Books: Conscience, v2
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Hector Malot >> Conscience, v2
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And there was the production of money that he should use to pay his
debts, which might become an accusation against which it would be
difficult to defend himself. In any case, he must be ready to explain
his position. And what might complicate the matter was, that Caffie, a
careful man, had probably taken care to write the numbers of his bank-
notes in a book, which would be found.
On leaving the Rue Sainte-Anne he took the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs to
his home, to leave the bank-notes and to wash off the stains of blood
that might have splashed on him and his hands, particularly the right
one, which was still red. But suddenly it occurred to him that he might
be followed, and it would be folly to show where he lived. He hastened
his steps, in order to make any one who might be following him run, and
took the streets that were not well lighted, those where there was little
chance of any one seeing the stains, if they were visible, on his
clothing or boots. He walked in this way for nearly half an hour,
turning and returning on his track, and after having crossed the Place
Vendome twice, where he was able to look behind him, he decided to go
home, not knowing whether he should be satisfied to have bewildered all
quest, or whether he should not be furious to have yielded to a sort of
panic.
As he passed by the lodge without stopping, his concierge called him,
and, running out, gave him a letter with unusual eagerness. Saniel, who
wished to escape observation, took it hastily, and stuffed it into his
pocket.
"It is an important letter," the concierge said. "The servant who
brought it told me that it contained money."
It needed this recommendation at such a moment, or Saniel would not have
opened it, which he did as soon as he entered his rooms.
"I do not wish, my dear Doctor, to leave Paris for Monaco, where I
go to pass two or three months, without sending you our thanks.
"Yours very gratefully,
"C. DUPHOT."
These thanks were represented by two bills of one hundred francs, a
payment more than sufficient for the care that Saniel had given some
months before to the mistress of this old comrade. Of what use now were
these two hundred francs, which a few days sooner would have been so much
to him? He threw them on his desk; and then, after having lighted two
candles, he inspected his clothing.
The precaution that he had taken to place himself behind the chair was
wise. The blood, in squirting in front and on each side, had not reached
him; only the hand that held the knife and the shirt-sleeve were
splashed, but this was of no consequence. A doctor has the right to have
some blood on his sleeves, and this shirt went to join the one he had
worn the previous night when attending the sick woman.
Free from this care, he still had the money in his pockets. He emptied
them on his desk and counted all: five rouleaux of gold, of a thousand
francs, and three packages of ten thousand francs each, of bank-notes.
How should he get rid of this sum all at once, and, later, how should he
justify its production when the moment came, if it came?
The question was complex, and, unfortunately for him, he was hardly in a
state to consider it calmly.
For the gold, he had only to burn the papers in which it was rolled.
Louis have neither numbers nor particular marks, but bills have. Where
should he conceal them while waiting to learn through the newspapers if
Caffie had or had not made a note of these numbers?
While burning these papers on which Caffie had written "2,000 francs,"
he tried to think of a place of concealment.
As he threw a glance around him, asking from things the inspiration that
his brain did not furnish, he caught sight of the letter he had just
received, and it suggested an idea. Duphot was at Monaco to play. Why
should he not go also, and play?
Having neither relatives nor friends from whom he could procure a certain
sum, his only resource was to make it at play; and in his desperate
position, known to every one, nothing was more natural than this
experiment. He had received two hundred francs, which would not save him
from his creditors. He would risk them at roulette at Monaco. Whether
he lost or won was of little consequence. He would have played that
would be sufficient. He would be seen playing. Who would know whether
he lost or won? From Monaco he would pay Jardine by telegraph, out of
the five thousand Louis, which would be more than sufficient for that;
and, when he returned to Paris, he would free himself from his other
creditors with what remained.
The money affair decided--and it seemed to him cleverly settled--did not
include the bank-notes, which, spread out before his eyes, disturbed him.
What should he do with them? One moment he thought of burning them, but
reflection held him back. Would it not be folly to destroy this fortune?
In any case, would it not be the work of a narrow mind, of one not
fertile in resources?
In trying to think of some safe place to hide the banknotes, one thought
continually absorbed him: What was happening in the Rue Sainte-Anne? Had
any one discovered the dead man?
