The Beast Within - Emile Zola [69]
‘Bloody hell!’ he yelled, barely able to control himself. ‘It looks as if someone has bled a pig in here!’
A murmur of horror ran through the crowd; people craned their necks to see. Monsieur Dabadie was the first to step forward, standing on the carriage step to look inside. Roubaud stood behind him, straining his neck to make it appear that he was as curious as everyone else.
Nothing had been disturbed inside the coupé; the windows remained closed, and everything was in its proper place. But a foul smell issued from the open door, and there was a dark patch of congealed blood on one of the seat-cushions. The blood had formed a pool so broad and deep that a stream had trickled on to the floor carpet, like water from a spring. It had fallen in splashes all over the seat covers; there was blood everywhere. It was sickening.
Monsieur Dabadie was furious.
‘Who were the men responsible for cleaning this carriage last night?’ he shouted. ‘I want them here, immediately!’
They were in fact already there. They shuffled forward, muttering excuses... they hadn’t been able to see properly in the dark, they’d felt in all the compartments, they swore they hadn’t noticed a smell the night before.
Monsieur Cauche remained inside the carriage, scribbling notes for his report. He called down to Roubaud. Roubaud was a friend of his; the two men often took a stroll along the platform and had a smoke together when there was not much to do.
‘Monsieur Roubaud,’ he called, ‘would you come up and give me a hand, please?’
Roubaud stepped over the bloodstain on the carpet, careful not to tread on it.
‘Have a look under the other cushion,’ said Monsieur Cauche. ‘Something might have slipped down behind it.’
Roubaud lifted the cushion, feeling carefully with his hands and quickly looking underneath it. There was nothing there. But he noticed a mark on the upholstery on the back of the seat. He pointed it out to Monsieur Cauche; perhaps it was a bloodstained fingerprint.4 They both inspected it carefully and finally agreed that it was just another splash of blood. The crowd of onlookers, sensing that a crime had been committed, had edged closer to watch the investigation. They were all pushing forward behind the stationmaster, who, being a sensitive sort of man and easily upset, had refrained from entering the compartment and was still standing on the carriage step.
A thought suddenly occurred to him.
‘Monsieur Roubaud,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you on the train last night? You came back on the express, didn’t you? You might be able to give us some information.’
‘Why yes!’ exclaimed Monsieur Cauche. ‘Was there anything you noticed?’
For a moment or two Roubaud made no reply; he was stooping to look at the carpet. He quickly straightened himself and, in his usual rather gruff voice, answered:
‘Yes there was. I’ll tell you what I can... My wife was with me too, by the way. In fact, if this has to go in your report, I would like her to be present too, to make sure her account matches mine.’
Monsieur Cauche said that this seemed a very reasonable request. Pecqueux, who had just arrived on the scene, offered to go and look for her and hurried off immediately. There was nothing to do but wait. Philomène, who had arrived at the same time as Pecqueux, was not at all pleased to see him so eager to offer his assistance, but, catching sight of Madame Lebleu hurrying towards them as fast as her poor swollen legs would carry her, she ran over to give her a helping hand. The two women raised their hands to the heavens and uttered cries of amazement, thrilled by the discovery of such a heinous crime. Although nothing about the murder was yet known, various accounts of what had happened were already circulating amongst the crowd, accompanied by looks of horror and much arm waving. Above the general murmur of voices, Philomène herself could be heard declaring on her honour, although it was she who had just invented it, that Madame Roubaud had seen the murderer. At