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MAURICE LEVEL


428", 17:110.
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Harvard College Library
FROM
Prof. Willis. A. Boughton.....








THE GRIP OF FEAR





THE GRIP OF FEAR
BY
MAURICE LEVEL
NEW YORK: MITCHELL KENNERLEY
1911


43688.91.110
Copyright 1911 by
Mitchell Kennerley
Harvarů College Library.
Gift of
210. Willis A. Boug ton
Son. 19 1925


CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE FIRST INSPIRATION
II. 29, BOULEVARD LANNES
III. The Last MORNING OF ONESIMUS
Coche, REPORTER
IV. THE FIRST Night OF ONESIMUS
COCHE, THE MURDERER
V. A Few PointS OF DETAIL
VI. “Not KNOWN AT No. 22"
VII. Twelve Hours—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M.
VIII. UNEASINESS
IX. ANGUISH
X. IN THE CLUTCHES OF Death
160
181
201
220





THE GRIP OF FEAR
THE FIRST INSPIRATION
“So that's settled,” said Monsieur Ledoux,
still standing on the doorstep; "the
first night you are disengaged, you let me
know, and come and dine?”
"All right; and thank you again for the
delightful evening."
"Nonsense. The pleasure has been mine.
i.. Wrap yourself up; it is quite cold to-
night. You know the way? Down the
Boulevard Lannes as far as the Avenue He
Martin. If you walk fast you may still catch
the last train. . . . By the by, you ought to
have a revolver. This isn't a very safe part
of the town...."
“Oh! that's all right; thank you, I have


THE GRIP OF FEAR
one. You know, I'm used to Paris after dark,
and a journalist has to learn how to take
care of himself. Don't come any further; the
moonlight is so clear I can find my way per-
fectly. Good-bye. ..."
Onesimus Coche crossed the pavement and
started walking briskly down the middle of
the boulevard; when he reached the first turn-
ing he heard his host's voice calling out cheer-
fully:
“Au revoir. Don't be long before you come
again.”
He turned round and replied:
"Indeed I won't. Good-night.”
Monsieur Ledoux was still standing on the
steps and waving his hand. From the passage
behind him, all hung with andrinople and lit
by a bright hall-lamp, came a shaft of rosy
light.
There was a sense of homely comfort in the
sight of the little sleepy garden and the small
house with its closed shutters, revealed in that
patch of light; and after the door was shut
Onesimus Coche stood for a moment quite still,
gazing back. Ten years of Paris life had


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 3
not sufficed to make him altogether forget his
early days spent in a distant provincial town,
or the long winter evenings and the familiar
silent streets, where in spring-time, when the
sap is rising, you seem to hear the crackling
of the wood in the eaves and in the beams of
the old houses on either side. Without quite
knowing why, his thoughts travelled back to
the cosy home of his childhood and to the old
people he loved, who must be fast asleep by
this time. An easy, uneventful life like theirs
might have been his own if some demon had not
attracted him to this great city of Paris. He
had never had much luck here, and, after
throwing himself in the fray with the spirit
of one born to conquer, he had had to content
himself with reporting for a daily paper.
He lit his cigarette and went on, more
slowly.
A comfortable dinner and good old vintage
wine disposed his mind to hopeful dreams long
since forgotten. There was no sound to break
into his thought, no familiar noise of engines,
or rustle of paper, or smell of ink and rags and
fat such as fills the air in the printing room-


THE GRIP OF FEAR
and he seemed to see within reach of him, al-
most close at hand, the wonderful and fragile
thing which he had learnt to despair of attain-
ing-glory!
Once or twice before, as he sat with his
elbows on the table, at a late hour, in a restau-
rant, under the flaring lights, amid the musty
odours of food and the perfumes of women's
toilettes, surrounded by constant movement
and deafened by gipsy music, with dazed brain,
with sight and hearing exasperated by the
colours and the noise, he had experienced the
same sudden and clear sense that he was "some-
body," and that he had in himself the germ of
great achievements. He had said to himself:
“Ah! at this moment, if I had a pen, ink, and
paper, I could write something immortal."
Alas! at these mysterious times, when another
self seems to spring into being and to trans-
form the old self, the pen, the ink, and the
paper are never at hand. ...
And so now, in the stillness of the winter
night, under the sharp caress of the wind,
thoughts and memories played, as it were,
vainly in this man's soul.


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 5
Suddenly came the stroke of the hour: that
sound at which all dreaming is dispelled.
"Bother!” he said, “half-past twelve; I have
missed the last train. I'll be hanged if I can
find a cab in this God-forsaken hole!”
He quickened his pace. The boulevard
stretched endlessly before him, bounded on
the left by small houses and on the right by
the round, heavy mass of the fortifications.
Here and there the street lamps cast their
yellow light upon the pavement; nothing else
had even the semblance of life, on this road, as
it lay between the sleeping houses and little
bands of grass and rows of leafless trees that
did not even shiver in the night. There was
something awe-inspiring in this absolute still-
ness and this unchanging silence. ...
As he passed by the bastion occupied by
the Army Police, Onesimus Coche slackened
his pace and cast a glance in the direction of
the sentry-box: it was empty. He walked on,
skirting the wall. Behind the railing lay the
courtyard, white with a clear whiteness, only
broken here and there by the tiny black shad-
ows of the pebbles. From the stables came


