Monsieur Lecoq - Émile Gaboriau (inspiring books for teens txt) 📗

compel them to show us the trunk, and send for a locksmith to open it. Here is the authority⁠—a search warrant given me by the investigating magistrate to use in case of necessity. Let us lose no time. I have a cab at the door.”

“We will start at once,” said the commissary.

The driver whipped up his horse once more, and they were soon rapidly rolling in the direction of the Rue St. Quentin.

“Now, sir,” said the young detective, “permit me to ask if you know this woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?”

“Yes, indeed, I know her very well. When I was first appointed to this district, six years ago, I was a bachelor, and for a long while I took my meals at her table d’hôte. Casimir, my secretary, boards there even now.”

“And what kind of woman is she?”

“Why, upon my word, my young friend, Madame Milner⁠—for such is her name⁠—is a very respectable widow (highly esteemed by her neighbors) and having a very prosperous business. If she remains a widow, it is only from choice, for she is very prepossessing and has plenty of suitors.”

“Then you don’t think her capable of serving, for the sake of a good round sum, the interests of some wealthy culprit?”

“Have you gone mad?” interrupted the commissary. “What, Madame Milner perjure herself for the sake of money! Haven’t I just told you that she is an honest woman, and that she is very well off! Besides, she informed me yesterday that this man was missing, so⁠—”

Lecoq made no reply; the driver was pulling up; they had reached their destination.

On seeing her obstinate questioner reappear, accompanied by the commissary, Madame Milner seemed to understand everything.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “a detective! I might have guessed it! Some crime has been committed; and now my hotel has lost its reputation forever!”

While a messenger was despatched for a locksmith, the commissary endeavored to reassure and console her, a task of no little difficulty, and which he was some time in accomplishing.

At last they all went up to the missing man’s room, and Lecoq sprang toward the trunk. Ah! there was no denying it. It had, indeed, come from Leipzig; as the labels pasted upon it by the different railroad companies only too plainly proved. On being opened, it was, moreover, found to contain the various articles mentioned by the prisoner.

Lecoq was thunderstruck. When he had seen the commissary lock the trunk and its contents up in a cupboard and take possession of the key, he felt he could endure nothing more. He left the room with downcast head; and stumbled like a drunken man as he went down the stairs.

XV

Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, was very gay that year; that is to say, all places of public resort were crowded. When Lecoq left the Hotel de Mariembourg about midnight, the streets were as full as if it had been noonday, and the cafés were thronged with customers.

But the young detective had no heart for pleasure. He mingled with the crowd without seemingly seeing it, and jostled against groups of people chatting at the corners, without hearing the imprecations occasioned by his awkwardness. Where was he going? He had no idea. He walked aimlessly, more disconsolate and desperate than the gambler who had staked his last hope with his last louis, and lost.

“I must yield,” he murmured; “this evidence is conclusive. My presumptions were only chimeras; my deductions the playthings of chance! All I can now do is to withdraw, with the least possible damage and ridicule, from the false position I have assumed.”

Just as he reached the boulevard, however, a new idea entered his brain, an idea of so startling a kind that he could scarcely restrain a loud exclamation of surprise. “What a fool I am!” cried he, striking his hand violently against his forehead. “Is it possible to be so strong in theory, and yet so ridiculously weak in practise? Ah! I am only a child, a mere novice, disheartened by the slightest obstacle. I meet with a difficulty, and at once I lose all my courage. Now, let me reflect calmly. What did I tell the judge about this murderer, whose plan of defense so puzzles us? Did I not tell him that we had to deal with a man of superior talent⁠—with a man of consummate penetration and experience⁠—a bold, courageous fellow of imperturbable coolness, who will do anything to insure the success of his plans? Yes; I told him all that, and yet I give up the game in despair as soon as I meet with a single circumstance that I can not instantly explain. It is evident that such a prisoner would not resort to old, hackneyed, commonplace expedients. Time, patience, and research are requisite to find a flaw in his defense. With such a man as he is, the more appearances are against my presumptions, and in favor of his narrative, the more certain it is that I am right⁠—or else logic is no longer logic.”

At this thought, Lecoq burst into a hearty laugh. “Still,” continued he, “it would perhaps be premature to expose this theory at headquarters in Gevrol’s presence. He would at once present me with a certificate for admission into some lunatic asylum.”

The young detective paused. While absorbed in thought, his legs, obeying an instinctive impulse, had brought him to his lodgings. He rang the bell; the door opened, and he groped his way slowly up to the fourth floor. He had reached his room, and was about to enter, when someone, whom he could not distinguish in the dark, called out: “Is that you, Monsieur Lecoq?”

“Yes, it’s I!” replied the young man, somewhat surprised; “but who are you?”

“I’m Father Absinthe.”

“Oh! indeed! Well, you are welcome! I didn’t recognize your voice⁠—will you come in?”

They entered the room, and Lecoq lit a candle. Then the young man could see his colleague, and, good heavens! he found him in a most pitiable condition.

He was as dirty