The race of great criminals
is dying out--those who've succeeded the old stock are like counterfeit
coins. There's scarcely anything left outside a crowd of low offenders
who are not worth the shoe leather expended in pursuing them. It is
enough to disgust a detective, upon my word. No more trouble, emotion,
anxiety, or excitement. When a crime is committed nowadays, the criminal
is in jail the next morning, you've only to take the omnibus, and go
to the culprit's house and arrest him. He's always found, the more the
pity. But what has your fellow been up to?"
"He has killed three men."
"Oh! oh! oh!" said old Tabaret, in three different tones, plainly
implying that this criminal was evidently superior to others of his
species. "And where did this happen?"
"In a wine-shop near the barriere."
"Oh, yes, I recollect: a man named May. The murders were committed in
the Widow Chupin's cabin. I saw the case mentioned in the 'Gazette des
Tribunaux,' and your comrade, Fanferlot l'Ecureuil, who comes to see me,
told me you were strangely puzzled about the prisoner's identity. So you
are charged with investigating the affair? So much the better. Tell me
all about it, and I will assist you as well as I can."
Suddenly checking himself, and lowering his voice, Tirauclair added:
"But first of all, just do me the favor to get up. Now, wait a moment,
and when I motion you, open that door there, on the left, very suddenly.
Mariette, my housekeeper, who is curiosity incarnate, is standing there
listening.
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