THE GRIP OF FEAR
the rattling of the halters and the pawing of
a horse in its box.
These sounds freed Onesimus Coche from
the vague sense of anguish which had op-
pressed him since his father's door had closed
upon him; and Onesimus Coche, the dreamer
and the poet, vanished. There remained only
Onesimus Coche, the indefatigable reporter,
ready to start off at a moment's notice and to
"interview," with the same self-assurance and
the same cold smile, the explorer just back
from the North Pole, and the porter who
“thought he had seen the murderer go by.”...
His cigarette had gone out. He took an-
other from his pocket and stopped to light it.
He was about to walk on when he saw three
shadows advancing fast towards him along
the railings. At any other time he would not
even have troubled to look; but the lateness
of the hour, the loneliness of this spot, and
some strange instinct fixed his attention on
them. Drawing back in the shadow of a tree,
he stood watching.
At a later time he remembered that during
this second, which was to mean so much in his


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 7
life, his senses were strangely sharpened. His
eyes pierced the night, aware of a thousand
details; his ear detected the slightest rustling.
Although he was by nature courageous and
even foolhardy, yet now he put his hand on his
revolver and was relieved by the sense of se-
curity which it gave him to play with the
trigger. A thousand confused thoughts crossed
his brain. He saw quite clearly before his
mind's eye things which had slept within him
for years. For a few seconds he knew the
anguish of the man in extremity of peril, who
lives his whole life over again between one
heart-beat and the next. He felt the awful
and distinct warning of present, immediate
danger, and was conscious of the desperate
effort of the human machine by which muscles,
senses and reason attain their maximum per-
fection for the defence of the whole man.
The shadows glided on, halting suddenly,
then starting off again, advancing by quick,
irregular bounds. Within a few steps of him
they slackened their pace and stopped; and,
by the light of the street-lamp, Coche took


THE GRIP OF FEAR
in every detail of their appearance and watched
their every movement.
They were a woman and two men. The
smaller man carried in his arms a large bundle
wrapped up in blue rags. The woman turned
her head to right and left, listening. As if
fearing the presence of some invisible witness,
the man with the bundle and the woman drew
back out of the circle of light. The other man
did not move at first; then he made a step for-
ward and, with his hands over his eyes, leaned
against the lamp-post. He had a truly sinister
aspect. His face was white and drawn, with
sunken cheeks; and he pressed both large hands
convulsively across it. A glistening lock of
black hair fell over his forehead. Some blood
had dripped between his fingers and over his
moustache and lip and down over his cheek and
neck on to his shirt-collar.
“Well,” said the woman in a half-whisper,
"what are you waiting for?”
He murmured: “It hurts. Bon Dieu!"
She came out of the shade and went up to
him. The small man followed her, put down


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 9
his bundle, and murmured, shrugging his
shoulders:
“What a fuss!"
"I should like to see you if you'd got what
I have! There, look!"
He drew away his bloodstained hands.
Under his matted hair was an enormous gash
slashing his forehead open from right to left
with a deep, gaping, bleeding wound. It
severed the eyebrow, and the eyelid below it
was so dark and swollen that you could scarcely
see, as it opened and closed, a suspicion of a
small dark thing, also covered with blood—the
eye.
The woman, moved to pity, took her hand-
kerchief and very gently sponged the wound.
Then, as the blood, clotted for a moment,
began to flow again, she tore the bundle open,
and took some rags from it with which to dress
the cut. The wounded man, clenching his
teeth, and stamping his foot, held out his brut-
ish face. The other one growled: “Don't
undo the parcell”
“Well, upon my word!” said the woman,


10
THE GRIP OF FEAR
turning her head, but still holding her hands
over the wound.
The smaller man knelt down and made up :
the parcel again as best he could, twisting
some projecting gold article. Then he got .
up, with his bundle under his arm, and waited.
Only, when the other one's gash was dressed
and the woman was about to wipe her hands
on her apron, he said to her, looking her
straight in the eyes:
"Hear, stop that! You don't wipe that sort
of thing off; you wash it off! D’you hear?”
The trio started off again in the shadow and
continued their way, close to the walls, without
a word, running on tip-toe. Suddenly a branch
fell on the pavement at their heels; they turned
round with a start, all three like one man, fists
clenched and head down. Coche caught one
last glimpse of the red hair of the woman, the
twisted mouth of the small man, and the horri-
ble wounded face of the other, half hidden by
the blood-stained rags. Then they bounded
on, reached the grass by the fort, and were lost
in the darkness. And Coche, who had known
all the time the danger in which he stood, and


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 11
DI
at one moment had said to himself, “If they
see me I am a dead man," breathed freely.
He let go his revolver, which he had not ceased
from fingering during the whole scene, and,
sure of being really alone, he began to think.
First of all he reflected how right his friend
Ledoux had been in saying that this was not
a safe place; and with the thought came into
his mind a favourite saying of his, one which
he had very often used as a striking close for
his articles: “Our police service is thoroughly
inefficient."
He considered what course of action
to take, and decided to hurry back to the
Avenue Henri-Martin. Why? For the mere
pleasure, without profit or glory, of getting a
stab in the back? Without knowing why, he
started in that direction. But he had not
walked four steps before his reporter's instinct
—the instinct, as it were, of an amateur detec-
tive-gained the upper hand, and he came to a
sudden standstill.
"The incomparable trio which I have just
met,” said he to himself, “are, I am sure, fresh
from some crime. Of what kind? Was it


