Saniel was there to observe, without having decided what he should do. Instantly, with the decision that had “failed him so often during his vigil,” he resolved to go to Caffie’s. Was he not a doctor, and the physician of the dead-man? What could be more natural?
“A money-lender!” he exclaimed. “Is it Monsieur Caffie?”
“Exactly.”
“But I am his doctor.”
“A doctor! Here is a doctor!” cried several voices.
The crowd parted, and Saniel passed under the porte-cochere, where the concierge, half fainting, was seated on a chair, surrounded by all the maids of the house and several neighbors, to whom she related the news.
By using his elbows he was able to approach her.
“Who has said Monsieur Caffie is dead?” he asked with authority.
“No one has said he is dead; at least, I have not.”
“Well, then?”
“There is a stain of blood that has run from his office down to the landing; and as he is at home, since the light of his lamp is seen in the court, and he never leaves it burning when he goes to dinner, something must have happened. And why are his curtains drawn? He always leaves them open.”
At this moment two policemen appeared, preceded by a locksmith armed with a bunch of keys, and a little man with a shrewd, sharp appearance, wearing spectacles, and a hat from under which fell blond curls. The commissioner of police probably.
“On which story?” he asked the concierge.
“On the first.”
“Come with us.”
He started to go upstairs, accompanied by the concierge, the locksmith, and one of the policemen; Saniel wished to follow them, but the other policeman barred the way.
“Pardon, Monsieur Commissioner,” Saniel said.
“What do you wish, sir?”
“I am Monsieur Caffie’s physician.”
“Your name?”
“Doctor Saniel.”
“Let the doctor pass,” the commissioner said, “but alone. Make every one go out, and shut the porte-cochere.”
On reaching the landing the commissioner stopped to look at the brown stain which, running under the door, spread over the tiling, as Caffie never had had a mat.
“It is certainly a stain of blood,” Saniel said, who stopped to examine it and dipped his finger in it.
“Open the door,” the commissioner said to the locksmith.
The latter examined the lock, looked among his keys, selected one, and unlocked the door.
“Let no one enter,” the commissioner said. “Doctor, have the goodness to follow me.”
And, going ahead, he entered the first office, that of the clerk, followed by Saniel. Two little rills of blood, already thickened, starting from Caffie’s chair, and running across the tiled floor, which sloped a little toward the side of the staircase, joined in the stain which caused the discovery of the crime. The commissioner and Saniel took care not to step in it.
“The unfortunate man has had his throat cut,” Saniel said. “Death must have occurred two or three hours ago. There is nothing to do.”
“Speak for yourself, doctor.”
And, stooping, he picked up the knife.
“Is it not a butcher’s knife?” asked Saniel, who could only use this word.
“It looks like it.”
He had raised Caffie’s head and examined the wound.
“You see,” he said, “that the victim has been butchered. The stroke was from left to right, by a firm hand which must be accustomed to handle this knife. But it is not only a strong and practised hand that has done this deed; it was guided by an intelligence that knew how to proceed to insure a quick, almost instantaneous death, and at the same time a silent one.”
“You think it was done by a butcher?”
“By a professional killer; the larynx has been cut above the glottis, and with the same stroke the two carotid arteries, with the jugular veins. As the assassin had to raise the head, the victim was not able to cry out; considerable blood has flowed, and death must have ensued in one or two minutes.”
“The scene appears to me very well reconstructed.”
“The blood should have burst out in this direction,” Saniel continued, pointing to the door. “But as this door was open, nothing is to be seen.”
While Saniel spoke, the commissioner threw a glance about the room—the glance of the police, which takes in everything.
“The safe is open,” he said. “The affair becomes clear; the assassination was followed by theft.”
There was a door opposite to the entrance, which the commissioner opened; it was that of Caffie’s bedroom.
“I will give you a man to help you carry the body into this room, where you can continue your examination more easily, while I will continue my investigations in this office.”
Saniel would have liked to remain in the office to assist at these investigations, but it was impossible to raise an objection. The chair was rolled into the bedroom, where two candles had been lighted on the mantel, and when the body was laid on the bed, the commissioner returned to the office.
Saniel made his examination last as long a time as possible, to the end that he need not leave the house; but he could not prolong it beyond certain limits. When they were reached, he returned to the clerk’s office, where the commissioner had installed himself, and was hearing the concierge’s deposition.
“And so,” he said, “from five to seven o’clock no one asked for M. Caffie?”
“No one. But I left my lodge at a quarter past five to light the gas on the stairs; that took me twenty minutes, because I am stiff in my joints, and during this time some one might have gone up and down the stairs without my seeing them.”
