excitement had given place to that gloomy prostration that follows all unnatural efforts, either of mind or of body. Evidently he had abandoned himself to his fate.

When Gevrol saw that the men had finished this task :

“Now,” he commanded, “let us attend to the others ; and light the lamps, for the fire is going out.”

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It was with the two men stretched out before the hearth that the inspector began his examination.

He questioned the beating of their hearts: their hearts no longer beat. He held the crystal of his watch close to their lips : the glass remained shining and clear.

“Useless,” he murmured, after several trials, “useless; they are dead! They will never see morning again. Leave them in the same position until the arrival of the coroner, and let us look at the third.”

The third man still breathed. He was a young man, wearing the uniform of a common soldier. He was unarmed, and his large gray cloak was partly open, revealing his bare chest.

They lifted him very carefully, for he groaned piteously at the slightest movement, and they placed him in an upright position, with his back supported against the wall.

Soon he opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for something to drink.

They brought him a glass of water; he drank it with evident satisfaction; then he drew a long breath, and seemed to be regaining some of his strength.

“Where are you wounded?” demanded Gevrol.

“In the head, there,” he responded, trying to raise one of his arms. “Oh! how I suffer.”

The police agent, who had cut off the retreat of the murderer, approached, and with a dexterity that an old surgeon might have envied made an examination of the gaping wound that the young man had received in the back of his neck.

“It is nothing,” the policeman declared.

But there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It is evident that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal.

“It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol; “wounds in the head, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month.”

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The wounded man smiled sadly.

“I have received my death-blow/’ he mur-j mured. I

“Nonsense!” \

“Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it,/ but I do not complain. I have received only myi, just deserts.”

All the agents of police turned toward tha murderer on hearing these words. They sup^ posed that he would take advantage of this opportunity to repeat his protestations of i' ^ ' ^e.

Their expectations were disappoir ^ ! did not speak, although he must cerictinly have heard the words.

“It was that brigand, Lacheneur, w^ enticed me here,” continued the wounded nrhh, in a voice that was growing fainter.

“Lacheneur? ”

“Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who had known me when I was rich — for I have had a fortune, but I have spent it all; I wished to amuse myselt. He, knowing F was without a sou, came to me and promised me money enough to begin life over again. And because I believed him I came to die like a dog in this hole! Oh! I will have my revenge on him!”

At the thought he clinched his hands threateningly.

“I will have my revenge,” he resumed. “I know much more 'than he believes. I will tell all.”

He had presumed too much upon his strength.

Anger had given him a moment’s energy, but it was at the cost of the life that was ebbing away.

When he again tried to speak, he could not. Twice he opened his lips, but there issued from them only a choking cry of impotent rage.

It was the last manifestation of intelligence. A bloody foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, his body stiffened.

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and he fell face downward in a terrible convulsion.

“It is over,” murmured Gevrol.

“Not yet,” replied the young policeman, who -iiad shown himself so efficient; “but he cannot live more than two minutes. Poor devil! he will say nothing.”

The inspector of police had risen from the door as calmly as if he had just witnessed the commonest incident in the world, and was carefully d‘'*%ing the knees of his pantaloons.

“Oh^ %11/' he responded, “we shall know all we neeaw^ know. This fellow is a soldier, and the nun>ber of his regiment will be given on the buttorWof his cloak.”

A sl^ht smile curled the lips of his subordinate.

“I think you are mistaken. General,” said he.

“How — ”

“ Yes, I understand. Seeing him attired in a military coat, you have supposed — But no; this poor wretch was no soldier. Do you wish an immediate proof of this? Ts his hair the regulation cut? Where have you seen soldiers with their hair falling upon their shoulders?” '

This objection silenced the General for a moment; but he replied bruskly :

“Do you think that I keep my eyes in my pocket? What you have remarked did not escape my notice; only I said to myself, here is a young man who has profited by leave of absence to visit the wig-maker.”

“At least — ”

But Gevrol would permit no more interruptions.

“Enough talk,” he declared. “We will now hear what has passed. Mother Chupin, the old hussy, is not dead!”

As he spoke, he advanced toward the old woman, who was still crouching upon the stairs. She had not spoken, nor moved, nor ventured

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SO much as a look, since the entrance of the police, but her moans had not been discontioued.

