The Crazy Corner, page 16
Finally, now, I could no longer maintain the slightest doubt as to the reality of his presence. The tailing, closer and closer, less and less concealed, had reached the point at which, in the bar into which I had gone to escape the pursuit, the man had come in behind me and, on the empty bench where I had at down, the man had come to sit down beside me.
Immediately, of course, I stopped avoiding his gaze and turned to face him squarely, frowning, my expression hostile, teeth clenched, nose to nose.
His face suddenly expressed a profound sadness. Two large tears ran down his cheeks. Then, gently, he placed a hand on my breast, and began to speak—or, rather, to whisper—in a language that I did not understand, but in an extremely musical and seductive voice. One might have thought him a child singing like a bird.
Not knowing how to respond, I asked the barmaid for two glasses of whisky, and offered one of them to the stranger. He wet his lips with it, then gave it back to me with a gesture telling me to finish it, and that he wanted to do the same with mine. That was a politeness customary in the low taverns of London, and I complied.
After which I said to the man in English: “Now that we’re friends, tell me what you want ad why you’ve been following me as you have.”
I saw in his large desolate eyes, however, that he did not understand what I had said. I was, therefore, obliged, like him, to resort to sign-language. This time, he understood.
From the folds of his belt he took a long silk ribbon, which he unrolled in front of my face, asking me, by means of gestures, to read the characters that were inscribed on it. At the same time he explained to me, still by gestures, but quite clearly, that the inscription represented an enormous and fabulous treasure of gold and precious stones. He expressed gold by pouring out, between his thumb and index-finger, imaginary coins that accumulated in cascades. He signified precious stones by making his fingernails shine, polished like onyx, and blinking his eyelids very rapidly, within the fissures of which his eyes flashed and sparkled like diamonds.
I demonstrated that I had missed nothing of his mute discourse, and he seemed delighted—so delighted that he flung his arms around my neck and embraced me, weeping, as if he had gone mad.
I had, however, paid close attention to the silken ribbon, and I had recognized that the characters were Sanskrit, of which I possessed a vague knowledge: not enough, certainly, to translate the exceedingly long inscription, but sufficient to decipher a few scattered words. I pointed them out to him with my finger and mimed their meanings. One meant “king,” which I interpreted by the simulation of a crown on my head. Another signified “sky,” and another “earth,” which were easy for me to render. Finally, one word recurred frequently, which signified one of the mysterious names of the god Shiva. I happened to know that the word is represented in Hindu architecture by a certain hieratic design. I traced the outline of that design in the air, after having touched the word on the silken ribbon.
From these various identifications, the man must have imagined that I understood the entire inscription, and that undoubtedly struck him with terror. So, at least, I judged on seeing him suddenly throw himself at my knees, frightened, his hands trembling, like a criminal begging for mercy. At the same time, he resumed his bird-like twittering, but this time with extreme volubility, and in an exceedingly shrill tone, which was deafening.
Unfortunately, I was not the only one who was deafened. A drunkard who as sleeping in a corner was woken up by it, and rushed at the poor devil, who was still prostrate.
I tried to launch myself to the unfortunate fellow’s aid, but he thought, on the contrary, that I was joining In with his aggressor and falling upon him. Admittedly, the three of us composed, on the ground, an incomprehensible amalgam. At any rate, by the time I found myself sitting astride the drunkard, the other had decamped.
With one bound I was in the street, searching for him—but in vain, as one might imagine. Agile, slippery and furtive as he was, how could I tell where that human eel had replunged into that human mud?
I was never to see the strange individual again.
In the opium den, to which I returned in an attempt to obtain some information, I got none. The man had only been there once, on the night when I was there myself.
Who was he? What did he want with me? What did the inscription on the silk ribbon represent? Why did he want to make me, in particular, party to it? And then, why that terror at the idea that I was able to translate it? Was that exile in possession of a fabulous treasure? Had he stolen it? So many questions without answers!