He should be there to observe events, instead of timidly shutting himself
up in his office.
For several minutes he tried to resist this thought, but it was stronger
than his will or his reason. So much was he under its power that he
could do nothing.
Willing or unwilling, foolish or not, he must go to the Rue Sainte-Anne.
He washed his hands, changed his shirt, and throwing the notes and gold
into a drawer, he went out.
He knew very well that there was a certain danger in leaving these proofs
of the crime, which, found in an official search, would overwhelm him,
without his being able to defend himself. But he thought that an
immediate search was unlikely to occur, and if he could not make a
probable story, it would be better for him not to reason about it. It
was a risk that he ran, but how much he had on his side!
He hastened along the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, but on approaching the
Rue Sainte-Anne he slackened his steps, looking about him and listening.
Nothing unusual struck him. Even when he turned into the Rue Sainte-Anne
he found it bore its ordinary aspect. A few passers-by, not curious; no
groups on the sidewalk; no shopkeepers at their doors. Nothing was
different from usual.
Apparently, nothing had yet been discovered. Then he stopped, judging it
useless to go farther. Already he had passed too much time before
Caffie's door, and when one was of his build, above the medium height,
with a physiognomy and appearance unlike others, one should avoid
attracting attention.
For several minutes he walked up and down slowly, from the Rue Neuve-des-
Petits-Champs to the Rue du Hasard; from there he could see Caffie's
house, and yet be so far away that no one would suspect him of watching
it.
But this promenade, which was quite natural, and which he would have
continued for an hour in ordinary circumstances, without thinking
anything about it, soon alarmed him. It seemed as if people looked at
him, and two persons stopping to talk made him wonder if they spoke of
him. Why did they not continue their way? Why, from time to time, did
they turn their heads toward him?
He left the place, and neither wishing nor being able to decide to go far
away from "the house," he concluded to go to a small cafe which was close
by.
On entering, he seated himself at a table near the door that appeared to
be an excellent observatory, from where he could easily survey the
street. A waiter asked him what he would have, and he ordered coffee.
He gave this order mechanically, without thinking what he was saying, and
not till afterward did he wonder if it were natural to take coffee at
this hour. The men seated at the other tables drank appetizers or beer.
Had he not made a blunder?
But everything seemed a blunder, as everything seemed dangerous. Could
he not regain his composure and his reason? He drank his coffee slowly;
then he asked for a newspaper. The street was quiet, and people left the
cafe one by one.
Behind his newspaper he reflected. It was his feverish curiosity that
made him admit that Caffie's death would be discovered during the
evening. In reality, it might easily remain undiscovered until the next
day.
But he could not stay in the cafe until the next day, nor even until
midnight. Perhaps he had remained there too long already.
He did not wish to go yet, so he ordered writing materials, and paid the
waiter, in case he might wish to go hastily--if anything occurred.
What should he write? He wished to test himself, and found that he was
able to write clearly, and to select the proper words; but when he came
to read it over, his will failed him.
Time passed. Suddenly there was a movement under the porte-cochere of
"the house," and a man ran through the street. Two or three persons
stopped in a group.
Without hurrying too much, Saniel went out, and in a strong voice asked
what had happened.
"An agent of business has been assassinated in his office. Word has been
sent to the police bureau in the Rue du Hasard."
CHAPTER XIV
THE EXAMINATION
Saniel was there to observe, without having decided what he should do.
Instantly, with the decision that had "failed him so often during his
vigil," he resolved to go to Caffie's. Was he not a doctor, and the
physician of the dead-man? What could be more natural?
"A money-lender!" he exclaimed. "Is it Monsieur Caffie?"
"Exactly."
"But I am his doctor."
"A doctor! Here is a doctor!" cried several voices.
The crowd parted, and Saniel passed under the porte-cochere, where the
concierge, half fainting, was seated on a chair, surrounded by all the
maids of the house and several neighbors, to whom she related the news.
By using his elbows he was able to approach her.
"Who has said Monsieur Caffie is dead?" he asked with authority.
"No one has said he is dead; at least, I have not."
"Well, then?"