12 THE GRIP OF FEAR
armed assault, or simply burglary? The
wound of the first man seems to point to
assault. . . . But the bulky package of the
other one seems to prove conclusively that
burglary is their trade. Road thieves robbing
the belated passer-by can find at best money,
papers, and jewellery—not a cumbersome load.
People do not walk about carrying table silver
and fancy articles; and, unless I am much mis-
taken, I saw some gold and silver in that
bundle. I saw the face of a clock, too, and
when the man put down the bundle I heard a
jingle like that of table silver. As for the
wound. ... A quarrel over the sharing of the
booty? ... A fall against some hard and cut-
ting body—the marble of a mantelpiece, or the
glass of a door?... Quite likely. ... In any
case, burglary seems evident. And, if so, I
have two alternatives. I can either retrace
my steps full speed and try to follow the trail
of the rascals; or else try to find the house into
which they have broken. I have lost a full
ten minutes, and by now the fellows are a good
way off. Even supposing that I find them,
alone against three I can do little; besides, it


THE FIRST INSPIRATION
13
is not my business to capture them: we have
paid agents for that. On the other hand, the
task of finding out more about this mysterious
business does certainly tempt my fancy. No
one can have yet discovered the theft. I know
exactly where the three came from, for my
sight is good for three hundred yards, even in
this light: I must have seen the shadows at
about that distance away; from the moment I
saw them the two men and the woman did not
stop till they reached this lamp; I can therefore
cover three hundred yards without hesitation.
After that I will consider.”
He started on his way without haste, turn-
ing round from time to time to see what dis-
tance he had covered. His step was about
twenty-five inches. He counted four hundred
steps and stopped. From that moment he
stood on the possible scene of their action. If
the theft had taken place before the Avenue
Henri-Martin, he was quite sure he would find
some traces of the three. He found himself
before a small, closed garden-door. At the
bottom of the garden was a house, and a light


14
THE GRIP OF FEAR
showing behind the closed shutters. Coche did
not even halt.
Everywhere the same stillness; not a trace
could be detected of anything abnormal. He
was beginning to despair when, happening to
rest his hand on a door, he felt the door give
way.
He raised his eyes; the house was dark and
silent, and he thought its silence abnormally
deep. However, he shrugged his shoulders
and murmured to himself: “What now? What
trick is my imagination playing on me, just
when I need all my presence of mind? ... And
yet, why is this door not closed?”
The door had flown wide open. Onesimus
saw the little garden with carefully-tended
flower-beds, the earth neatly raked, and the
light sand on the path, which seemed golden
under the caress of the moon. A strange hesi-
tation came over him, so marked that he
decided to go in. ... The whole thing was only
a romance, so he began to think. The burglars
were no doubt honest workmen returning home
. . . they had perhaps been attacked by rob-
bers. . . . After all, what had they said that


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 15
could justify his suspicions? Their whole de-
meanour was mysterious and sinister. But
what of that? If some one were to see him now,
appearing suddenly out of the darkness, would
not even he look very startling?
The drama was becoming comic opera.
True, the bundle must be accounted for; ...
but what if it only contained an alarum and
some scraps of old tin? ....
Night is a strange counsellor. It trans-
forms objects and beings by casting on them
fantastic shadows which the sun disperses.
Fear, the handmaid of the Evil One, changes
everything, making romances out of nothing-
and foolish, childish romances at that. None
of us knows exactly at what moment she enters
into possession of our souls. She works there
sometimes for hours while we still think that
we are perfectly self-possessed; we think-
I want this, I want that. ... But Fear is
all the time the real mistress in us. She has
sat herself down sovereign and triumphant.
We are altogether in her power; her grip seems
to hold our throat. . . . Soon even our pride
is conquered; a great shudder seizes and shakes


16
THE GRIP OF FEAR
us; with a strange, desperate effort we try to
escape from her hold-in vain: the bravest con-
fess themselves conquered first. Dark, indeed,
is the moment when we murmur the fatal
words—I am afraid! But for hours our teeth
have been chattering without our daring to
recognise it.
Onesimus Coche took a step back and said
aloud to himself: "You're frightened, old
boy.”
He waited a moment, trying to analyse the
exact impression that the words made upon
himself. Not a muscle in his body twitched.
His hands remained quite still in his pock-
ets; he did not even experience the fleet-
ing surprise usually caused by the sound
of one's own voice out of the silence.
He looked straight before him. Then sud-
denly he started; on the yellow sand
of the path he had detected some footprints,
outlined by a tiny shade, here quite separate
and distinct, there covered one by another. He
came back to the door, knelt down and picked
up a little of the soil. It was dry sand, so fine
and light that the slightest touch of wind would


THE’FIRST INSPIRATION 17
disperse it. He half-opened his fingers and
watched the sand fall, as light as powder. Sud-
denly all his doubts vanished, and with them
all his theories on Fear and on the fantastic
images that Fear may weave. His mind had
never been clearer, he had never felt calmer
than he did at this moment. His brain acted
like a good workman who has put the last
fashioning touch to his work, and now takes
up the finished article with a steady hand, raises
it to the level of his eye, and sees that it is
complete and perfect.
He pulled himself together. All that for a
moment had seemed to him an empty fancy
now became in his mind more than probable-
sure-fact. This which he had found was exact
evidence. He abandoned hypothesis for a
tangible proof which his imagination could no
longer transform. From one deduction to an-
other—they were strictly logical deductions
this time—he reached the exact point which his
instinct had reached long before. He thought:
“Somebody has trodden on the sand of this
path; this must have been done quite recently,
for the footprints are clear, and to-night's