With a sudden movement Gevrol tore off the apron which she had thrown over her head, and there she stood, such as 3^ears, vice, povertj^, and torrents of brandy and rataf ea had made her; wrinkled, shriveled, toothless c Vid aaggard, her skin, yellow and dry as parchment, drawn tightly over her bones. • .

“Come, stand up!’^ ordered the inspector. “Your lamentations do not trouble me much. You ought to be sent to prison for putting such vile drugs into your liquors, to breed madness in the brains of your visitors.”

The old woman’s little red eyes traveled slowly around the room, and in tearful tones she exclaimed :

“What a misfortune! what will become of me? Everything is broken — I am ruined!”

She seemed to be impressed only by the loss of her table utensils.

“Now tell us how this trouble began,” said Gevrol.

“Alas! I know nothing about it. I was up- ^t^irs mending my son’s clothes when I heard a dispute. ’ ’

“And after that?”

“Of course I came down, and I saw those three men that are lying there picking a quarrel with that young man whom you have arrested; the poor innocent! For he is innocent, as truly as I am an honest woman. If my son Pol,yte had been here he would have parted them; but I, a poor widow, what could I do? I cried ‘Police!’ with all my might.”

After giving this testimony she resumed her seat, thinking she had said enough. But Gevrol rudely ordered her to stand up again.

“Oh! we have not done,” said he. “I wish other particulars.”

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rWhat particulars, dear Mousieur Gevrol, since I saw nothing?”

Anger crimsoned the large ears of the inspector.

‘‘What would you say, old woman, if I arrested you?”

“It would be a great injustice.”

“It is what will happen if you persist in remaining silent. I have an idea that a fortnight in Saint-Lazare would untie your tongue.”

This nam^ produced the effect of an electric shoi k on the Widow Chupin. She suddenly ceased her hypocritical lamentations, rose, placed her hands defiantly upon her hips, and poured forth a torrent of invective upon Gevrol and his agents, accusing them of persecuting her family since they had previously arrested her son, a mauvais sujet, and swearing that she was not afraid of prison, and would be only too glad to end her days there beyond the reach of want.

At first the General tried to impose silence upon the terrible termagant; but he soon discovered that he was powerless; besides ail his subordinates were laughing. He turned his back upon her, and advancing toward the murderer, he said :

“You, at least, will not refuse an explanation.”

The man hesitated for a moment.

“I have already said all that I have to say,” he replied, at last. “I have told you that I am innocent; and a man on the point of death who was struck down by my hand, and this old woman, have both confirmed my declaration. What more do you desire? When the judge questions me, I will, perhaps, reply; until then do not expect another word from me.”

It was easy to see that this man’s resolution was irrevocable; and that he was not to be daunted by any sergeant of police.

. Very often criminals, from the moment of their capture, preserve an absolute silence. These iVlOiNSIEUK j^ECOQ.

mea ai*fe experienced and sbrewcl; these are the men who cause lawyers and judges many sleepless nights.

They have learned that a system of defense cannot be improvised at once; that it is, on the contrary, a work of patience and of meditation; and knowing what a terrible effect an apparently insignificant response drawn from them at the moment of detection may produce on a court of justice, they are silent.

Gevrol was about to insist, when some one announced that the soldier had just breathed his last.

“As that is so, my boys,” he remarked, “ two of you will remain here, and I will leave with the others. I shall go and arouse the commissioner of police, and inform him of the affair; he will take the matter in hand; and we will do whatever he commands. My responsibility will be over, in any case. • So untie the legs of our prisoner, and bind Mother Chupin’s hands, and we will drop them both at the station-house as we pass.”

The men hastened to obey, with the exception of the youngest among them, the same who liad won the eulogiums of the General.

He approached his chief, and motioning that he desired to speak with him, drew him outside the door.

When they were a few steps from the house:

“Yi^hat do you wish?” inquired Gevrol.

“I want to know. General, what you think of this affair.”

“I think, my boy, that four scoundrels encountered each other in this vile den. They began to quarrel; and from words they came to blows. One of them had a revolver, and he killed the others. It is as clear as daylight. According to his antecedents, and according to the antecedents of the victims, the assassin will be judged. Perhaps society owes him some thanks.”

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“And you think that any investigation — anjr.: , further search is unnecessary?” '

“Entirely unnecessary.”

The younger man appeared to deliberate for a moment. «

“It seems to me, General,” he replied at length, “that this affair is not perfectly clear. Have you noticed the murderer, remarked his demeanor, and observed his look ? Have you been surprised as I have been — ”

“By what?”

