“He is evidently guilty,” replied the magistrate, with a harshness very different to his usual manner.
Old Tabaret, who expected to receive praises by the basketful, was astounded at this tone! It was therefore, with great hesitancy that he offered his further services.
“I have come,” he said modestly, “to know if any investigations are necessary to demolish the alibi pleaded by the prisoner.”
“He pleaded no alibi,” replied the magistrate, dryly.
“How,” cried the detective, “no alibi? Pshaw! I ask pardon: he has of course then confessed everything.”
“No,” said the magistrate impatiently, “he has confessed nothing. He acknowledges that the proofs are decisive: he cannot give an account of how he spent his time; but he protests his innocence.”
In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring wildly, and altogether in the most grotesque attitude his astonishment could effect. He was literally thunderstruck. In spite of his anger, M. Daburon could not help smiling; and even Constant gave a grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm of laughter.
“Not an alibi, nothing?” murmured the old fellow. “No explanations? The idea! It is inconceivable! Not an alibi? We must then be mistaken: he cannot be the criminal. That is certain!”
The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must have been waiting the result of the examination at the wine shop round the corner, or else that he had gone mad.
“Unfortunately,” said he, “we are not mistaken. It is but too clearly shown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you like, you can ask Constant for his report of the examination, and read it over while I put these papers in order.”