18 THE GRIP OF FEAR
breeze would have dispersed them in an hour
or two. Those men and the woman passed by
this place. No one except themselves can
have stepped over the threshold of this house.
The key to the mystery lies, then, behind these
silent walls in the darkness of the closely-shut-
tered rooms.”
Some invisible power pushed him forward.
He went in.
He advanced very cautiously, taking care
not to tread over the footprints which he had
seen. Although he knew that the slightest gust
of wind might efface them at any moment, he
was too conscious of their importance to de-
stroy them himself. Without a thought the
burglars had left, as it were, their personal
seal; the merest tyro in the detective's art could
not fail to take stock of these traces, and to
avail himself of them for his inquiry. Coche
could remember a thousand sensational cases
in which much slighter indices had served as
valuable clues: the story, for instance, of the
criminal who was traced several years after his
crime through a forgotten boot. And now he
marvelled that his mind was so clear and so


THE FIRST INSPIRATION
19
quick after all the hesitation which had pos-
sessed him before; his reason seemed to have
abdicated in favour of a kind of superior in-
stinct which not only guided the boldest of
his inductions, but also directed his slightest
movement.
Thus, after walking barely ten steps, he ar-
rived at the door of the house. He who a
moment ago would have been quite unnerved
by the thought of meeting a shadow or a face,
he who for a while had not dared to formu-
late his suspicions even to himself, now felt not
the least surprise on finding that the door
opened easily when he turned the handle. And
yet, from the point of view of common sense,
surely it was less surprising that the people
of the house should have forgotten to shut the
gate rather than the hall door. A gate, at the
best of times, presents only a very slight diffi-
culty for any one wishing to pass in; and the
first comer could with no effort have got on
to that particular garden wall and let himself
down noiselessly into the garden. But a hall
door can afford a protection enough to make
it worth while to fasten it securely before re-


20 THE GRIP OF FEAR
tiring for the night. This very simple course
of reasoning did not even occur to Coche; any
more than did the fear of being himself taken
for a burglar, and received as such.
Nevertheless, when he heard the echo of his.
own steps in the corridor, he stopped for a
moment. He fumbled in his pocket for a
match: his box was empty! He murmured:
“Can't be helped,” and took out his revolver.
And then he went on, groping with his arms
out and his hands open, guiding himself by
the contact with a very cold wall, so damp that
it felt sticky to the touch. Suddenly this guide
failed him, and he was left groping in empty
space. He put out one foot, then the next;
it fell upon something softer than the stone
flags in the corridor. He bent down and felt
with his hands; there was a step, and then a
carpet, agreeable to the touch after the damp-
ness of the wall. He straightened himself and
put his hand on the bannister; the wood
creaked. Scarcely knowing how he did it,
without stopping to inquire why, he was on
his way to the first floor. He made no attempt
at inspecting the ground floor first. He started


THE FIRST INSPIRATION
21
to climb the stairs. He counted twelve steps;
then came a small landing, and he began to
feel along the wall again; there was still noth-
ing but a smooth surface. He went on climb-
ing; he counted up twelve steps again, and
after these he felt the ground flat before him:
this was the next floor of the house—the way
was open. Now he must try to discover some-
thing of his whereabouts, and-more impor-
tant still, if he wanted to avoid being killed-
he must announce his presence.
The owner, or owners, of this house must
be sleeping very soundly, thought Coche, if
they had not heard his footsteps before now.
The stairs had creaked many times under his
feet. Even the door, notwithstanding his pre-
cautions, had creaked when he shut it. Who
could tell whether there wasn't a man standing
silently somewhere ready to spring upon him,
and perhaps to fire? By his present procedure
he risked no less than his life. He therefore
said, very softly so as not to frighten any one:
"Any one there?"
No answer.
He repeated a little louder:


22
THE GRIP OF FEAR
"Is any one there?”
After a short pause he added:
"Don't be afraid; open. ..."
No answer.
"Upon my word,” thought he, “they are
sleeping soundly in here, and no mistakel-
I had not thought of that. It makes it much
more awkward. However, I don't mean to
get myself maimed just for the love of my
art.”
He thought a moment, and then said, very
loudly:
“Open! It's the Police.”
The sound of that word “Police” made him
smile. Whatever had made him think of an-
nouncing himself as the Police? Onesimus
Coche in the Police! Onesimus Coche, who
spent his whole time collecting instances of
Police mismanagement, poking fun at the
agents of law and order; he was now reduced to
appropriating their title! It was rather a joke.
The Police (and this time he could not help
laughing outright) were far from having any
thought of him or of the burglars! At that
very moment, a good way off from the place
e


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 23
where he stood, two very sleepy policemen
were pacing up and down the law-abiding
thoroughfares, with their hoods drawn up and
their hands in their pockets. At the police-
stations, near a rumbling stove, amid a smell
of pipes, of hot plaster, of wet linen and leather,
other policemen, astride of wooden benches,
were playing manilla with those rough, greasy
cards that cling to one's fingers—just waiting
to collar some belated pickpocket, or the milk-
man caught in the act of "baptizing” his goods
—that was all the Police were good for!-In-
deed, he, Onesimus Coche, was now what the
Police ought always to be—the vigilant and
faithful, skilful and resolute guardian, effec-
tively watching over the safety of the virtuous.
What a comparison! what a lesson! ... He
could just see the article he would write next
day; and he rejoiced at the thought of how it
would make the Police authorities feel.
He, a mere journalist, would teach them
their trade! The article should have a sensa-
tional head-line; it would commence with
something striking, continue with something
unexpected. ... What an article it should be!


