Within an Inch of His Life (Murder Mystery). Emile Gaboriau
is I,” said the faithful servant. “I should like”—
“Go to the devil!” broke in the voice.
“But, sir”—
“Let me sleep, rascal. I have not been able to close an eye till now.” The magistrate, becoming impatient, pushed the servant aside, and, seizing the door-knob tried to open it; it was locked inside. But he lost no time in saying,—
“It is I, M. de Boiscoran: open, if you please!”
“Ah, dear M. Galpin!” replied the voice cheerfully.
“I must speak to you.”
“And I am at your service, illustrious jurist. Just give me time to veil my Apollonian form in a pair of trousers, and I appear.”
Almost immediately, the door opened; and M. de Boiscoran presented himself, his hair dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep, but looking bright in his youth and full health, with smiling lips and open hands.
“Upon my word!” he said. “That was a happy inspiration you had, my dear Galpin. You come to join me at breakfast?”
And, bowing to M. Daubigeon, he added,—
“Not to say how much I thank you for bringing our excellent commonwealth attorney with you. This is a veritable judicial visit”—
But he paused, chilled as he was by M. Daubigeon’s icy face, and amazed at M. Galpin’s refusal to take his proffered hand.
“Why,” he said, “what is the matter, my dear friend?”
The magistrate had never been stiffer in his life, when he replied,—
“We shall have to forget our relations, sir. It is not as a friend I come to-day, but as a magistrate.”
M. de Boiscoran looked confounded; but not a shadow of trouble appeared on his frank and open face.
“I’ll be hanged,” he said, “if I understand”—
“Let us go in,” said M. Galpin.
They went in; and, as they passed the door, Mechinet whispered into the attorney’s ear,—
“Sir, that man is certainly innocent. A guilty man would never have received us thus.”
“Silence, sir!” said the commonwealth attorney, however much he was probably of his clerk’s opinion. “Silence!”
And grave and sad he went and stood in one of the window embrasures. M. Galpin remained standing in the centre of the room, trying to see every thing in it, and to fix it in his memory, down to the smallest details. The prevailing disorder showed clearly how hastily M. de Boiscoran had gone to bed the night before. His clothes, his boots, his shirt, his waistcoat, and his straw hat lay scattered about on the chairs and on the floor. He wore those light gray trousers, which had been succcessively seen and recognized by Cocoleu, by Ribot, by Gaudry, and by Mrs. Courtois.
“Now, sir,” began M. de Boiscoran, with that slight angry tone of voice which shows that a man thinks a joke has been carried far enough, “will you please tell me what procures for me the honor of this early visit?”
Not a muscle in M. Galpin’s face was moving. As if the question had been addressed to some one else, he said coldly,—
“Will you please show us your hands, sir?”
M. de Boiscoran’s cheeks turned crimson; and his eyes assumed an expression of strange perplexity.
“If this is a joke,” he said, “it has perhaps lasted long enough.”
He was evidently getting angry. M. Daubigeon thought it better to interfere, and thus he said,—
“Unfortunately, sir, the question is a most serious one. Do what the magistrate desires.”
More and more amazed, M. de Boiscoran looked rapidly around him. In the door stood Anthony, his faithful old servant, with anguish on his face. Near the fireplace, the clerk had improvised a table, and put his paper, his pens, and his horn inkstand in readiness. Then with a shrug of his shoulders, which showed that he failed to understand, M. de Boiscoran showed his hands.
They were perfectly clean and white: the long nails were carefully cleaned also.
“When did you last wash your hands?” asked M. Galpin, after having examined them minutely.
At this question, M. de Boiscoran’s face brightened up; and, breaking out into a hearty laugh, he said,—
“Upon my word! I confess you nearly caught me. I was on the point of getting angry. I almost feared”—
“And there was good reason for fear,” said M. Galpin; “for a terrible charge has been brought against you. And it may be, that on your answer to my question, ridiculous as it seems to you, your honor may depend, and perhaps your liberty.”
This time there was no mistake possible. M. de Boiscoran felt that kind of terror which the law inspires even in the best of men, when they find themselves suddenly accused of a crime. He turned pale, and then he said in a troubled voice,—
“What! A charge has been brought against me, and you, M. Galpin, come to my house to examine me?”
“I am a magistrate, sir.”
“But you were also my friend. If anyone should have dared in my presence to accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of something infamous, I should have defended you, sir, with all my energy, without hesitation, and without a doubt. I should have defended you till absolute, undeniable evidence should have been brought forward of your culpability; and even then I should have pitied you, remembering that I had esteemed you so highly as to favor your alliance with my family. But you—I am accused, I do not know of what, falsely, wrongly; and at once you hasten hither, you believe the charge, and consent to become my judge. Well, let it be so! I washed my hands last night after coming home.”
M. Galpin had not boasted too much in praising his self-possession and his perfect control over himself. He did not move when the terrible words fell upon his ear; and he asked again in the same calm tone,—
“What has become of the water you used for that purpose?”
“It is probably still there, in my dressing-room.”
The magistrate at once went in. On the marble table stood a basin full of water. That water was black and dirty. At the bottom lay particles of charcoal. On the top, mixed with the soapsuds, were swimming some extremely slight but unmistakable fragments of charred paper. With infinite care the magistrate carried the basin to the table at which Mechinet had taken a seat; and, pointing at it, he asked M. de Boiscoran,—
“Is that the water in which you washed your hands last night after coming home?”
“Yes,” replied the other with an air of careless indifference.
“You had been handling charcoal, or some inflammable material.”
“Don’t you see?”
Standing face to face, the commonwealth attorney and clerk exchanged rapid glances. They had had the same feeling at that moment. If M. de Boiscoran was innocent, he was certainly a marvellously cool and energetic man, or he was carrying out a long-premeditated plan of action; for every one of his answers seemed to tighten the net in which he was taken. The magistrate himself seemed to be struck by this; but it was only for a moment, and then, turning to the clerk, he said,—
“Write that down!”
He dictated to him the whole evidence, most minutely and accurately, correcting himself every now and then to substitute a better word, or to improve his style. When he had read it over he said,—
“Let us go on, sir. You were out last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Having left the house at eight, you returned