Monsieur Judas: A Paradox

by Fergus Hume

Extracts From A Detectives Note-Book

"It is too terrible . . . I can't believe it . . . He did lie to me, as I thought . . . He has been to Ironfields. He knew the name of Melstane . . . What was he doing at Jarlchester? . . . Why was he there at the same time, in the same house as Melstane? . . . He must have known that the man who died was Melstane . . . He slept in the next room on the night of the murder . . . The door of Melstane's room was ajar in the morning . . . Could Roger have gone into the room and . . . No, no; I can't believe it . . . He would not commit a crime . . . And yet he had morphia pills in his possession . . . What prevented him from getting two pills made extra strong . . . going into Melstane's room at night, and placing them in the box? . . . His motive for doing such a thing? . . . Dr. Japix supplies even that . . . He saw in Melstane a possible rival and wanted him out of the way . . . But what am I writing? . . . He cannot be guilty of this terrible crime . . . Yet everything points to it . . . his presence at Jarlchester . . . his possession of morphia . . . his evasive answers . . . I must find out the truth . . . I can't believe he would act thus, and yet . . .

"Mem.—To write to Axton's London address at once."

[Chapter 6]

Monsieur Judas is Confidential

A short distance from the mansion of Dr. Japix, on the road which ran from Ironfields to the dwellings of the magnates of the city, stood a large, square stone house in a dreary piece of ground. The house itself was also remarkably dreary, being painted a dull gray, with all the windows and doors dismally picked out in black. Two stories it was, with five windows in the top story facing the road, four windows and a door with a porch in the lower, and still deeper down the basements guarded at the sides of the house by spiky iron railings of a most resentful appearance. The garden in front had a broad walk running down to a rusty iron gate, on either side a plot of rank green grass, and in the centre of each churchyard-looking plot a tall, solemn cypress. The four lower windows opened like doors directly on to the grass-plots, but were always closed, as Mrs. Binter (proprietress of this charming establishment) thought egress by the funereal front door was quite sufficient.

Over the porch was a broad whiteboard, whereon was inscribed in grim black letters, "Binter's Boarding-house," and although the sight of the unwholesome house was enough to scare timid mortals, Binter's was generally well stocked, and the proprietress did fairly well in her particular line of overcharging and underfeeding.

A tall, gaunt, grim person was Mrs. Binter, arrayed in a severe-looking dress of a dull gray colour (like the house), and picked out in black (also like the house) by wearing an inky ribbon round her throat, a jet-trimmed gauze cap on her iron-gray hair, and rusty black mittens on her lean hands. She also wore round her narrow waist a thin belt of black leather, attached to which by a steel chain was a large bunch of keys, which so jingled when she walked, that in the twilight one could easily believe that Binter's was haunted by a gaunt ghost clanking its rusty chain through the dreary passages.

Mrs. Binter's papa (long since deceased) had been a warder in the county jail, and his one fair daughter having been brought up with an intimate knowledge of prison life, had so accustomed herself to view the world through the bars of a jail, that she had become quite imbued with the routine, the traditions, and the spirit of a first-class penitentiary. It might have been hereditary, it might have been habitual, but Mrs. Binter was certainly very jail-like in all her ways. Having captured Mr. Binter (who had no mind of his own), she made him marry her, and for the rest of his life relegated him to the basement, where he did all the work of a "boots" without the wages of one. His wife looked after the boarders, whom she treated like prisoners, presiding at her own table, where the food was very plain and very wholesome, seeing that they were in bed in their little cells at a proper hour, and altogether conducting the establishment in as near a manner approaching the paternal system as she was able.

Binter's was usually full, as Mrs. B. always advertised it as being in the country, and the worked-to-death clerks of Ironfields were glad to get a breath of fresh air, even when attended by the inconvenience of living in a private jail. But in the evenings all the prison-boarders generally went out on a kind of ticket-of-leave (the understanding being that they were to be in before midnight), and Mrs. Binter had the whole of her private jail to herself.

On this evening, however, all the boarders had gone out with the exception of Monsieur Judas, who was seated in a little cell (called by courtesy the drawing-room), before a feeble little fire which cowered in a large, cold grate. The room was scantily furnished in a very substantial fashion, the chairs very straight in the backs, the sofa just short enough to prevent any one lying down comfortably, the floor covered with a black and white diamond oilcloth, cold and slippery, with a narrow strip of woollen matting in front of the fire. If Mrs. Binter could have chained the fireirons to the wall (after the most approved prison fashion), she no doubt would have been glad to do so; but as she had to preserve a certain appearance of freedom (for which she was profoundly sorry), she let them lie loose, and Monsieur Judas was now sitting with the tongs in his hand adding little bits of coal to the shivering fire.

