Monsieur Denizet had listened attentively to this account, remaining impassive throughout. Before finally completing what she had to say, Madame Bonnehon became somewhat embarrassed. Eventually, taking her courage in both hands, she declared, ‘I cannot deny that my brother may have been a little playful with her! He liked young people, despite seeming to be so strict. Perhaps he kissed her.’
Monsieur and Madame Lachesnaye appeared scandalized at the suggestion.
‘Really, Aunt!’ Berthe exclaimed.
Madame Bonnehon shrugged her shoulders; what was the point of lying to the law?
‘Yes, he may have kissed her. Perhaps he tickled her. What’s the harm in that? The reason I’m telling you this is because the story didn’t just come from Cabuche. Louisette was telling lies. She deliberately exaggerated things, so that her lover would look after her, I suppose. Anyway, Cabuche, being the unthinking fool he is, ended up genuinely believing that his mistress had been killed. It sent him crazy; he went round all the bars announcing that if ever he laid hands on Grandmorin he’d bleed him to death like a pig!’
The magistrate, who had thus far remained silent, instantly became keenly interested.
‘Are you sure that is what he said?’ he asked, interrupting Madame Bonnehon. ‘Do you have witnesses to prove it?’
‘My dear sir, there are no end of witnesses. This has been a very sorry business and it has been extremely trying. It was fortunate that my brother’s position placed him above suspicion.’
Madame Bonnehon had realized the new turn that Monsieur Denizet’s inquiry was taking, and it rather worried her. She preferred not to involve herself further by asking more questions. Monsieur Denizet stood up, saying that he did not wish to impose on the family’s good will any longer at such a distressing time, and asked the clerk to read out copies of their statements for the witnesses to sign. The statements were very precisely worded, stripped of anything extraneous or compromising. Madame Bonnehon, pen in hand, cast a glance of grateful acknowledgement at the pale, lean-faced Laurent, whom up until then she had barely noticed.
As the magistrate accompanied her to the door with her nephew and niece, Madame Bonnehon took his hands in hers.
‘I hope we shall meet again very soon,’ she said. ‘You know that you are always most welcome at Doinville. Thank you; you are amongst the last of my faithful friends.’
She gave him a rather wistful smile, as her niece walked stiffly out of the room in front of her with a mere nod of the head.
Left alone, Monsieur Denizet had a moment to gather his thoughts. He stood reflecting on what he had just heard. It was all becoming clear. There had certainly been violence on the part of Grandmorin; his reputation was known. This made the magistrate’s findings somewhat delicate; he reminded himself he must be extra careful, and wait until the advice he was expecting from the ministry had arrived. None the less, he was very pleased with himself. What was more, the murderer was already in custody.
He returned to his desk and rang for the usher.
‘Please call Monsieur Jacques Lantier.’
The Roubauds were still sitting on the bench in the corridor, their faces devoid of expression, as if they had grown tired of waiting and had dropped off to sleep. Now and then their features were disturbed by an involuntary twitch of anxiety. The usher’s voice, summoning Jacques, seemed to wake them up with a start. They watched him intently as he disappeared into the magistrate’s office. They then settled themselves back to resume their wait, pale and silent as before.
The murder had been preying on Jacques’s mind for the last three weeks, making him feel very uneasy, as if this investigation might somehow go against him. There was no reason why it should; he had nothing to reproach himself with, not even the fact that he had said nothing on the night of the murder. Yet, as he entered the magistrate’s office, he felt a distinct shiver of guilt run through him, as if he were the one on trial and were about to be incriminated. He answered the magistrate’s questions cautiously, choosing his words carefully for fear of saying too much. That night, he too had come close to being a murderer, and he was afraid it might show in his eyes. He hated having to appear in a court of law; he found it irritating, and he wished people would stop pestering him with matters that didn’t concern him.
On this occasion, however, Monsieur Denizet’s sole purpose was to ascertain the appearance of the murderer. Jacques, being the only witness who had actually seen him, was the one person who might provide exact information. But he could add nothing to his original statement. What he saw, he repeated, had lasted less than a second; it had come and gone so quickly that all it left in his mind was a general impression, a blur. What he had seen was a man slitting another man’s throat. That was all he could say. For half an hour the magistrate doggedly tried to elicit something more precise, repeating his questions time and time again, in every manner conceivable. Was he tall? Was he short? Did he have a beard? Was his hair long or short? What sort of clothes was he wearing? Was he a professional person or was he working class? Jacques became more and more confused and could give only vague answers.
‘Let me ask you one final question,’ Monsieur Denizet said suddenly, looking him straight in the eye. ‘If you saw the murderer, would you recognize him?’
Jacques felt a wave of anxiety run through him; it was as if Monsieur Denizet could see inside his mind. His eyelids fluttered; he seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud.
