The Widow Lerouge | Page 6

are baffled for the
present. The miscreant has taken his measures with great precaution;
but I will catch him. Before night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit.
Besides, he is sure to fall into our hands. He has carried off the plate

and the jewels. He is lost!"
"Despite all that," said M. Daburon, "we are no further advanced than
we were this morning!"
"Well!" growled Gevrol. "A man can only do what he can!"
"Ah!" murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, however,
"why is not old Tirauclair here?"
"What could he do more than we have done?" retorted Gevrol,
directing a furious glance at his subordinate. Lecoq bowed his head and
was silent, inwardly delighted at having wounded his chief.
"Who is old Tirauclair?" asked M. Daburon. "It seems to me that I have
heard the name, but I can't remember where."
"He is an extraordinary man!" exclaimed Lecoq. "He was formerly a
clerk at the Mont de Piete," added Gevrol; "but he is now a rich old
fellow, whose real name is Tabaret. He goes in for playing the detective
by way of amusement."
"And to augment his revenues," insinuated the commissary.
"He?" cried Lecoq. "No danger of that. He works so much for the glory
of success that he often spends money from his own pocket. It's his
amusement, you see! At the Prefecture we have nicknamed him
'Tirauclair,' from a phrase he is constantly in the habit of repeating. Ah!
he is sharp, the old weasel! It was he who in the case of that banker's
wife, you remember, guessed that the lady had robbed herself, and who
proved it."
"True!" retorted Gevrol; "and it was also he who almost had poor
Dereme guillotined for killing his wife, a thorough bad woman; and all
the while the poor man was innocent."
"We are wasting our time, gentlemen," interrupted M. Daburon. Then,
addressing himself to Lecoq, he added:--"Go and find M. Tabaret. I

have heard a great deal of him, and shall be glad to see him at work
here."
Lecoq started off at a run, Gevrol was seriously humiliated. "You have
of course, sir, the right to demand the services of whom you please,"
commenced he, "but yet--"
"Do not," interrupted M. Daburon, "let us lose our tempers, M. Gevrol.
I have known you for a long time, and I know your worth; but to-day
we happen to differ in opinion. You hold absolutely to your sunburnt
man in the blouse, and I, on my side, am convinced that you are not on
the right track!"
"I think I am right," replied the detective, "and I hope to prove it. I shall
find the scoundrel, be he whom he may!"
"I ask nothing better," said M. Daburon.
"Only, permit me, sir, to give--what shall I say without failing in
respect?--a piece of advice?"
"Speak!"
"I would advise you, sir, to distrust old Tabaret."
"Really? And for what reason?"
"The old fellow allows himself to be carried away too much by
appearances. He has become an amateur detective for the sake of
popularity, just like an author; and, as he is vainer than a peacock, he is
apt to lose his temper and be very obstinate. As soon as he finds
himself in the presence of a crime, like this one, for example, he
pretends he can explain everything on the instant. And he manages to
invent a story that will correspond exactly with the situation. He
professes, with the help of one single fact, to be able to reconstruct all
the details of an assassination, as a savant pictures an antediluvian
animal from a single bone. Sometimes he divines correctly; very often,
though, he makes a mistake. Take, for instance, the case of the tailor,

the unfortunate Dereme, without me--"
"I thank you for your advice," interrupted M. Daburon, "and will profit
by it. Now commissary," he continued, "it is most important to
ascertain from what part of the country Widow Lerouge came."
The procession of witnesses under the charge of the corporal of
gendarmes were again interrogated by the investigating magistrate.
But nothing new was elicited. It was evident that Widow Lerouge had
been a singularly discreet woman; for, although very talkative, nothing
in any way connected with her antecedents remained in the memory of
the gossips of La Jonchere.
All the people interrogated, however, obstinately tried to impart to the
magistrate their own convictions and personal conjectures. Public
opinion sided with Gevrol. Every voice denounced the tall sunburnt
man with the gray blouse. He must surely be the culprit. Everyone
remembered his ferocious aspect, which had frightened the whole
neighbourhood. He had one evening menaced a woman, and another
day beaten a child. They could point out neither the child nor the
woman;