24 THE GRIP OF FEAR
But the magic word—“the Police”-re-
mained unanswered like the rest. Not a
whisper broke the majestic silence of the place.
Coche bethought him that his trick had failed
and that he still stood in considerable danger.
One thing, however, reassured him. As his
eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he began,
little by little, to distinguish the things around
him, and soon saw a faint glimmer of light a
few steps in front of him. He walked forward
and found himself by a window. A thin ray
of moonlight peeped in through a chink in the
closed shutters. Between the bars of the
French blinds he saw a little strip of garden
and another darker strip that must be the
boulevard. But he did not stop to enjoy the
pleasure of the moonlight or of the few stars
that besprinkled the sky. Nothing was less
suited to his fiery temperament than this silence
and the slow, cautious manner of advance
which he had been forced to adopt. He had
been by turns patient, crafty, timid, almost
cowardly.... But there is an end to all things.
He had come into this house to learn some-
thing, and he was going to learn it.


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 25
He turned about, put his hand up to the
wall, went on, groping, more boldly. At last
he came upon a door; then he took hold of
the handle, pulling it towards himself to make
sure that nobody could open suddenly from
the inside, and he shouted rather than said:
“Steady! Don't be afraid and don't shoot!"
He counted three, and then, receiving no
answer, he plunged into the room. He ex-
pected to be met by resistance; on the con-
trary, carried too far by his own impetus, he
fell face forward and struck his forehead
against something hard. He put out his hand
to save himself; and in so doing he knocked
against a chair, which fell with a great clatter
upon the floor.
“This time,” he said, "with all this noise,
they must hear me at last.”
But when the crash had subsided, still no
sound was heard—not a whisper came through
the night, not a breath reached his ear.
“Hullo,” he thought, “the burglars were
better prepared than I was. The cage is
empty, and they knew; they did their business
in perfect comfort. That's why they did not


26 THE GRIP OF FEAR
even shut the doors after them, as well-trained
workmen would. That's how I got in so
easily.”
There was an electric switch by his hand;
he turned the light on. It burst out on a large
room, for a moment overpowering and blind-
ing Coche's tired eyes. When at last he was
able to look, his glance fell upon a sight so
unforeseen and so horrible that Coche felt his
hair stand on end and was scarcely able to
restrain a shriek of wild terror.
The place was in a state of mad disorder.
A cupboard stood wide open on one side of
the room, showing disordered piles of linen,
and sheets half fallen from the shelves as if
they were torn, all covered with red blotches.
The drawers stood open, and one could see
that the papers and old clothes and old boxes
that now littered the floor had been kept in
there. Near the curtain, on the wall hung
with some light-coloured material, was spread
the print of a red hand, with all the fingers
stretched open and wide apart. The glass
over the mantelpiece, cracked from top to bot-
tom, was broken in the middle; and a few


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 27
spliņters of glass lay sparkling on the floor.
On the dressing-table rag-ends of clothes and
pieces of string, and crumpled-up envelopes
were scattered untidily. The red-tinged water
which filled the basin had overflowed, and pools
of the same colour lay on the white marble slab.
A crumpled-up towel bore traces of blood.
Everything was pillaged, everything was red.
Coche's feet treading upon the carpet made a
sound like the crunching of sand on the sea-
shore when the tide is rising. Last of all, lying
across the bed, with his arms crossed, gripping
the neck of a bottle, pieces of which had cut
into his hand, was stretched an old man with
his throat cut open from ear to chest-bone by
a horrible gash. The blood had welled out on
to the pillows, the sheets, the walls, and the fur-
niture in a violent outrush. In the crude light,
in the horrible silence, this room where every-
thing was red, where everywhere blood had
set its seal, looked no longer like a room, but
like a charnel-house.
Onesimus Coche saw the whole with one
horrified glance, and his terror was such that
he was obliged to lean against the wall, or he
use.


28 THE GRIP OF FEAR
would have fallen, then to summon all his self-
command, or he would have fled. A hot wave
rushed to his face, he was shaken by a long
shudder, and an icy sweat broke out over his
body.
He had before now looked upon many ter-
rible sights—out of curiosity, or by chance, or
by reason of his profession, yet never had he
felt a horror like this; for never until now
had he come upon such a spectacle without
knowing what he was about to see, or at least
realising that he was about to see "something."
Besides, on all other occasions he had had the
companionship of other men, sustaining his
courage and overcoming his loathing by that
human contact which gives courage to the most
faint-hearted. This was the first time that
he had found himself unexpectedly and alone
in the presence of death. . . . And of what a
death! ...
He straightened himself. The broken mirror
reflected his likeness before him; he looked
ghastly pale, with deep black rings round his
eyes; his dry lips were half-opened by a fear-
ful, convulsive smile, and on his forehead,


THE FIRST INSPIRATION
29
moist with perspiration, near his right temple,
which was streaked by a thin line of blood,
there was a red spot.
At first, forgetting the knock which he had
received when he first fell into the room, he
thought that the spot was on the mirror and
not on himself. He moved his head to one
side, but the spot followed his movement; then
he grew horribly afraid. He was no longer
made afraid by death, by silence, or by this
murder, but was seized with the dim, strong
fear of some supernatural occurrence, of a
kind of madness, suddenly breaking out with-
in him. He almost hurled himself towards the
mantelpiece, and, clutching at the marble with
his hand, craning his neck, he looked at him-
self. Then he breathed more freely. With a
closer vision of himself his memory returned;
he felt the pain of his bruise, and was almost
glad that it hurt. He took his handkerchief
and wiped the blood that had run down over his
cheek on to his collar. The scratch was in-
significant: a small, clean cut of less than an
inch, which had bled a great deal, as face
wounds always do, and which was now sur-