And how many hypotheses I formulated, with regard to that bizarre adventure, as marvelous and absurd as a dream!
That it was only a dream I have not believed for a long time, having had before me so much evidence that proved its visible and tangible reality during those few hours of my life. But today, through the distant mists of the past, when I find that admittedly-implausible story in my memory, I sometimes wonder whether the powerful and subtle opium is as just as De Quincey claims, and whether it is not instead a very mischievous demon, which amused itself with me by parading me for an entire morning through the mirages of a hallucination as consistent as life itself—for I forgot to mention that I never found the bar in which the scene had unfolded again either.
And yet, what a tableau it all makes, distinctly outlined in vigorous colors, in the museum of my memory!
The Old Fogey
“Oh no, not him!—it’s futile to persist. He and his fellows can no longer be entertained, under any pretext. Doubtless they rendered services in their time, but that’s no reason to eternalize them at the Prefecture.”
“His great memory for physiognomies, though, his good advice...”
“Eh! It’s precisely his so-called good advice of which I want to rid us. Yes, I know, traditions! That’s our loss, the traditions. We need young men, active and inventive. The press criticizes our routines, and the press isn’t mistaken. Well, your Lejars is the finest specimen of the old school, the repertoire of all the routines. He still believes in disguises, for instance. Why not Vidocq’s methods, then? No, no, those fellows, so far as I’m concerned, are finished. Pension them off! I’ve had enough of them, the old fogeys.”
And on these words from the new Prefect of Police—an advocate and a reformer—in spite of all the efforts off the head of the Sûreté, Brigadier Lejars was “out on his ear.”
Certainly, that ear was a little hard of hearing now, and that was why, for two years, he had had scarcely been employed in anything but office work and minor court cases, but all the same, he wasn’t useless. On the other hand, some consideration ought to have been given for his thirty years of loyal service, especially for some of his campaigns, still legendary: veritable models of patience, ingenuity and boldness. He asked for nothing more, in fact, than to do more of the same, and if he had not done so, it was because he was no longer given the opportunity, having been relegated to sedentary tasks.
Of what, then could anyone complain? That he liked to advise his younger colleagues? But they went to consult him of their own accord, and didn’t find it bad. Besides which, that proved he had a passion for his profession. Yes—perhaps he had too much. A past master in the art of make-up—of camouflaging himself, as they say over there—he had been gripped in his old age by an innocent mania for “making faces” without any necessity, out of habit, for pleasure, in a way. But that was a mild ridiculousness that didn’t trouble anyone and didn’t prevent him from doing his duty. The worst result of it was that the agents made jokes about it, but not maliciously, without undermining the respect they had for him. And when he was teased about it he replied, very good-humoredly: “Yes, I make faces—just to keep my hand in.”
So it was that Père Lejars was in despair when he was told that he would no longer be a member of the Sûreté Brigade. That struck him as an injustice and an outrage.
The loss of his position hardly affected him, from a pecuniary point of view. Sober, used to living on his meager salary, and even saving out of that poor budget, his savings and his retirement pension were more than sufficient for him. He had not the slightest chagrin in that regard.
What pained him, and revolted him, was that he had thrown in the rubbish-bin as if he were good for nothing. And in what terms! For the prefect’s words had been repeated to him. The reformer, moreover, did not hide it. He loudly advertised his intentions, his motives, his hatred of routine, and his love of the new. That was the order of the day at the Prefecture. There was no question of anything but that new broom. Everyone knew that Père Lejars’ retirement would be followed by several others, and that the boss did not want any more “old fogeys.”
