The Beast Within - Emile Zola [97]
Left alone, Monsieur Camy-Lamotte remained standing in front of his desk. He was highly respected in government circles, and in his capacity as Secretary-General of the Ministry of Justice he was summoned to the Tuileries Palace almost daily. He exercised as much power as the Minister of Justice himself, and it was he who was always entrusted with the more delicate matters. He knew the concern and displeasure that the Grandmorin affair was causing in high places. The opposition newspapers were still running a vociferous campaign, some arguing that the police were so busy protecting politicians that they didn’t have time to arrest murderers,3 others delving into the President’s private life and presenting him as an acolyte of that notorious hive of profligacy, the Court! As the elections drew nearer, the campaign was having a disastrous effect. The Secretary-General had been informed that the government wished to see the affair closed as soon as possible, by whatever expedient was necessary, and as the minister had delegated this delicate matter to him, he now had sole responsibility for dealing with it. The decision would be his and his alone. He therefore had to give it careful consideration. He knew that if he made a mistake, he would be the one to pay for it.
Still deep in thought, he walked across the room and opened the door to where Monsieur Denizet had been waiting. Monsieur Denizet had been eavesdropping on their conversation.
‘Just as I said!’ he exclaimed, as he re-entered the room. ‘We were wrong to suspect the Roubauds. It is quite plain that the only thing she was bothered about was preventing her husband being dismissed. She didn’t say a single incriminating word.’
The Secretary-General made no answer. He stood looking at the magistrate as he continued to turn things over in his mind. He thought of all the men in law courts up and down the country whose future, by virtue of being in control of appointments, he held in his hands. It amazed him to think what worthy men they were despite their pitiful salaries, how intelligent they were despite the stultifying demands of their profession. Whether he was clever or not, the man standing in front of him, peering at him through half-closed eyes, was certainly very tenacious when he thought he had got hold of the truth.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you still think that this Cabuche is the murderer?’
The question took Monsieur Denizet by surprise.
‘Indeed I do!’ he answered. ‘The evidence is overwhelming. I’ve been through all of it with you and I can safely say that it’s a classic case; there’s not a single thing missing. I’ve done everything I can to ascertain whether he had an accomplice in the compartment, a woman as you gave me to understand. That seemed to tally with the statement of an engine driver, a man who caught a glimpse of the murder actually being committed. Of course, I questioned him thoroughly, but he was unable to confirm what he had originally said. He actually identified the travelling rug as being the black shape he had mentioned ... Yes, I’m quite certain that Cabuche was the murderer. All the more so because, if we can’t prove it was him, we can’t prove it was anybody!’
The Secretary-General had been waiting to tell him about the written evidence that was in his possession, but now that he knew that Séverine was guilty, he was even less keen than before to establish the truth. Why upset the examining magistrate’s mistaken conclusions if the true line of inquiry was going to lead to even more trouble. It all needed careful consideration.
‘Well,’ he continued with a weary smile, ‘I dare say you’re right. I only asked you to come and see me because there are a number of important matters we need to discuss. This is a very special