30 THE GRIP OF FEAR
rounded by a pink and purplish bruise scarcely
larger than a florin. And now—it was barely
a minute since his first entrance into the room
-he thought again of the motionless body
stretched upon the bed, of the hideous gash he
had seen, of the terrified face plunged amid
the whiteness of the sheets, with the chin
thrown forward, the neck strained as if offer-
ing itself to a new onslaught—that image re-
flected in the glass near his own. He made
his way to the bed, crushing bits of glass as
he walked, and he bent over the body to look.
There was scarcely any blood round the
head, but the neck and shoulders lay in a con-
gealed pool. With infinite precaution, almost
tenderness, he took the head in his hands and
raised it a little: the wound opened wider, like
some horrible human mouth, letting a few
drops of blood rise with a tiny ripple. A thick
clot adhered to the hair and was stretched by
the movement of the head. He put the head
down again gently. It had preserved, in
death, an unspeakable expression of fear; the
eyes, not yet quite quenched, had an extraor-
dinary fixity in their gaze. The glare of the


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 31
light lit up in them two little flames, round
which Onesimus Coche saw two small images,
scarcely dimmed, that were images of himself:
for the last time, the mirror of those eyes, over
which had passed the faces of the murderers,
reflected a human countenance. Death had
done its work; the heart had ceased from beat-
ing; the ears heard no longer; the last cry had
been uttered by those convulsed lips; the last
death-rattle had welled up against the barrier
of the teeth covered with foam. ... The still
warm flesh of this man would never again be
made to thrill either under the caress of a kiss
or by the sharpness of pain.
Suddenly, between this dead man and him-
self, there rose another picture: that of the trio
on the Boulevard Lannes. He saw the small
man with his blue bundle, the wounded man
with his swollen eye and scarce human counte-
nance, the woman with her bare head. . . . He
heard the short, brutal voice saying: “You
wash that, you don't wipe it.” And the drama
appeared to him with terrible distinctness.
Whilst the woman kept watch the two men,
after picking the locks to get in, had run up


32
THE GRIP OF FEAR
to the first floor, where they knew they would
find some valuables. The old man, overtaken
in his sleep, had shouted, and the burglars had
jumped upon him; he, to defend himself, had
armed himself with a bottle and, hitting hap-
hazard, had struck one of his assailants on the
forehead. The struggle had continued for a
few seconds longer, to judge by all the blood
that had been shed and all the furniture that
had been overturned. ... At last the victim had
stood at bay by the bed; one of the men had
then seized him by his collar, where the red
marks were still visible, and had held him on
his back while the other, with a single stroke,
had cut his throat. Then had come the loot-
ing, the feverish search for money and papers
and valuables; then flight. . .
Onesimus Coche turned round to look at the
whole scene as he could picture it on this very
spot. There were three glasses on the table
with the remains of some wine. Not imme-
diately after their horrible crime had the mur-
derers taken to flight; certain of being quite
alone now, they had sat down to drink. Then


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 33
they had washed and wiped their hands,
calmly. ...
A sudden fury welled up in the soul of the
reporter. He clenched his fists and blurted
out: “Blackguards! Fiends!”
What was he to do now? Go and fetch
somebody? Call?—what was the use of that?
All was over. No one could undo this horrible
deed. He remained there motionless, besotted,
his mind filled by the vision of the murder.
Suddenly his thoughts fled after the assassins.
He imagined them seated in some low hovel,
sharing the booty, handling the stolen things
with their red-stained fingers. For a second
time he said between his teeth: “Blackguards!
Fiends!”
A strong desire seized him to find them
again, to see them-no longer triumphant and
brutal as they must have been when they sat
at this table near his body—but oppressed,
livid, almost convulsed, in the dock, between
policemen. He pictured to himself what their
horrible faces would be like when they heard
their death-warrant, and he pictured their walk
to the scaffold in the early dawn, in the white


34 THE GRIP OF FEAR
light of a ghostly morning. The law and the
Police, the executioner, appeared to him awe-
inspiring, terrible, and righteous. . . . Then,
by a sudden recoil of thought, this law, this
Police, this secular arm, became in his eyes as
ridiculous puppets, the sport of any criminal.
The Police, incapable of watching over the
safety of citizens, were too clumsy to lay their
hands on assassins. They caught one from
time to time by pure chance, and because luck
favoured them in the game. But for one rascal
who was caught how many went scot-free! The
Police have need, not of strong sinews, but
of keen wits, of true artists, of men who see
their duties less in the light of a profession than
in that of a sport. Provided a criminal does
not commit some enormous blunder, he is cer-
tain to remain free. The man who leaves noth-
ing behind him may steal and kill with perfect
security. When the crime is discovered, a
search is made round the victim, there is a
superficial inquiry into his habits of life, his
papers are examined. If the murderer has
never had anything to do with him before, after
a few months' investigation, after an obstinate


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 35
police magistrate has kept under lock and key
some poor devil whose innocence is proved in
the end, the whole business is shelved, and the
criminals, emboldened by their success, start
again, stronger this time and less easily
tracked, because the clumsiness of the Police,
whose labours they have followed with interest,
has taught them the art of evasion.
And yet, what profession can be more ab-
sorbing than that of the man-hunter? To live
over a whole drama in its smallest details, only
following a clue scarcely perceptible to any
other man! From a footprint, from a slip of
paper, from the position of some insignificant
article, to argue back and back to the source
of events! To deduce, from the position of a
body, the action of a murderer; from the
wound, the murderer's profession and his
strength; from the hour at which the crime was
committed, the murderer's habit of life. ...
By the mere examination of facts, to build up
again an hour as a naturalist builds up the
whole picture of a prehistoric animal by the
aid of a mere fragment of bone. . . . What a
tremendous interest! and what a triumph! Can