An old fogey, him, Lejars! The man who has tracked down and caught the famous Crusier, nicknamed le Rouge, alias the Comte de Montarley, alias the Abbé Rostaing, that real Rocambole of sorts! An old fogey, the man who had reeled in the Gendret gang single-handed, and who had been stabbed twice, and whose bloody hands had knocked down and tied up that terrible old lag, nicknamed, with good reason, Cop-Killer! An old fogey, the man who, disguised as a man of the world—yes, as a man of the world, which is the most difficult of all—had caught the former notary Heurteville, who had become the leader of a colossal blackmail agency, with his hand in the till! An old fogey, the man who, that very day, in the district court, had immediately recognized faces that had disappeared from circulation ten years ago! An old fogey, him, Lejars, Père Lejars! Oh, it was too much!
Accustomed to discipline and hierarchical respect, he dared not call his superior, the Prefect, the big chief, a fool. But in his soul and his conscience, that was what he thought. And he suffered from keeping silent, not only because of his wounded self-esteem, but also and above all because of his beloved police force, which he now saw as disorganized and going downhill, since it had fallen into the hands of a bumpkin for whom Père Lejars was an old fogey. All that he permitted himself to say, by way of recrimination, was: “The cut-throats will have a fine time from now on.”
And as the head of the Sûreté, very amicably, did his best to console him by heaping praise on his fine career, he added, bitterly: “It’s not over yet. I still have good feet and eyes, and I’ll prove to the Prefect that I’m not an old fogey.”
“How?”
“That’s my business.”
What he meant became clear a few days later, when a mysterious crime was committed. At the same time as the official report of the agent charged with the investigation, the Prefecture received a report from Père Lejars. He had acted on his own account and sent the results of his enquiries. They were found to be accurate, but unnecessary, for another agent, a newly-promoted young man, excited by the desire to distinguish himself at the outset, had had the guilty party arrested before anyone could make use of the reports. Père Lejars took this setback hard, albeit while rendering justice to the enterprise of his rival.
He had even less luck in another expedition. Reduced to his own resources, deprived of the information on file at the Prefecture, he went astray and wasted time in pointless research, and that resulted in the ground being cut from under his feet.
A third time completed his misfortune. The young agent, who was definitely first rate, spurred on by the competition, took a malign and dishonest pleasure in sending him on a false trail, with the result that the veteran was led up the garden path like a new recruit.
They laughed long and loud at the prefecture, where the new personnel were no longer sympathetic to him. The Prefect himself, who was amused by the fellow’s obstinacy, did not have the generosity to hide the petty pleasure he took in seeing him discomfited. As for the newcomer, proud of his successes, which were masterstrokes, he was loudly triumphant, and, further raising the stakes on the boss’s theories, he declared to anyone who would listen: “Well, the old ways are dead and buried! The old fogeys are dead and buried!”
Père Lejars, who had maintained his acquaintance with a few agents, heard about all that, and his resentment was violent. Thus, not only was he unable to take the revenge on the Prefect that he had promised himself, but in addition, in that ill-judged duel, he risked losing his former renown. A greenhorn was queening a pawn! And everyone was laughing at him! And the exploits of yore no longer counted for anything, humiliated pell-mell with his present failures! They had had every reason, then, to send him packing and call him an old fogey!
The injury to his self-esteem was further aggravated by reading the newspapers. The Prefect of Police had a few obliging reporters at his beck and call, and they did not fail to praise the brilliant start made by the new organization, not without smearing the old one. Even the papers that were not in fief to the Prefect’s political party could not help doing justice to his efforts and his reforms, and the good results they were producing, especially the deference he had manifested to the unanimous press criticism of his predecessors’ routines. All of that appeared to Père Lejars to be a campaign to his personal detriment. He was not far from thinking that all Paris was out to get him. One reporter who had got wind of his recent exploits made a funny story out of them; that was the coup de grâce for the poor pensioner, who thought that he had definitely become an object of universal ridicule, and who fell ill in consequence.
The head of the Sûreté still felt affection for him, and came to see him; he found him in bed, aged and jaundiced.
“Come on, Père Lejars,” he said, “you’re not being reasonable, damn it! What’s the point of worrying yourself sick like this, instead of settling down quietly, with your little pension and your consciousness of always having done your duty? You ought to be happy.”
