The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Émile Gaboriau - Emile Gaboriau

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versed in the business. And do you think that such a man would neglect a precaution that would not be omitted by the stupidest tyro? It is inconceivable. What! this man is so skillful as to leave such feeble traces that they escape Gevrol’s practised eye, and you think he would risk his safety by leaving an entire night unaccounted for? It’s impossible! I am as sure of my system as of a sum that has been proved. The assassin has an alibi. Albert has pleaded none; then he is innocent.”

      M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he would have looked at a remarkable monomaniac. When the old fellow had finished — “My worthy M. Tabaret,” the magistrate said to him: “you have but one fault. You err through an excess of subtlety, you accord too freely to others the wonderful sagacity with which you yourself are endowed. Our man has failed in prudence, simply because he believed his rank would place him above suspicion.”

      “No, sir, no, a thousand times no. My culprit — the true one — he whom we have missed catching, feared everything. Besides, does Albert defend himself? No. He is overwhelmed because he perceives coincidences so fatal that they appear to condemn him, without a chance of escape. Does he try to excuse himself? No. He simply replies, ‘It is terrible.’ And yet all through his examination I feel reticence that I cannot explain.”

      “I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident as though he had confessed everything. I have more than sufficient proofs for that.”

      “Ah, sir, proofs! There are always enough of those against an arrested man. They existed against every innocent man who was ever condemned. Proofs! Why, I had them in quantities against Kaiser, the poor little tailor, who —”

      “Well,” interrupted the magistrate, hastily, “if it is not he, the most interested one, who committed the crime, who then is it? His father, the Count de Commarin?”

      “No: the true assassin is a young man.”

      M. Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his preparations. He took up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave, replied: “You must then see that I am right. Come and see me by-and-by, M. Tabaret, and make haste and get rid of all your foolish ideas. To-morrow we will talk the whole matter over again. I am rather tired to-night.” Then he added, addressing his clerk, “Constant, look in at the record office, in case the prisoner Commarin should wish to speak to me.”

      He moved towards the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit.

      “Sir,” said the old man, “in the name of heaven listen to me! He is innocent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to find the real culprit. Sir, think of your remorse should you cause an —”

      But the magistrate would not hear more. He pushed old Tabaret quickly aside, and hurried out.

      The old man now turned to Constant. He wished to convince him. Lost trouble: the tall clerk hastened to put his things away, thinking of his soup, which was getting cold.

      So that M. Tabaret soon found himself locked out of the room and alone in the dark passage. All the usual sounds of the Palais had ceased: the place was silent as the tomb. The old detective desperately tore his hair with both hands.

      “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Albert is innocent; and it is I who have cast suspicion upon him. It is I, fool that I am, who have infused into the obstinate spirit of this magistrate a conviction that I can no longer destroy. He is innocent and is yet enduring the most horrible anguish. Suppose he should commit suicide! There have been instances of wretched men, who in despair at being falsely accused have killed themselves in their cells. Poor boy! But I will not abandon him. I have ruined him: I will save him! I must, I will find the culprit; and he shall pay dearly for my mistake, the scoundrel!”

      Chapter XIII.

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      After seeing the Count de Commarin safely in his carriage at the entrance of the Palais de Justice, Noel Gerdy seemed inclined to leave him. Resting one hand against the half-opened carriage door, he bowed respectfully, and said: “When, sir, shall I have the honour of paying my respects to you?”

      “Come with me now,” said the old nobleman.

      The advocate, still leaning forward, muttered some excuses. He had, he said, important business: he must positively return home at once.

      “Come,” repeated the count, in a tone which admitted no reply.

      Noel obeyed.

      “You have found your father,” said M. de Commarin in a low tone; “but I must warn you, that at the same time you lose your independence.”

      The carriage started; and only then did the count notice that Noel had very modestly seated himself opposite him. This humility seemed to displease him greatly.

      “Sit here by my side, sir,” he exclaimed; “are you not my son?”

      The advocate, without replying, took his seat by the side of the terrible old man, but occupied as little room as possible.

      He had been very much upset by his interview with M. Daburon; for he retained none of his usual assurance, none of that exterior coolness by which he was accustomed to conceal his feelings. Fortunately, the ride gave him time to breathe, and to recover himself a little.

      On the way from the Palais de Justice to the De Commarin mansion, not a word passed between the father and son. When the carriage stopped before the steps leading to the principal entrance, and the count got out with Noel’s assistance, there was great commotion among the servants.

      There were, it is true, few of them present, nearly all having been summoned to the Palais; but the count and the advocate had scarcely disappeared, when, as if by enchantment, they were all assembled in the hall. They came from the garden, the stables, the cellar, and the kitchen. Nearly all bore marks of their calling. A young groom appeared with his wooden shoes filled with straw, shuffling about on the marble floor like a mangy dog on a Gobelin tapestry. One of them recognised Noel as the visitor of the previous Sunday; and that was enough to set fire to all these gossip-mongers, thirsting for scandal.

      Since morning, moreover, the unusual events at the De Commarin mansion had caused a great stir in society. A thousand stories were circulated, talked over, corrected, and added to by the ill-natured and malicious — some abominably absurd, others simply idiotic. Twenty people, very noble and still more proud, had not been above sending their most intelligent servants to pay a little visit among the count’s retainers, for the sole purpose of learning something positive. As it was, nobody knew anything; and yet everybody pretended to be fully informed.

      Let any one explain who can this very common phenomenon: A crime is committed; justice arrives, wrapped in mystery; the police are still ignorant of almost everything; and yet details of the most minute character are already circulated about the streets.

      “So,” said a cook, “that tall dark fellow with the whiskers is the count’s true son!”

      “You are right,” said one of the footmen who had accompanied M. de Commarin; “as for the other, he is no more his son than Jean here; who, by the way, will be kicked out of doors, if he is caught in this part of the house with his dirty working-shoes on.”

      “What a romance,” exclaimed Jean, supremely indifferent to the danger which threatened him.

      “Such things constantly occur in great families,” said the cook.

      “How ever did it happen?”

      “Well, you see, one day, long ago, when the countess who is now dead was out walking with her little son, who was about six months old, the child was stolen by gypsies. The poor lady was full of grief; but above all, was greatly afraid of her husband, who was not over kind. What did she do? She purchased a brat from a woman, who happened to be passing; and, never having noticed his child, the count has never known the difference.”

      “But the assassination!”

      “That’s

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