Mrs. Binter having ascertained through one of the head-warders (the housemaid) that Monsieur Judas was going to stay in all the evening, regarded this as an infringement of the ticket-of-leave system, and went up to the drawing-room cell to speak to him.

Judas heard the rattle of the keys, and knew the head-jailer was coming along, but without desisting from his employment he raised his crafty eyes to the gaunt figure that speedily stood before him.

"Ain't you goin' out?" queried the gaunt figure, folding its arms, that is, the fingers of each hand grasped the elbows of the other arm.

"De fogs is too moch," responded Judas, picking up another bit of coal, "an' I am chez moi for a frien'."

"Oh, that's it, munseer," said the head-jailer, rattling her keys, "you're expectin' of a friend! Why ain't you goin' back to the shop?"

"Eh! ma chère, non! I am home to-ni."

"You'll want the fire, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Binter, grudgingly, as if she would like to take it away with her, "an' the lamp. I was goin' to put 'em both out, but if you must, you must. Would your friend like supper?"

"Je ne sais pas," said Monsieur Judas, putting down the tongs and shrugging his shoulders. "No! I do no so tink."

"Supper's extra, you know," observed Mrs. Binter, determined to have out of the supper what she was losing in the lamp and fire; "but it ain't hospital to let a friend go away without a bite. It may be French manners," added the jailer with scathing irony, "but it ain't English."

Monsieur Judas spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, murmured something indistinct, and then relapsed into silence, much to the disappointment of Mrs. Binter.

"There's two legs of a fowl," said the lady, rattling her keys. "Binter was goin' to have 'em for his breakfast; but I can trim 'em up with parsley, if you like, an' with bread an' cheese an' a bottle of that sour vinegar you call Julia, it'll be quite a little 'oliday for you."

Just at this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Binter hastening to the front door, admitted Mr. Fanks, took him in charge, and having delivered him over to the safe custody of Monsieur Judas, retired with a final rattle of the keys in deep wrath at her failure with the supper idea.

Octavius, who looked rather pale, but with a stern expression on his face, slipped off his fur coat, and having surveyed Judas with a calculating expression, sat down by the fiction of a fire, the Frenchman taking a seat opposite.

"I do wait for you," said Monsieur Judas, smoothing one lean hand with the other, and letting his eyelids droop over his crafty eyes.

"Speak French," replied Fanks, in that language; "we'll understand one another better if you do."

"Eh, certainly, my friend," said Judas, rapidly, "it is easier for me. You speak French very well; eh, yes, very well, monsieur."

Fanks acknowledged this compliment with a stiff nod, and plunged at once into the object of his visit.

"Now, Monsieur Guinaud, about your friend, Melstane?"

"Eh! a moment, if you please," hissed Judas, in his low, soft voice, holding up his hand. "Before we speak of the poor Melstane let us understand each other, monsieur. That is but right, my friend."

"Yes, it is but right; what do you want to know?"

Monsieur Judas placed his elbows on his knees, warmed his claw-like hands over the fire, and looked cunningly at the detective before speaking.

"Your name, monsieur?"

"Rixton."

"It is very well—that name, Monsieur Fanks," replied Judas, with a mocking smile.

"You know my real name, I see," rejoined Octavius, without moving a muscle of his face. "I compliment you on your penetration."

"Eh, it is not much," said the Frenchman, with a deprecatory shrug. "Monsieur Vosk he read to me the papers of Jarlcesterre, and I find one Monsieur Fanks, agent of the police, to be present. He has the box which my poor friend had for the pills. A stranger comes to me and shows the same box, and I say: 'Monsieur Fanks.' Is that not so?"

"Well, you've read the papers," observed Fanks, slowly, "and know all the circumstances of your friend's death."

"The papers say he gave himself the death, monsieur."

"And what do you say?"

"Eh, I do not know," replied Monsieur Judas, shrugging his shoulders, and opening his eyes to their fullest extent (the guileless look). "What is the opinion of monsieur?"