“Well,” the commissioner said, turning to Saniel, “have you found any distinguishing feature?”
“No; there is only the wound on the neck.”
“Will you draw up your medico-legal report while I continue my inquest?”
“Willingly.”
And, without waiting, he seated himself at the clerk’s desk, facing the commissioner’s secretary, who had arrived a few minutes previous.
“I am going to make you take the oath,” the commissioner said.
After this formality Saniel began his report:
“We, the undersigned, Victor Saniel, doctor of medicine of the Paris Faculty, residing in Paris in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, after having taken an oath to fulfil in all honor and conscience the mission confided to us—”
All the time that he was writing he paid attention to everything that was said, and did not lose one word of the concierge’s deposition.
“I am certain,” she said, “that from half-past five until now no one has gone up or down the stairs but the people who live in the house.”
“But before half-past five?”
“I have told you that from a quarter past five until half-past I was not in my lodge.”
“And before a quarter past five o’clock?”
“Several persons passed whom I did not know.”
“Did any one among them ask you for Monsieur Caffie?”
“No; that is to say, yes. There was one who asked me if Monsieur Caffie was at home; but I know him well; that is why I answered No.”
“And who is he?”
“One of Monsieur Caffies old clerks.”
“His name?”
“Monsieur Florentin—Monsieur Florentin Cormier.”
Saniel’s hand was arrested at this name, but he did not raise his head.
“At what hour did he come?” asked the commissioner.
“Near three o’clock, before rather than after.”
“Did you see him go away?”
“Certainly, he spoke to me.”
“What time was it?”
“Half-past three.”
“Do you think that death could have occurred at this moment?” the commissioner asked, turning to Saniel.
“No; I think it must have been between five and six o’clock.”
“It is wrong for the commissioner to suspect Monsieur Florentin,” cried the concierge. “He is a good young man, incapable of harming a fly. And then, there is a good reason why death could not have taken place between three o’clock and half-past; it is that Monsieur Caffie’s lamp was lighted, and you know the poor gentleman was not a man to light his lamp in broad daylight, looking as he was—”
She stopped abruptly, striking her forehead with her hand.
“That is what I remember, and you will see that Monsieur Florentin has nothing to do with this affair. As I went upstairs at a quarter past five to light my gas, some one came behind me and rang Monsieur Caffie’s bell, and rapped three or four times at equal distances, which is the signal to open the door.”
Again Saniel’s pen stopped, and he was obliged to lean his hand on the table to prevent its trembling.
“Who was it?”
“Ah! That I do not know,” she answered. “I did not see him, but I heard him, the step of a man. It was this rascal who killed him, you may be sure.”
This seemed likely.
“He went out while I was on the stairs; he knew the customs of the house.”
Saniel continued his report.
After having questioned and cross-questioned the concierge without being able to make her say more, the commissioner dismissed her, and leaving Saniel at his work, he passed into Caffie’s office, where he remained a long time.
When he returned he brought a small note-book that he consulted. Without doubt it was the book of Caffie’s safe, simple and primitive, like everything relating to the old man’s habits, governed by the narrowest economy in his expenses, as well as in his work.
“According to this note-book,” the commissioner said to his secretary, “thirty-five or thirty-six thousand francs must have been taken from the safe; but there are left deeds and papers for a large sum.”
Saniel, who had finished his report, did not take his eyes from the note-book, and what he could see reassured him. Evidently these accounts were reduced to a minimum: a date, a name, a sum, and after this name a capital P, which, without doubt, meant “paid.” It was hardly possible that with such a system Caffie had ever taken the trouble to enter the number of the bills that had passed through his hands; in any case, if he did, it was not in this note-book. Would another one be found?
“My report is finished,” he said. “Here it is.”
“Since you are here, perhaps you can give me some information concerning the habits of the victim and the persons he received.”
“Not at all. I have known him but a short time, and he was my patient, as I was his client, by accident. He undertook an affair for me, and I gave him advice; he was in the last stage of diabetes. The assassin hastened his death only a short time-a few days.”
“That is nothing; he hastened it.”
“Oh, certainly! Otherwise, if he is skilful in cutting throats, perhaps he is less so in making a diagnosis of their maladies.”
“That is probable,” responded the commissioner, smiling. “You think it was a butcher?”
“It seems probable.”
“The knife?”
“He might have stolen it or found it.”
“But the mode of operating?”
“That, it seems to me, is the point from where we should start.”
Saniel could remain no longer, and he rose to leave.
“You have my address,” he said; “but I must tell you, if you want me, I leave to-morrow for Nice. But I shall be absent only just long enough to go and return.”
“If we want you, it will not be for several days. We shall not get on very rapidly, we have so little to guide us.”
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