‘Would I recognize him?’ he murmured. ‘Yes ... perhaps I would.’
But immediately the strange fear that he might unwittingly have been an accomplice to the crime made him draw back and evade the question.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t be certain. You must remember that the train was travelling at eighty kilometres an hour!’
The magistrate threw up his hands in despair. He was about to ask Jacques to wait in the adjoining room for further questioning, when he suddenly changed his mind.
‘Please wait here a moment,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
He once again rang for the usher.
‘Please show in Monsieur and Madame Roubaud,’ he said.
As soon as they walked through the door and saw Jacques, a look of anxiety shot across their faces. Had he said anything? Had he been asked to wait in order to bring them together face to face? In the presence of Jacques, their confidence vanished, and they sounded very unsure of themselves as they began to answer the magistrate’s questions. Monsieur Denizet, however, simply ran through their earlier statement. The Roubauds merely had to repeat what they had said before, almost word for word. The magistrate listened with his head lowered, not even looking at them.
Suddenly he turned towards Séverine.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you told the safety officer at Le Havre, whose report I have here, that you were sure a man got into the coupé at Rouen just as the train was leaving the station.’
The question took Séverine by surprise. Why had he mentioned that? Was it a trap? Did he want to see whether what she said now would contradict what she had said before? She looked quickly at her husband. Roubaud felt he must say something.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that my wife was quite as definite as that.’
‘Forgive me, Monsieur Roubaud,’ continued the magistrate, ‘but when you admitted that this was a possibility, your wife said: “That’s what happened, I’m sure it did.” What I would like to know, madame, is whether you had any particular reason for saying that.’
Séverine was beginning to feel very worried. She was convinced that if she wasn’t careful he would lead her from one question to another and force her to admit what had happened. On the other hand she couldn’t just stand there and say nothing.
‘No, monsieur,’ she said. ‘There was no particular reason. I must have said it because that was the only thing that seemed possible; how else can it have happened?’
‘So you didn’t actually see the man, and you can t
ell us nothing about him.’
‘Absolutely nothing, monsieur.’
For a moment it seemed as if Monsieur Denizet was about to abandon this line of inquiry, but the minute he began to question Roubaud he returned to it.
‘Tell me, monsieur,’ he asked, ‘how is it that you didn’t see this man, if he really did get into the carriage, since it appears from your statement that you were still talking to the victim when the whistle blew for the train to leave?’
The persistence of the magistrate’s questions was beginning to disturb Roubaud. He couldn’t make up his mind which line to take; should he abandon the story of this other man or should he stick to it? If they had evidence against him, the theory of the unknown killer was scarcely plausible and could even make matters worse for him. He decided he must play for time and answered the magistrate with long, rambling explanations that shed no light on the matter at all.
‘It is most unfortunate,’ continued Monsieur Denizet, ‘that your memory should be so vague, because your evidence could help us to clear the names of certain people who remain under suspicion.’
This last comment appeared to be addressed so directly to Roubaud himself that he felt it imperative to establish his innocence. He was about to be accused; he could hesitate no longer.
‘It makes me feel guilty,’ he said. ‘I find it difficult to speak about it. Perhaps that is normal. I hope you will understand ... Yes, I think I did see him, but...’
The magistrate clasped his hands together in a gesture of triumph, convinced that Roubaud’s sudden willingness to talk was due entirely to his own inquisitorial skills. He assured him that he knew from long experience the peculiar difficulty some witnesses had in admitting what they knew. He prided himself on being able to coax information from even the most reluctant.
‘Tell me then,’ he continued, ‘what did he look like? Was he short? Tall? About your own height perhaps?’
‘Oh, no! Much taller ... At least that was my impression ... just an impression, you understand. I’m fairly sure someone pushed past me, as I was running back to our carriage.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Monsieur Denizet.
He turned towards Jacques.
‘The man you saw holding a knife,’ he asked him, ‘was he taller than Monsieur Roubaud?’
Jacques was beginning to grow restive, thinking he might miss the five o’clock train. He raised his eyes and looked at Roubaud. It was as if he were looking at him for the first time. He was surprised at how short and how well built he was. But he had a quite distinctive face. It was a face he had seen somewhere else, or possibly dreamed of.
‘No,’ he murmured, ‘he wasn’t taller. He was about the same height.’
Roubaud protested vehemently.
‘No,’ he insisted, ‘he was much taller than me; by a head at least.’