“Ah, well! it seems to me — I may, of course, be mistaken — but I fancy that appearances are deceitful, and — Yes, I suspect something.”

“Bah! — explain why you should, if you please. ’ ’

“How can you explain the power of scenting his prey possessed by a hunting dog?”

Gevrol shrugged his shoulders.

“In short,” he replied, “you scent a melodrama here — a rendezvous of great gentlemen in disguise, here at the Poivriere — at the house of Mother Chupin! Well, hunt the mystery, my boy ; search all you like, you have my permission.”

“What! you will allow me?”

“I not only allow you, I order you to do it. You are going to remain here with such an one of your comrades as you may select. And if you find anything that I have not seen, I will allow you to buy me a pair of spectacles.”

Chapter II

The young man to whom Gevrol abandoned what he thought an unnecessary investigation was a debutant in his profession, name was Lecoq.

) was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six

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years of age, almost beaidless, very pale, witb red lips, and. an abundance of wavy black hair He was rather small, but well pioportioned ; am his every movement betrayed unusual energy.

There was nothing remarkable about his ap pearance, if we except his eyes, which sparkle brilliantly or grew dull, according to his mood ! and. his nose, whose large and. rather full nostril j had a surprising mobility. .

The son of a rich and respectable family in Normandy, Lecoq had received a good and solid education. " V

He had begun his law studies in Paris, when in the same week, blow following blow, he learned that his father had died, financially ruined, and that his mother had survived him only a few hours.

He was now alone in the world, destitute of resources — and he was obliged to live. He had an opportunity of learning his true value; it was nothing.

The university, on bestowing the diploma of bachelor, does not give an annuity with it. And of what use is a college education to a poor orphan boy?

He en vied the lot of those who, with a trade at the ends of their fingers, could boldly enter the office of any manufacturer, and say: ‘‘I would like work.”

Such nien were working and eating.

He sought bread by all the methods employed by people who are in reduced circumstances. Fruitless labor! There are one hundred thousand people in Paris who have seen better days.

No matter! He gave proofs of undaunted energy. He gave lessons, and he copied documents for a lawyer. He made his dehut in a new role almost every day, and left no means untried to earn an honest livelihood.

At last he obtained employment from a^ ■‘^1- known astronomer, the Baron Moser, and^'A

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his days in solving bewildering and intricate problems at the rate of one hundred francs a month.

But a season of discouragement came. After five years of constant toil, he found himself at the same point from which he had started. He was nearly crazed with rage and disappointment when he recapitulated his blighted hopes, his fruitless efforts, and the insults he had endured.

The past had been sad, the present was intolerable, the future threatened to be terrible.

Condemned to constant privations, he tried to escape from the horrors of his real life by taking refuge in dreams.

Alone in his garret, after a da}?” of unremitting toil, assailed by the thousand longings of youth, he endeavored to devise some means of suddenly making himself rich.

All reasonable methods being beyond his reach, it was not long before he was engaged in devising the worst expedients.

In short, this moral and honest young man spent much of his time in perpetrating — in fancy — the most abominable crimes. Sometimes he himself was frightened by the work of his imagination. An hour of recklessness was all that was necessary to make him pass from the idea to the fact, from theory to practice.

This is the case with all monomaniacs; an hour comes in which the strange conceptions that have filled their brains can be no longer held in check.

One day he could not help exposing to his patron a little plan which he had conceived, which would enable him to obtain five or six hundred francs from London. Two letters and a telegram were all that was necessary, and the game was won. It was impossible to fail, and there was no danger of arousing suspicion.

The astronomer, amazed at the simplicity of the plan, could but admire it. On reflection,

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however, he concluded that it would not be ]'i •- dent for him to retain so ingenious a secret' in his service.

This was why, on the following daj^ he gave him a month's pay in advance, and. dismissed him, saying:

“When one has your disposition, and is poor, one will either become a famous thief or a great detective. Choose.”

Leecq retired in confusion; but the astroucmer’s words bore fruit in his mind.

“Why should I not follow good advice?” he asked himself.

Police service did not inspire him with repugnance— far from it. * He had often admired that mysterious power whose hand was everywhere, which one could not see nor hear, but which heard and saw everything.

He was delighted with the prospect of being the instrument of this povver. He considered such a profession as a useful and honorable employment of the special talent with which he had been endowed, and which promised a life of excitement, of thrilling adventures, and fame at last.