The Beast Within (25 page)

‘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.’

‘Did you know Monsieur Grandmorin?’

‘Only too well,’ Cabuche replied.

‘A girl called Louisette, your mistress, worked as a chambermaid for Madame Bonnehon.’

Cabuche was seized with a fit of rage; he was so angry he saw red.

‘Whoever says that is a bloody liar,’ he shouted. ‘Louisette wasn’t my mistress.’

The magistrate was surprised at the violence of his reaction. He decided to try a different approach.

‘You are a violent man,’ he said. ‘You were sentenced to five years in prison for killing someone in a fight.’

Cabuche lowered his head. The prison sentence was something he was profoundly ashamed of.

‘He hit me first,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I only did four years. I got a year’s remission.’

‘So,’ continued Monsieur Denizet, ‘you maintain that Louisette was not your mistress?’

Once again Cabuche clenched his fists. Then, in a low, faltering voice he said, ‘Listen, when I came out of prison she was a little girl, not even fourteen. No one wanted to know me; they’d have chucked stones at me if they could. She came to see me in the forest. That’s where we met. She used to talk to me. She was nice to me. So we got to be friends. We went for walks, holding hands. It was nice. It was really nice. She was a growing girl, I know. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I can’t deny it. I loved her. She loved me too. Perhaps we’d have ended up being ... what you said. But they took her away from me and sent her to work for that woman at Doinville. Then one night I came back from the quarry and found her outside my house, out of her mind, exhausted, burning hot, with a sort of fever. She didn’t dare go back to her parents. She’d come to me ... to die! I should’ve gone and slit his throat there and then, the swine!’

The magistrate pursed his lips; he was surprised at the note of sincerity in Cabuche’s voice. He would have to play this close to his chest; it was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘we know the dreadful story that you and this girl cooked up between you. But you can take it from me that Monsieur Grandmorin was just not that sort of person; what you accuse him of is simply not possible.’

‘What d’you mean ... the story we cooked up?’ stammered Cabuche, bewildered, wide-eyed, his hands shaking. ‘It’s them as is lying, and you’re accusing us of being liars!’

‘Yes, we most certainly do. Do not try and come the innocent ... I’ve already spoken to Misard, the man who married your mistress’s mother. I’ll have him testify again in your presence if I need to, and you’ll see what he thinks of your story. Be very careful what you say. We have witnesses and we know the full story. The best thing you can do is to tell the truth.’

This was the magistrate’s usual method of trying to intimidate someone he was cross-examining, even when he knew nothing and had no witnesses.

‘So ... are you denying that you went around openly telling everyone that you were going to slit Monsieur Grandmorin’s throat?’

‘No, I don’t deny it. That’s what I said. And I meant it too. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the bugger!’

This answer took Monsieur Denizet completely by surprise. He had been expecting Cabuche to deny everything outright. Why was he admitting that he had made these threats? What game was he playing? He feared he was perhaps trying to move too quickly. He paused to reflect for a moment, then, looking Cabuche straight in the eye, he suddenly asked him:

‘What did you do on the night of the fourteenth to the fifteenth of February?’

‘I went to bed when it got dark, at about six o’clock ... I wasn’t feeling very well. In fact, my cousin Louis did me a favour and drove a load of stones to Doinville for me.’

‘Yes, your cousin was seen driving the wagon over the railway line at the level-crossing. But when we questioned him, all he could tell us was that he had left you about midday and hadn’t seen you since ... Prove to me that you went to bed at six o’clock.’

‘That’s stupid,’ retorted Cabuche. ‘I can’t prove it. I live on my own, in a house in the forest ... That’s where I was, I tell you, and that’s all I can say.’

Monsieur Denizet decided that the moment had come to call Cabuche’s bluff by presenting him with a statement of the facts as they were known. Assuming a totally impassive manner he described the sequence of events.

‘I will tell you what you did on the evening of the fourteenth of February,’ he said. ‘At three in the afternoon you were at Barentin station, where you caught a train for Rouen. What the purpose of your journey was we have yet to ascertain. You had decided to travel back on the train from Paris, which arrives at Rouen at three minutes past nine. You were standing on the platform in the crowd, when you spotted Monsieur Grandmorin in his reserved compartment. I am quite prepared to admit that there was no premeditation, and that the idea of committing a crime occurred to you on the spot ... You took advantage of the congestion on the platform to get into his compartment. You waited until the train was in the tunnel at Malaunay, but you had miscalculated how fast it was travelling, and it was already leaving the tunnel when you committed the murder ... You threw the body out of the carriage door and you got off the train at Barentin, having also disposed of the travelling rug ... That is what you did.’

Monsieur Denizet had been scrutinizing the prisoner’s face for the least flicker of assent, and was utterly dismayed when Cabuche, having at first listened to him very carefully, suddenly let out a great guffaw.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he yelled. ‘If I’d done it I’d tell you!’ Then, speaking more calmly, he said, ‘I didn’t do it, but I should’ve done. I wish to God I had!’

And that was all Monsieur Denizet could get out of him. He repeated his questions, tried time and again to put the same point in different ways, but all to no avail. Cabuche kept saying it wasn’t him, shrugging his shoulders and claiming that the whole thing was ridiculous. When he had been arrested, they had searched his hovel. They had found no trace of the murder weapon, the ten banknotes or the watch, but they had found a pair of trousers with a few small bloodstains on them, a damning piece of evidence. Cabuche dismissed it scornfully as yet another piece of nonsense; he’d taken a rabbit from a snare and it had bled on his trousers! Things weren’t going the way Monsieur Denizet wanted; he had started with a very clear idea of how the crime had been committed but in his determination to tie up every loose end he was complicating things and losing sight of the plain, simple truth. Cabuche was unintelligent and quite incapable of producing clever answers, but his repeated insistence that he had not committed the crime was something the magistrate had not bargained for, and he found it disconcerting. Monsieur Denizet had persuaded himself that Cabuche was guilty, and each repeated denial annoyed him more and more, as if it were a deliberate indulgence in lawlessness and deceit. Somehow he would have to make him give in.