"There is a stain of blood that has run from his office down to the
landing; and as he is at home, since the light of his lamp is seen in the
court, and he never leaves it burning when he goes to dinner, something
must have happened. And why are his curtains drawn? He always leaves
them open."
At this moment two policemen appeared, preceded by a locksmith armed with
a bunch of keys, and a little man with a shrewd, sharp appearance,
wearing spectacles, and a hat from under which fell blond curls. The
commissioner of police probably.
"On which story?" he asked the concierge.
"On the first."
"Come with us."
He started to go upstairs, accompanied by the concierge, the locksmith,
and one of the policemen; Saniel wished to follow them, but the other
policeman barred the way.
"Pardon, Monsieur Commissioner," Saniel said.
"What do you wish, sir?"
"I am Monsieur Caffie's physician."
"Your name?"
"Doctor Saniel."
"Let the doctor pass," the commissioner said, "but alone. Make every one
go out, and shut the porte-cochere."
On reaching the landing the commissioner stopped to look at the brown
stain which, running under the door, spread over the tiling, as Caffie
never had had a mat.
"It is certainly a stain of blood," Saniel said, who stopped to examine
it and dipped his finger in it.
"Open the door," the commissioner said to the locksmith.
The latter examined the lock, looked among his keys, selected one, and
unlocked the door.
"Let no one enter," the commissioner said. "Doctor, have the goodness to
follow me."
And, going ahead, he entered the first office, that of the clerk,
followed by Saniel. Two little rills of blood, already thickened,
starting from Caffie's chair, and running across the tiled floor, which
sloped a little toward the side of the staircase, joined in the stain
which caused the discovery of the crime. The commissioner and Saniel
took care not to step in it.
"The unfortunate man has had his throat cut," Saniel said. "Death must
have occurred two or three hours ago. There is nothing to do."
"Speak for yourself, doctor."
And, stooping, he picked up the knife.
"Is it not a butcher's knife?" asked Saniel, who could only use this
word.
"It looks like it."
He had raised Caffie's head and examined the wound.
"You see," he said, "that the victim has been butchered. The stroke was
from left to right, by a firm hand which must be accustomed to handle
this knife. But it is not only a strong and practised hand that has done
this deed; it was guided by an intelligence that knew how to proceed to
insure a quick, almost instantaneous death, and at the same time a silent
one."
"You think it was done by a butcher?"
"By a professional killer; the larynx has been cut above the glottis, and
with the same stroke the two carotid arteries, with the jugular veins.
As the assassin had to raise the head, the victim was not able to cry
out; considerable blood has flowed, and death must have ensued in one or
two minutes."
"The scene appears to me very well reconstructed."
"The blood should have burst out in this direction," Saniel continued,
pointing to the door. "But as this door was open, nothing is to be
seen."
While Saniel spoke, the commissioner threw a glance about the room--the
glance of the police, which takes in everything.
"The safe is open," he said. "The affair becomes clear; the
assassination was followed by theft."
There was a door opposite to the entrance, which the commissioner opened;
it was that of Caffie's bedroom.
"I will give you a man to help you carry the body into this room, where
you can continue your examination more easily, while I will continue my
investigations in this office."
Saniel would have liked to remain in the office to assist at these
investigations, but it was impossible to raise an objection. The chair
was rolled into the bedroom, where two candles had been lighted on the
mantel, and when the body was laid on the bed, the commissioner returned
to the office.
Saniel made his examination last as long a time as possible, to the end
that he need not leave the house; but he could not prolong it beyond
certain limits. When they were reached, he returned to the clerk's
office, where the commissioner had installed himself, and was hearing the
concierge's deposition.
"And so," he said, "from five to seven o'clock no one asked for M.
Caffie?"
"No one. But I left my lodge at a quarter past five to light the gas on
the stairs; that took me twenty minutes, because I am stiff in my joints,
and during this time some one might have gone up and down the stairs
without my seeing them."
"Well," the commissioner said, turning to Saniel, "have you found any
distinguishing feature?"
"No; there is only the wound on the neck."
"Will you draw up your medico-legal report while I continue my inquest?"
"Willingly."
And, without waiting, he seated himself at the clerk's desk, facing the
commissioner's secretary, who had arrived a few minutes previous.
"I am going to make you take the oath," the commissioner said.