Mr. Fanks thought a moment or two before replying. He wanted to find out all about Melstane's past life, and no one could tell him so much as the fellow-lodger of the dead man. Judas, however, was no ordinary man, and would not speak freely unless he knew the whole circumstances of the case. Now Fanks did not trust Judas in any way. He did not like his appearance, nor his manner, nor anything about him, and would have preferred him to remain in ignorance of his (Fanks') suspicions. But as he could not find out what he wanted to know without telling Judas his suspicions, and as he could not tell Judas his suspicions without letting him know more than he cared to, Octavius was rather in a dilemma.

Guinaud saw this and put an end to this hesitation in a most emphatic fashion.

"Monsieur, I see, does not trust me," he said, with an injured air. "Monsieur would know all and tell nothing. But no, certainly that will not be pleasing to me. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I am a Frenchman, me, I am a man of honour, is it not so? Monsieur knows all of the case; but I—eh! I may know something of good also. If monsieur shows me his heart, the heart of Jules Guinaud is open to him. There it is."

Not the heart of Monsieur Guinaud, but the statement of Monsieur Guinaud's feelings; so Fanks, seeing that he must either give confidence for confidence or remain ignorant, chose the former alternative, and spoke out.

"Very well, I will tell you what I think, but of course you will keep our conversation secret."

Judas blew an airy kiss with a light touch of the long fingers on his mouth, and laughed pleasantly.

"My faith, yes. Monsieur is the soul of honour, and I, Monsieur Fanks—eh, is it not the name?—I am the resemblance of that soul. What you speak this night drops into the open heart of me. Snip, as say you English, I close the heart. The talk is safe; but, yes—you understand."

"Then that's all right," said Fanks, grimly; "we may as well proceed to business. As Mr. Vosk translated to you, the papers say Melstane committed suicide—gave himself the death! Comprehend you, eh? Very well. I say no. It was a crime! Melstane was murdered."

"And by whom, monsieur?"

"That's what I've got to find out."

"And the opinion of monsieur?"

"I will explain. Melstane had a box of tonic pills with him, containing, when it left your shop, twelve pills."

"It is true, monsieur, twelve pills."

"I can account for six pills, and in the box at present there are eight."

"I understand," said Judas, quickly. "Two pills were placed in the box by an unknown. Those two pills contained poison. The poor Melstane took one pill of poison, and died. Monsieur has taken the pills to Monsieur the Dr. Japix to find the other pill."

"You are perfectly right," said Fanks, rather astonished at the rapidity with which the assistant grasped the case.

"Eh, monsieur, I am not blind," replied Judas, shrugging his shoulders; "and now monsieur desires to find the unknown who placed the pills of poison in the box."

"Exactly! And to do so I want you to tell me all you know about Sebastian Melstane's life here," answered Fanks, producing his secretive little note-book.

Monsieur Guinaud looked thoughtfully at the fire, then glanced up at the ceiling, and at length brought his eyes (guileless expression) to rest on the face of Mr. Fanks.

"It is difficult to make the commencement," he said, speaking slowly, as if he weighed every word. "Behold, monsieur, I make the story to myself this way: My poor Sebastian, he is an artist. Eh! not what you call a great artist for the Salon in London, but good in the pictures. Oh! yes, much of the talent. Six months ago, in London, he beholds a pretty lady. It is Mees Mar-rson, the daughter of the very rich monsieur of this town. My friend has the grand passion for the charming mees—eh! I believe it well—and comes to this town to say 'I love you!' Alas, he finds that the too charming mees is to marry the rich Monsieur Sp—Sp—I cannot say your English names."

"Spolger!"

"But certainly that is the name. Yes! she is to marry this rich monsieur; but my brave Sebastian, he mocks himself of that. Here in this house he stays, and I make myself his friendship. He tells me all his love. The father of my charming mees is enraged, and forbids my friend to look, to see, to speak with the beautiful child. But she has a heart, this angel, and loves to distraction the handsome boy, my friend. They meet, they talk, they write the letters, and monsieur the father knows nothing. Then to this pension there comes Monsieur Axton."

"Roger Axton?" said Fanks, biting his lips.

"Yes, truly! You know him? Eh! it is strange," said Judas, inquisitively.

"It is well, it is well, I know him," replied Fanks, waving his hand impatiently; "go on, Monsieur Guinaud."

"Very well! This Monsieur Roger has the love for the beautiful Mees Var-rlins! Eh! you understand? He goes to the house, and is a friend of monsieur the father. The poor Sebastian and this monsieur have not the friendship. Monsieur Roger tells the dear Mees Var-rlins of the meetings of Mees Mar-rson and my friend. Mees Mar-rson is taken away to the Ile de Vite; Monsieur Roger also goes in August. The brave Sebastian, he mocks himself, and moves not. When they return, Mees Var-rlins is the chaperon of the angel, and she meets not my friend. This Sebastian insults Monsieur Roger as a spy—a villain, and Monsieur Roger departs in October."

