Monsieur Lecoq | Page 5

and deep holes,
and obstructed with all sorts of rubbish. There were no longer any
lights or crowded wine-shops. No footsteps, no voices were heard;
solitude, gloom, and an almost perfect silence prevailed; and one might
have supposed oneself a hundred leagues from Paris, had it not been for
the deep and continuous murmur that always arises from a large city,
resembling the hollow roar of a torrent in some cavern depth.
All the men had turned up their trousers and were advancing slowly,
picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing upon his
prey. They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers when
suddenly a wild shriek rent the air. At this place, and at this hour, such
a cry was so frightfully significant, that all the men paused as if by
common impulse.
"Did you hear that, General?" asked one of the detectives, in a low
voice.
"Yes, there is murder going on not far from here--but where? Silence!
let us listen."
They all stood motionless, holding their breath, and anxiously listening.
Soon a second cry, or rather a wild howl, resounded.
"Ah!" exclaimed the inspector, "it is at the Poivriere."
This peculiar appellation "Poivriere" or "pepper-box" was derived from
the term "peppered" which in French slang is applied to a man who has
left his good sense at the bottom of his glass. Hence, also, the sobriquet
of "pepper thieves" given to the rascals whose specialty it is to plunder
helpless, inoffensive drunkards.
"What!" added Gevrol to his companions, "don't you know Mother
Chupin's drinking-shop there on the right. Run."
And, setting the example, he dashed off in the direction indicated. His
men followed, and in less than a minute they reached a hovel of sinister
aspect, standing alone, in a tract of waste ground. It was indeed from
this den that the cries had proceeded. They were now repeated, and
were immediately followed by two pistol shots. The house was
hermetically closed, but through the cracks in the window-shutters,
gleamed a reddish light like that of a fire. One of the police agents
darted to one of these windows, and raising himself up by clinging to

the shutters with his hands, endeavored to peer through the cracks, and
to see what was passing within.
Gevrol himself ran to the door. "Open!" he commanded, striking it
heavily. No response came. But they could hear plainly enough the
sound of a terrible struggle--of fierce imprecations, hollow groans, and
occasionally the sobs of a woman.
"Horrible!" cried the police agent, who was peering through the
shutters; "it is horrible!"
This exclamation decided Gevrol. "Open, in the name of the law!" he
cried a third time.
And no one responding, with a blow of the shoulder that was as violent
as a blow from a battering-ram, he dashed open the door. Then the
horror-stricken accent of the man who had been peering through the
shutters was explained. The room presented such a spectacle that all the
agents, and even Gevrol himself, remained for a moment rooted to the
threshold, shuddering with unspeakable horror.
Everything denoted that the house had been the scene of a terrible
struggle, of one of those savage conflicts which only too often stain the
barriere drinking dens with blood. The lights had been extinguished at
the beginning of the strife, but a blazing fire of pine logs illuminated
even the furthest corners of the room. Tables, glasses, decanters,
household utensils, and stools had been overturned, thrown in every
direction, trodden upon, shivered into fragments. Near the fireplace two
men lay stretched upon the floor. They were lying motionless upon
their backs, with their arms crossed. A third was extended in the middle
of the room. A woman crouched upon the lower steps of a staircase
leading to the floor above. She had thrown her apron over her head, and
was uttering inarticulate moans. Finally, facing the police, and with his
back turned to an open door leading into an adjoining room, stood a
young man, in front of whom a heavy oaken table formed, as it were, a
rampart.
He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard. His clothes, not
unlike those of a railway porter, were torn to fragments, and soiled with
dust and wine and blood. This certainly was the murderer. The
expression on his face was terrible. A mad fury blazed in his eyes, and
a convulsive sneer distorted his features. On his neck and cheek were
two wounds which bled profusely. In his right hand, covered with a

handkerchief, he held a pistol, which he aimed at the intruders.
"Surrender!" cried Gevrol.
The man's lips moved, but in spite of a visible effort he could not
articulate a syllable.
"Don't do any mischief," continued the inspector, "we are