Jacques stared at him wide-eyed. A look of growing realization spread across his face. Roubaud began to fidget uneasily on his seat, as if trying to escape from his own likeness. His wife sat motionless, scrutinizing Jacques’s face as he attempted to recall what he had seen. Initially, he had clearly been struck by certain similarities between Roubaud and the murderer. He had now become suddenly convinced that Roubaud was indeed the murderer, as some people had said. He sat there as if stunned, completely taken aback by the force of this new realization. What would he do next? He did not know himself. If he spoke, the two of them were done for. Roubaud’s eyes met those of Jacques, and the two exchanged a look which went to the very depths of their souls. There was a silence.
‘So you fail to agree,’ resumed Monsieur Denizet. ‘If you, Monsieur Lantier, thought he was shorter, it was probably because he was leaning forwards, struggling with his victim.’
Monsieur Denizet was studying the two men carefully. It had not been his intention to use the confrontation in this way, but some professional instinct told him that at that moment the truth was very close at hand. Even his conviction that the murderer was Cabuche was for a moment shaken. Could the Lachesnayes have been right? However unlikely it seemed, could the murderers have been this decent, hard-working stationmaster and his lovely young wife?
‘Did the man have a full beard, like you?’ he asked Roubaud.
Roubaud somehow managed to answer with a perfectly steady voice: ‘A full beard? No. I don’t think he had a beard at all.’
Jacques realized that he was going to be asked the same question. What should he say? He could have sworn that the man did have a beard. This couple were no concern of his; why not tell the truth? But as he turned his eyes away from Roubaud he saw his wife looking at him, with a look of such intense supplication, such utter surrender, that he was overcome. He felt the pernicious stirrings of his old passion. Was he in love with her? Was this the one woman he might love with a love that was true, untainted by the monstrous desire to kill? At that moment, thanks to some bizarre side-effect of his malady, his memory seemed to grow hazy; he no longer saw Roubaud as the man who had committed the murder. The picture became blurred; he was unsure of what he had seen. He knew that whatever he said now he would come to regret.
Monsieur Denizet was still waiting for an answer.
‘Did the man have a full beard like Monsieur Roubaud?’
‘Monsieur, I really cannot say,’ Jacques replied in all honesty. ‘The train was travelling so quickly. I don’t know what I saw. I can’t swear to anything.’
But Monsieur Denizet was insistent; he wanted to rule out any suspicion attaching to Roubaud. He plied both Roubaud and Jacques with further questions. From Roubaud he succeeded in extracting a full description of the murderer-tall, well built, no beard, and dressed in working clothes - the exact opposite of himself. From Jacques he obtained only non-committal grunts, the effect of which was to substantiate Roubaud’s description. The magistrate was now feeling more confident again in his previous line of inquiry; he was on the right track, and the description of the murderer that Roubaud had just provided was so accurate that his surmise was rapidly becoming a certainty. The Roubauds had been wrongfully suspected of the crime, but thanks to their overwhelming testimony, the real criminal would now be sent to the guillotine.
When they had signed their statements, the magistrate directed Jacques and the Roubauds into the adjoining room.
‘Would you please wait in here,’ he said. ‘I shall require you again presently.’
He immediately ordered the prisoner to be brought in. He was so pleased with himself that he even ventured a smile at his clerk.
‘Laurent,’ he said, ‘we’ve got him!’
The door opened and two constables appeared, escorting a tall young man of twenty-five or thirty. At a sign from the magistrate they withdrew, leaving Cabuche standing in front of him, with no idea why he was there, and bristling with animosity, like an animal caught in a trap. He had powerful shoulders and huge fists, fair hair and remarkably white skin. Apart from a few wisps of light brown hair around his chin, he had no beard. His coarse features and low forehead suggested that he was a violent man of limited intelligence, a man governed by the impulse of the moment; but his broad mouth and rather flat nose reminded one of a faithful dog, and betokened a person who needed to be looked after and cared for. He had been unceremoniously arrested in his hovel in the early hours of the morning and dragged out of the forest. He could make no sense of the accusations that were being made against him, and this had infuriated him. Standing before the magistrate, flustered, his clothes torn, Cabuche had the look of a man who had already been found guilty, the shifty, devious look which a spell in prison leaves on even the most innocent. Night was beginning to fall and the room had grown dark, so dark that Cabuche was hidden in shadow. Suddenly the usher came in carrying a big lamp with a large round globe. The glare fell full on Cabuche’s face. He stood there motionless, exposed.
Monsieur Denizet sat looking at him intently with his big, bright eyes and drooping eyelids, saying nothing. Silence was the first weapon in his armoury, the
first test of his power, before he unleashed the devilish onslaught of tricks, traps and moral blackmail that was to come. This man was guilty, and any ploy that would determine his guilt was permissible. The only right left to him was the right to admit his crime.
The questioning began; at first very slowly.
‘Do you know what crime you stand accused of?’
‘No one’s told me, but I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ growled Cabuche, his voice choking with impotent rage. ‘There’s been enough talk about it.’