The Lerouge Case by Emile Gaboriau (the dot read aloud .txt) 📕

The chief of detectives was triumphant, and showed it too. As soon as he saw Tabaret, he called out, “Well, my illustrious mare’s-nest hunter, what news? Have you had any more scoundrels guillotined since the other day? Ah, you old rogue, you want to oust me from my place I can see!”

The old man was sadly changed.

The consciousness of his mistake made him humble and meek. These pleasantries, which a few days before would have made him angry, now did not touch him. Instead of retaliating, he bowed his head in such a penitent manner that Gevrol was astonished.

“Jeer at me, my good M. Gevrol,” he replied, “mock me without pity; you are right, I deserve it all.”

“Ah, come now,” said the chief, “have you then performed some new masterpiece, you impetuous old fellow?”

Old Tabaret shook his head sadly.

“I have delivered up an innocent man,” he said, “and justice will not restore him his freedom.”

Gevrol was delighted, and rubbed his hands until he almost wore away the skin.

“This is fine,” he sang out, “this is capital. To bring criminals to justice is of no account at all. But to free the innocent, by Jove! that is the last touch of art. Tirauclair, you are an immense wonder; and I bow before you.”

And at the same time, he raised his hat ironically.

“Don’t crush me,” replied the old fellow. “As you know, in spite of my grey hairs, I am young in the profession. Because chance served me three or four times, I became foolishly proud. I have learned too late that I am not all that I had thought myself; I am but an apprentice, and success has turned my head; while you, M. Gevrol, you are the master of all of us. Instead of laughing, pray help me, aid me with your advice and your experience. Alone, I can do nothing, while with your assistance——!”

Gevrol is vain in the highest degree.

Tabaret’s submission tickled his pretensions as a detective immensely; for in reality he thought the old man very clever. He was softened.

“I suppose,” he said patronisingly, “you refer to the La Jonchere affair?”

“Alas! yes, my dear M. Gevrol, I wished to work without you, and I have got myself into a pretty mess.”

Cunning old Tabaret kept his countenance as penitent as that of a sacristan caught eating meat on a Friday; but he was inwardly laughing and rejoicing all the while.

“Conceited fool!” he thought, “I will flatter you so much that you will end by doing everything I want.”

M. Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his lower lip, and said, “Ah,—hem!”

He pretended to hesitate; but it was only because he enjoyed prolonging the old amateur’s discomfiture.

“Come,” said he at last, “cheer up, old Tirauclair. I’m a good fellow at heart, and I’ll give you a lift. That’s kind, isn’t it? But, to-day, I’m too busy, I’ve an appointment to keep. Come to me to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk it over. But before we part I’ll give you a light to find your way with. Do you know who that witness is that I’ve brought?”

“No; but tell me, my good M. Gevrol.”

“Well, that fellow on the bench there, who is waiting for M. Daburon, is the husband of the victim of the La Jonchere tragedy!”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed old Tabaret, perfectly astounded. Then, after reflecting a moment, he added, “You are joking with me.”

“No, upon my word. Go and ask him his name; he will tell you that it is Pierre Lerouge.”

“She wasn’t a widow then?”

“It appears not,” replied Gevrol sarcastically, “since there is her happy spouse.”

“Whew!” muttered the old fellow. “And does he know anything?”

In a few sentences, the chief of detectives related to his amateur colleague the story that Lerouge was about to tell the investigating magistrate.

“What do you say to that?” he asked when he came to the end.

“What do I say to that?” stammered old Tabaret, whose countenance indicated intense astonishment; “what do I say to that? I don’t say anything. But I think,—no, I don’t think anything either!”

“A slight surprise, eh?” said Gevrol, beaming.

“Say rather an immense one,” replied Tabaret.

But suddenly he started, and gave his forehead a hard blow with his fist.

“And my baker!” he cried, “I will see you to-morrow, then, M. Gevrol.”

“He is crazed,” thought the head detective.

The old fellow was sane enough, but he had suddenly recollected the Asnieres baker, whom he had asked to call at his house. Would he still find him there?

Going down the stairs he met M. Daburon; but, as one has already seen, he hardly deigned to reply to him.

He was soon outside, and trotted off along the quays.

“Now,” said he to himself, “let us consider. Noel is once more plain Noel Gerdy. He won’t feel very pleased, for he thought so much of having a great name. Pshaw! if he likes, I’ll adopt him. Tabaret doesn’t sound so well as Commarin, but it’s at least a name. Anyhow, Gevrol’s story in no way affects Albert’s situation nor my convictions. He is the legitimate son; so much the better for him! That however, would not prove his innocence to me, if I doubted it. He evidently knew nothing of these surprising circumstances, any more than his father. He must have believed as well as the count in the substitution having taken place. Madame Gerdy, too, must have been ignorant of these facts; they probably invented some story to explain the scar. Yes, but Madame Gerdy certainly knew that Noel was really her son, for when he was returned to her, she no doubt looked for the mark she had made on him. Then, when Noel discovered the count’s letters, she must have hastened to explain to him—”

Old Tabaret stopped as suddenly as if further progress were obstructed by some dangerous reptile. He was terrified at the conclusion he had reached.

“Noel, then, must have assassinated Widow Lerouge, to prevent her confessing that the substitution had never taken place, and have burnt the letters and papers which proved it!”

But he repelled this supposition with horror, as every honest man drives away a detestable thought which by accident enters his mind.

“What an old idiot I am!” he exclaimed, resuming his walk; “this is the result of the horrible profession I once gloried in following! Suspect Noel, my boy, my sole heir, the personification of virtue and honour! Noel, whom ten years of constant