After this formality Saniel began his report:
"We, the undersigned, Victor Saniel, doctor of medicine of the Paris
Faculty, residing in Paris in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, after having
taken an oath to fulfil in all honor and conscience the mission confided
to us--"
All the time that he was writing he paid attention to everything that was
said, and did not lose one word of the concierge's deposition.
"I am certain," she said, "that from half-past five until now no one has
gone up or down the stairs but the people who live in the house."
"But before half-past five?"
"I have told you that from a quarter past five until half-past I was not
in my lodge."
"And before a quarter past five o'clock?"
"Several persons passed whom I did not know."
"Did any one among them ask you for Monsieur Caffie?"
"No; that is to say, yes. There was one who asked me if Monsieur Caffie
was at home; but I know him well; that is why I answered No."
"And who is he?"
"One of Monsieur Caffies old clerks."
"His name?"
"Monsieur Florentin--Monsieur Florentin Cormier."
Saniel's hand was arrested at this name, but he did not raise his head.
"At what hour did he come?" asked the commissioner.
"Near three o'clock, before rather than after."
"Did you see him go away?"
"Certainly, he spoke to me."
"What time was it?"
"Half-past three."
"Do you think that death could have occurred at this moment?" the
commissioner asked, turning to Saniel.
"No; I think it must have been between five and six o'clock."
"It is wrong for the commissioner to suspect Monsieur Florentin," cried
the concierge. "He is a good young man, incapable of harming a fly. And
then, there is a good reason why death could not have taken place between
three o'clock and half-past; it is that Monsieur Caffie's lamp was
lighted, and you know the poor gentleman was not a man to light his lamp
in broad daylight, looking as he was--"
She stopped abruptly, striking her forehead with her hand.
"That is what I remember, and you will see that Monsieur Florentin has
nothing to do with this affair. As I went upstairs at a quarter past
five to light my gas, some one came behind me and rang Monsieur Caffie's
bell, and rapped three or four times at equal distances, which is the
signal to open the door."
Again Saniel's pen stopped, and he was obliged to lean his hand on the
table to prevent its trembling.
"Who was it?"
"Ah! That I do not know," she answered. "I did not see him, but I heard
him, the step of a man. It was this rascal who killed him, you may be
sure."
This seemed likely.
"He went out while I was on the stairs; he knew the customs of the
house."
Saniel continued his report.
After having questioned and cross-questioned the concierge without being
able to make her say more, the commissioner dismissed her, and leaving
Saniel at his work, he passed into Caffie's office, where he remained a
long time.
When he returned he brought a small note-book that he consulted. Without
doubt it was the book of Caffie's safe, simple and primitive, like
everything relating to the old man's habits, governed by the narrowest
economy in his expenses, as well as in his work.
"According to this note-book," the commissioner said to his secretary, "
thirty-five or thirty-six thousand francs must have been taken from the
safe; but there are left deeds and papers for a large sum."
Saniel, who had finished his report, did not take his eyes from the note-
book, and what he could see reassured him. Evidently these accounts were
reduced to a minimum: a date, a name, a sum, and after this name a
capital P, which, without doubt, meant "paid." It was hardly possible
that with such a system Caffie had ever taken the trouble to enter the
number of the bills that had passed through his hands; in any case, if he
did, it was not in this note-book. Would another one be found?
"My report is finished," he said. "Here it is."
"Since you are here, perhaps you can give me some information concerning
the habits of the victim and the persons he received."
"Not at all. I have known him but a short time, and he was my patient,
as I was his client, by accident. He undertook an affair for me, and I
gave him advice; he was in the last stage of diabetes. The assassin
hastened his death only a short time-a few days."
"That is nothing; he hastened it."
"Oh, certainly! Otherwise, if he is skilful in cutting throats, perhaps
he is less so in making a diagnosis of their maladies."
"That is probable," responded the commissioner, smiling. "You think it
was a butcher?"
"It seems probable."
"The knife?"
"He might have stolen it or found it."
"But the mode of operating?"
"That, it seems to me, is the point from where we should start."
Saniel could remain no longer, and he rose to leave.
"You have my address," he said; "but I must tell you, if you want me, I
leave to-morrow for Nice. But I shall be absent only just long enough to
go and return."
