The new-comer took a card from his pocket and handed it to Victor, who read on it: “Grimaudan, ex-inspector of the detective force. Private business transacted.” Victor shuddered as he said:
“You are connected with the police?”
“No, not now, but I have a liking for the business and I continue to work at it in a manner more—profitable. From time to time I strike upon a golden opportunity—such as your case presents.”
“My case?”
“Yes, yours. I assure you it is a most promising affair, provided you are inclined to be reasonable.”
“But if I am not reasonable?”
“Oh! my good fellow, you are not in a position to refuse me anything I may ask.”
“What is it…you want?” stammered Victor, fearfully.
“Well, I will inform you in a few words. I am sent by Mademoiselle de Sinclèves, the heiress of the Countess d’Andillot.”
“What for?”
“To recover the black pearl.”
“Black pearl?”
“That you stole.”
“But I haven’t got it.”
“You have it.”
“If I had, then I would be the assassin.”
“You are the assassin.”
Danègre showed a forced smile.
“Fortunately for me, monsieur, the Assizecourt was not of your opinion. The jury returned an unanimous verdict of acquittal. And when a man has a clear conscience and twelve good men in his favor—”
The ex-inspector seized him by the arm and said:
“No fine phrases, my boy. Now, listen to me and weigh my words carefully. You will find they are worthy of your consideration. Now, Danègre, three weeks before the murder, you abstracted the cook’s key to the servants’ door, and had a duplicate key made by a locksmith named Outard, 244 rue Oberkampf.”
“It’s a lie—it’s a lie!” growled Victor. “No person has seen that key. There is no such key.”
“Here it is.”
After a silence, Grimaudan continued:
“You killed the countess with a knife purchased by you at the Bazar de la Republique on the same day as you ordered the duplicate key. It has a triangular blade with a groove running from end to end.”
“That is all nonsense. You are simply guessing at something you don’t know. No one ever saw the knife.”
“Here it is.”
Victor Danègre recoiled. The ex-inspector continued:
“There are some spots of rust upon it. Shall I tell you how they came there?”
“Well!…you have a key and a knife. Who can prove that they belong to me?”
“The locksmith, and the clerk from whom you bought the knife. I have already refreshed their memories, and, when you confront them, they cannot fail to recognize you.”
His speech was dry and hard, with a tone of firmness and precision. Danègre was trembling with fear, and yet he struggled desperately to maintain an air of indifference.
“Is that all the evidence you have?”
“Oh! no, not at all. I have plenty more. For instance, after the crime, you went out the same way you had entered. But, in the centre of the wardrobe-room, being seized by some sudden fear, you leaned against the wall for support.”
“How do you know that? No one could know such a thing,” argued the desperate man.
“The police know nothing about it, of course. They never think of lighting a candle and examining the walls. But if they had done so, they would have found on the white plaster a faint red spot, quite distinct, however, to trace in it the imprint of your thumb which you had pressed against the wall while it was wet with blood. Now, as you are well aware, under the Bertillon system, thumb-marks are one of the principal means of identification.”
Victor Danègre was livid; great drops of perspiration rolled down his face and fell upon the table. He gazed, with a wild look, at the strange man who had narrated the story of his crime as faithfully as if he had been an invisible witness to it. Overcome and powerless, Victor bowed his head. He felt that it was useless to struggle against this marvelous man. So he said:
“How much will you give me, if I give you the pearl?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh! you are joking! Or do you mean that I should give you an article worth thousands and hundreds of thousands and get nothing in return?”
“You will get your life. Is that nothing?”
The unfortunate man shuddered. Then Grimaudan added, in a milder tone:
“Come, Danègre, that pearl has no value in your hands. It is quite impossible for you to sell it; so what is the use of your keeping it?”
“There are pawnbrokers…and, some day, I will be able to get something for it.”
“But that day may be too late.”
“Why?”
“Because by that time you may be in the hands of the police, and, with the evidence that I can furnish—the knife, the key, the thumb-mark—what will become of you?”
Victor rested his head on his hands and reflected. He felt that he was lost, irremediably lost, and, at the same time, a sense of weariness and depression overcame him. He murmured, faintly:
“When must I give it to you?”
“Tonight—within an hour.”
“If I refuse?”
“If you refuse, I shall post this letter to the Procureur of the Republic; in which letter Mademoiselle de Sinclèves denounces you as the assassin.”
Danègre poured out two glasses of wine which he drank in rapid succession, then, rising, said:
“Pay the bill, and let us go. I have had enough of the cursed affair.”
Night had fallen. The two men walked down the rue Lepic and followed the exterior boulevards in the direction of the Place de l’Etoile. They pursued their way in silence; Victor had a stooping carriage and a dejected face. When they reached the Parc Monceau, he said:
“We are near the house.”
“Parbleu! You only left the house once, before your arrest, and that was to go to the tobacco-shop.”