“No, no,” replied Père Lejars. “I won’t be happy as long as I haven’t proved...”
“Eh? What do you expect to prove, old chap, without help and without resources? You might well be Père Lejars, but you can’t be stronger on your own than the entire Prefecture. That’s childish. You’re a sensible man—think about it.”
“I’m only thinking about one thing—that I’ve been called an old fogey.”
“They were wrong, that’s certain. An unfortunate choice of words! But it shouldn’t poison your old age. All the good people at the Prefecture, me first of all, and the Prefect himself, you can be sure, know perfectly well what you are, and that there’s never been a better servant than you, more loyal, braver and more expert.”
“That didn’t stop them throwing me out on my ear.”
“Well, it comes to us all. My turn will come too.”
“But there’s out on one’s ear and out on one’s ear. I know what they’re saying in the bureaux, you know—and in the press too, damn it! It’s not just the Prefect, it’s everyone know who’s calling me an old fogey.”
“Come on—you’re beating yourself up over a word, Père Lejars.”
“Maybe. I’ll put the record straight.”
“By doing what? Continuing your private enquiries? You won’t succeed. Once again, you don’t have the necessary means for that. You’re wasting time and effort. Would you permit me to tell you something, between ourselves, as a friend? Well, if you continue you’ll compromise the good opinion that people have of you—that’s all you’ll get out of it. And at the same time, it’ll rebound on us, all the policemen of the old school. Is that what you want, Père Lejars?”
“No, of course not. And if I thought any such thing...”
“Believe me, my friend, I’m telling you the truth. Alone against the Prefecture, you can only come unstuck, and it’s all of us who’ll bear the consequences—those whom you love, the old guard.”
“That’s true, I suppose,” said Père Lejars, resignedly. “I didn’t think of that. Forgive me. I’ll keep quiet.”
“Good! Now you’re being reasonable. Come on, old chap, don’t spill any more bile over these follies. Look after yourself and put on a brave face. That’s what will annoy your enemies the most.”
“I’ll try,” Père Lejars concluded. “I’ll try. I only ask one thing in return, just one—a hope that will give me the courage to get back on my feet.”
“Anything you wish, my friend, if it’s possible.”
“Well, this is it: if there’s an affair that no one could fathom, a closed case with which no one is any longer concerned, I’d like you to entrust it to me, to give me a distraction.”
“Oh—I’ll talk to the Prefect about it; I don’t think he’ll raise any difficulty. It will give him a means of making up for is unfortunate phrase. You can consider it agreed.”
And Père Lejars, give new heart by that promise, did indeed begin to revive.
A short while later, the head of the Sûreté saw him again, still jaundiced, very thin, like a man still consumed by an obsession, but not defeated and despairing. On the contrary, he seemed rejuvenated, sturdy, upright, confident and energetic.
“You see,” he said, “I’m ready to go to work. I don’t look much like an old fogey now, do I?” But he said that without any apparent bitterness, more in a humorous fashion, almost smiling.
Unfortunately, he and the head of the Sûreté had counted without the still-acute jealousy of the Prefet’s young protégé and the hostility of the Prefect himself. Yes, the high functionary, who had initially been amused by Père Lejars’ obstinacy, was now mean enough to hold it against the old pensioner. A few less fortunate operations had provoked reproaches in the press, in which it had been suggested that the famous reforms, so loudly advertised, were not producing the marvels that had been promised. The young policeman, going behind the Prefect’s back, had insinuated that there had been an offensive reprisal by the party of routine. Père Lejars had been held responsible for that. His rancor was thus paid back in kind, and two or three closed cases, on which he already had designs, were not entrusted to him as he had hoped. He was definitely not wanted, even in an auxiliary role. There was, therefore no mans-none at all—of taking his revenge. An old fogey he had been judged to be, and he was condemned irrevocably to die an old fogey.