"If we want you, it will not be for several days. We shall not get on
very rapidly, we have so little to guide us."
CHAPTER XV
A NEW PLAN
Saniel walked home briskly. If, more than once during this interview,
his emotion was poignant, he could not but be satisfied with the result.
The concierge had not seen him, that was henceforth unquestionable; the
hypothesis of the butcher's knife was put in a way to make his fortune;
and it seemed probable that Caffie had not kept the numbers of the bank-
notes.
But if they had been noted, and should the notebook containing them be
discovered later, the danger was not immediate. While writing his report
and listening to the concierge's deposition, by a sort of inspiration he
thought of a way of disposing of them. He would divide them into small
packages, place them in envelopes, and address them with different
initials to the poste restante, where they would remain until he could
call for them without compromising himself.
In the deposition of the concierge, in the track indicated by the knife,
in the poste restante, he had just motives for satisfaction, that made
him breathe freely. Decidedly, fate seemed to be with him, and he should
have been able to say that everything was going well, if he had not
committed the imprudence of entering the cafe. Why had he gone there
and remained long enough to attract attention? What might not be the
consequences of this stupidity?
As soon as he reached home and his door was closed, he carried out his
intentions regarding the bank-notes, dividing them into ten packages.
His first thought was to place them in the nearest letterbox, but
reflection showed him that this would be unwise, and he decided to mail
each one in a different quarter of the city.
After his long walk of the morning, and the emotions of the evening, he
felt a fatigue that he had never known before, but he comprehended that
he was not at liberty to yield to this weariness. A new situation was
made for him, and henceforth he no longer belonged to himself. For the
rest of his life he would be the prisoner of his crime. And it was this
crime which, from this evening, would command, and he must obey.
Why had he not foreseen this situation when, weighing the pro and con
like an intelligent man who can scrutinize the future under all its
phases, he had examined what must happen? But surprising as it was,
the discovery was no less certain, and the sad and troublesome proof was
that, however intelligent one may be, one can always learn by experience.
What was there yet to learn? He confessed that he found himself face to
face with the unknown, and all that he wished was, that this lesson he
had learned from experience might be the hardest. It would be folly to
imagine that it was the last. Time would show.
When he returned home, after posting his letters, it was long past one
o'clock. He went to bed immediately, and slept heavily, without waking
or dreaming.
It was broad daylight when he opened his eyes the next morning.
Surprised at having slept so late, he jumped up and looked at his watch,
which said eight o'clock. But as he should not leave until a quarter
past eleven, he had plenty of time.
How should he employ it?
It was the first time in years that he had asked himself such a question;
he, who each day always found that he needed three or four hours more to
carry out his programme.
He dressed slowly, and then thought of writing to Phillis to tell her of
his trip to Nice. But suddenly he changed his mind, and decided to go to
see her.
The preceding year he attended Madame Cormier, who had been stricken with
paralysis, and he could occasionally present himself at her house without
appearing to call upon Phillis. It was easy to say that he was passing
by, and wished to learn news of the patient whom he had cured.
At nine o'clock he knocked at her door.
"Enter," a man's voice said.
He was surprised, for in his visits to Madame Cormier he had never seen a
man there. He crossed the hall and knocked at the dining-room door.
This time it was Phillis who bid him come in.
He opened the door and saw Phillis, in a gray blouse, seated before a
large table placed by the window. She was painting some cards.
Hearing steps, she turned her head and instantly rose, but she restrained
the cry-the name that was on her lips.
"Mamma," she said, "here is Doctor Saniel."
Madame Cormier entered, walking with difficulty; for, if Saniel had put
her on her feet, he had not given her the suppleness or the grace of
youth.
After a few words, Saniel explained that, having to pay a visit to the
Batignolles, he would not come so near his former patient without calling
to see her.
While Madame Cormier told at great length how she felt, and also how she
did not feel, Phillis looked at Saniel, uneasy to see his face so
convulsed. Surely, something very serious had happened; his visit said
this. But what? Her anguish was so much the greater, because he
certainly avoided looking at her. Why? She had done nothing, and could
find nothing with which to reproach herself.
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