"Departs for what place?" asked Fanks, making a note of the month in his book.

"I do not know," replied Judas, with a characteristic shrug; "Monsieur Roger is not my friend. In November, my Sebastian, he says to me: 'It is well; I go to Jarlcesterre.'"

"What did he mean by 'it is well'?"

"But, monsieur, I am in darkness. Yes, truly. He had visited the house of Monsieur le Pilule."

"You mean Spolger's house?"

"Yes! He sees Monsieur le Pilule to speak of his love for Mees Mar-rson. When he returns to this pension, he says: 'It is well; I go to Jarlcesterre'—no more. Then my friend, the brave Sebastian, goes to Jarlcesterre, and I see him not more."

"An interview between Melstane and Spolger could hardly have been satisfactory," said Fanks, looking keenly at the Frenchman.

"Eh, monsieur, I know nothing of that," answered Judas, with his guileless look.

"Why did Melstane go to Jarlchester, of all places in the world?"

"I have told monsieur everything," said Monsieur Cuinaud, with oily politeness.

"Humph! I'm doubtful of that," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "And is that all you know?"

"Eh! what would you?"

"It doesn't throw any light on the murder."

"Wait, monsieur," said Judas, earnestly, "a moment. One night before my friend went away, Mees Var-rlins stop her carriage at the shop. She comes in to me and says: 'I cannot get a stamp of postage. Have you a stamp of postage?' I say 'yes,' and give her a stamp of postage. She places the stamp of postage on a letter, and goes away in the carriage. I see the letter."

"And the name on the letter?"

"Monsieur Roger Axton, Jarlcesterre," said Judas, quietly; "now! eh! you see?"

"I see nothing," replied Fanks, bluntly. "Miss Varlins wrote to Axton at Jarlchester. What of that? I know Axton was at Jarlchester; I saw him there."

"Is that so?" said Monsieur Judas, eagerly; "then, behold, monsieur! Axton is at Jarlcesterre; Melstane goes down also to Jarlcesterre. Before he goes," pursued Judas, bending forward and speaking in a whisper, "he buy pills of morphia! eh! is that not so? My friend and Axton are enemies. At Jarlcesterre they meet; the poor Melstane dies of morphia! What would you?"

"Do you mean to say that Roger Axton murdered Melstane?" cried Fanks, trying to control himself.

Monsieur Judas spread out his hands once more.

"I say nothing, monsieur. But because of Miss Mar-rson they fight—they fight desperate. Axton has the pills of morphia. Melstane dies of the pills of morphia! But no, I say nothing."

"I think you've said quite enough," retorted Fanks, coldly. "I don't believe what you say."

"Monsieur!"

"Don't ruffle your feathers, Monsieur Guinaud; I mean what I say, and in order to prove it, I'll ask Roger Axton to come down here and give his version of the story."

"He can but say what I declare."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"Monsieur?"

"Sir."

The two men had risen to their feet, and were standing opposite to one another; Fanks cold and scornful, Judas visibly agitated, with his eyes narrowed down into a dangerous expression. He looked like a snake preparing for a spring, and Fanks was on his guard; but at length, with a hissing laugh, Judas stepped back and bowed submissively.

"Let us not fight, I pray you, monsieur," he said, gently; "when Monsieur Axton comes you will see that I speak truly."

"Till that time comes," replied Octavius, putting on his coat, "we need not meet."

"As monsieur please."

"Good-bye, Monsieur Guinaud."

"Au revoir, monsieur."

"I said good-bye."

"Eh! yes! I replied 'Au revoir,' monsieur."

Octavius turned on his heel without another word, and left the room. In the passage he met Mrs. Binter, hovering round in the hope of supper being ordered. She at once took Fanks in charge, and conducting him to the door, released him from prison with manifest reluctance.

Meanwhile Monsieur Judas, left alone, was leaning against the mantelpiece with a smile on his evil face.

"Eh! Monsieur Axton," he said to himself, in a whisper, "you gave me the insult. To-night I have paid the debt—in part! Wait, Monsieur Axton; wait, Meess Var-rlins; I hold you both. It is I, Jules Guinaud, that can strike—when I wish."