36 THE GRIP OF FEAR
the inventor know any greater?—he who for
days and nights shuts himself up in his labora-
tory, relentlessly searching after the solution
of a problem ...? And the aim which this
man pursues is a stationary, unchanging thing.
He knows that certainty is one and unchang-
ing; that events do not modify it; that every
step forward brings him nearer to it;—he
knows that he is advancing slowly but surely;
that if the road he has chosen is the right one,
the solution cannot, in the last resort, escape
him. But see the police official; for him there
is no rest; his portion is the clue that proves
false, the aim hopefully pursued but always
disappearing, the problem ceaselessly recast,
with a solution that now approaches, now re-
cedes, now seems to escape altogether out of
the range of possibility;-his is the sudden
stifling of a triumphant shout, the manifold
abnormal life experiencing all hopes, all fears,
and all disillusions; his is the struggle against
everything and every one, requiring together
the knowledge of the wise, the cunning of the
hunter, the presence of mind of the leader of
armies, the patience, the courage, and the ex-


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 37
quisite instinct that alone make great men,
and alone cause great things. “Oh, for the
wonderful experience of a bit of that life,”
thought Coche. “I would know those moments
of triumph and live them; I would I were amid
the unintelligent crowd of police who to-mor-
row will be on the scent—1, the only detective
on the right track. Without fear of danger
and with no assistance from without, I would
like to take up this profession and to show the
world the spectacle of a man alone, without re-
sources, with no further support than the
strength of his will, with no further clues than
he has found out for himself, who can yet run
the truth down, and can finally declare one
day: ‘At this hour, in this place, you shall
find the murderers! I tell you that they are
there, not because chance has put me on their
path, but because they cannot be elsewhere;
and they cannot be elsewhere for the simple
reason that events brought about by me have
obliged them to come and fall in the net which
I have spread about their feet, each day
stronger and closer.'
“I would give up all my time to this hunt;


38 THE GRIP OF FEAR
my days, my nights, for weeks and months.
And I should at last know the joy of the man
who seeks, and finds. Compared with this,
what are the emotions of the gambler? what
is the rapture of discovery? I should taste
all raptures in a single one. . . . All? Ah!
... just ONE would be wanting-fear. ...
The fear that multiplies one's powers, that
doubles and trebles time. . . . What then? Is
there a joy keener than that of pursuit? ...
Yes; the joy of escape.
“Ah, the animal hunted by the hound, es-
caping towards the ever-receding horizon, beat-
ing its head against the low branches, tearing
its sides in the thickets—what a history of fear
it could tell, if only it were given the faculty
of speech! The guilty man who feels him-
self to be discovered, and thinks at each cross-
road to confront retribution, for whom days
have no end and the nights are peopled with
hideous dreams, and the moments of awaken-
ing are moments of fleeting and mad inebriety
of freedom-he must have felt all this! How-
ever faintly tempered the steel of his soul, what
swift but powerful joy he must experience


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 39
when he has succeeded in setting the cleverness
of his pursuers at nought, in starting them on a
wrong scent and so obtaining a moment's rest,
while they are seeking, exhausting themselves,
stopping only a moment and starting again,
till their instinct or their judgment set them
right. ... This is truly a strugglel a fight, man
to man—a pitiless war, with its dangers and its
traps. All the brute instinct of the chase is
there; this is the miniature reproduction of the
merciless struggle which has thrown living
things one against another since the world was,
and since the need arose for a daily prey. Does
not even the child get his first pleasures from
that terrible game? Without knowing it, when
he plays hide-and-seek he is learning true am-
buscading, the partisan warfare which deci-
mates an army more surely than twenty
battles.
“I will experience new sensations and learn
more of life. Shall I choose the part of the
hunter or that of the game? the part of the
policeman, or that of the criminal? A thou-
sand others have become amateur detectives,
but none has ever tried the part of the criminal.


40 THE GRIP OF FEAR
I choose the latter. Having nothing to re-
proach me, I shall not experience the real an-
guish of the guilty man; yet I shall have all
the pleasure of the chase. Like a gambler
with an empty purse, I shall at least be able to
watch upon the face of my partner the emo-
tions of the play. Risking nothing, I can lose
nothing; but, on the contrary, I stand to gain
all. And if friendly luck makes me to fall
under arrest I, being first and foremost a jour-
nalist, shall owe to the Police the triumph of
the most sensational 'copy' that has ever seen
the light—under the title, perhaps, of
“ 'THE MEMOIRS OF A MURDERER.'
"All the doors hitherto closed to my pro-
fession shall be opened to me. I shall become
acquainted with the trap, the prison-van, and
the handcuffs. I shall be able to tell, without
fear of contradiction, what prison life is like,
how the accused are treated, by what method
a judge tries to extort confession. In short,
I shall be able to utter, if need be, the most
complete and authoritative indictment against


THE FIRST INSPIRATION 41
that formidable array of power which we call
the Police and the Magistrature! One inspira-
tion of genius is sufficient for the life of a man:
if I do not become famous after this one, I
will lose my name in it. Coche, old boy, from
this very second you are, in the eyes of the
whole world, the murderer of the Boulevard
Lannes! The prologue is over, the curtain
rises, the play begins. Attention!”


29, BOULEVARD LANNES
ONESIMUS COCHE cast a searching
glance round the room, saw that the
curtains were firmly closed, listened to make
quite sure that no one was coming to interrupt
him, and then, reassured, took off his overcoat,
put it on a chair with his hat and stick, and
stood still, thinking hard.
It was a question now of building up an
entirely new mise en scène for the crime of
Onesimus Coche, and, for this purpose, the
first necessity was to do away with any clues
that might set the Police on the track of the
real assassins.
After the body, the next thing that attracted
attention in this room were the three half-
empty glasses on the table. The murderers
had committed a serious blunder in forgetting
to put them away; their negligence sufficed
42


29, BOULEVARD LANNES
43
to give a valuable clue to the Police. A single
man may pass unperceived where three would
be arrested. Coche therefore washed the
glasses, wiped them, and, seeing an open corner
cupboard containing other glasses, put these
back in their place. Then he took the unfin-
ished bottle, put out the light so that none of
his movements could be seen from outside,
pulled the curtains apart, opened the window
and the shutters, and hurled the bottle down
with all his might. He saw it twist in the air
and fall the other side of the avenue. He
threw himself back and bit his lips.
"What if somebody heard? if they were to
come? if they were to find me here in this
room?"
The fear that he felt was in no way com-
parable to any that he had experienced so far.
Swift, coercive, it nailed him to the spot, and
caught his breath. In less than a second he
felt very hot and then very cold. He searched
into the night, he hearkened in the stillness. ...
Nothing. Then he closed the window, pulled
the curtains to, came back, groping, to the
switch and turned on the electric light.


44
THE GRIP OF FEAR
What a strange thing! Only the darkness
made him afraid; the light dispelled all his
anguish. That sign alone would have proved
him not the real criminal; for the sight of the
victim, far from increasing his fear, appeased
it. In the darkness, he had gone to the point
of almost feeling guilty; when properly lit,
his surroundings were no longer horrible in
his eyes. He thought that fear and remorse
must be appalling things, and that he would
have need of a rare gift of self-control to
ape their torment without feeling them.
He thought: "I shall have to direct and
control myself as much to hide my innocence
as a guilty man does to hide his guilt.”
He next turned his attention to the dressing-
table. There the disorder was too great to
be the work of one man.
Inanimate objects bear in themselves the
secret of the touch that has handled them.
Merely by looking at the position of the towels,
one felt that they had been thrown there by
various hands: a criminal does not displace so
many objects for his own use alone. Instinct,
if not reason, obliges him to be quick. Besides,


29, BOULEVARD LANNES 45
since in the end every indication must be made
to tell against himself, it was necessary that
his well-known sense of order should be evident
in this room. Such a fastidious being as him-
self would never have twisted up the towels;
some indefinable need for order and neatness
remains, even during transitory mental aberra-
tion, in people long accustomed by their daily
habits to be careful and fastidious. The crime
of a man of the world could not be like that of
a vagrant; the well-born man leaves his traces
anywhere in the tiniest details. Coche thought
of the adventure of Ci-devant, who in the reign
of terror was sitting at table in an inn amidst
murderers and tricoteuses, and who was recog-
nised, notwithstanding a most masterly dis-
guise, by the way in which he used his fork.
One thinks of everything excepting the small,
indispensable details. The forger disguises his
handwriting and masks his personality, but a
practised eye finds, amid the altered letters and
consciously misdirected lines and purposely
changed strokes, the characteristic letter, the
way of putting a comma that suffices to reveal
the disguise.


46
THE GRIP OF FEAR
In his methodical way he tempered the con-
fusion of that room, he washed out the trace
of the hand spread out on the hanging of the
wall; he scratched out the mark of an iron heel
on a drawer; but he was careful not to touch
the traces of blood elsewhere. The more they
were the longer would the struggle seem to
have been. Soon nothing remained of the
traces left by “the others.” Now, the crime in
this faked scenery was anonymous murder,
where not the least indication is left to serve
the purposes of the law; the next thing to do
was to turn it into the crime of a definite in-
dividual, to give it a special character—in a
word, to "forget in this room some article that
might serve as a clue. At this point, perhaps
more than ever, it was important to act with
prudence and not to let oneself fall into some
clumsy mode of trickery, too easy to detect:
the article must be one that could have been for-
gotten. ... Coche took his handkerchief and
threw it at the foot of the bed, then suddenly
bethought him of something. He picked it
up and examined the mark. In a corner was
a monogram-M. L. He stopped to consider:


29, BOULEVARD LANNES 47
"M. L-that's not mine." Then he smiled,
remembering that handkerchiefs are, as it were,
constant objects of exchange, and that one can
almost count up the number of one's acquaint-
ances by that of the odd (unmatched) handker-
chiefs that lie in one's drawer. ... His walking-
stick?—the Malacca cane with a silver knob,
presented to him by a relation from Tonkin,
was too noticeable, too personal. ...
He looked around him and on his own per-
son. He wore no rings; his shirt-studs were
of china and made to look like pearl, the kind
of studs one finds in any bazaar. Of course,
he had sleeve-links, but he was rather fond of
them, not for their value, which was very small,
but as one is fond of small things worn for a
long time, that become almost like friends.
Besides, one cannot forget one's cuff-links.
You want a violent pull to tear them off....
He clapped his hand to his forehead.
“A pull! Of course! And that's excellent!
If the Police find a sleeve-link on the carpet,
they will say: 'In the course of the struggle
the victim, hanging upon the arm of the as-
sassin, tore the cuff off his shirt and broke the


48 THE GRIP OF FEAR
links; and the murderer, in his mad fury, did
not notice it. He escaped without knowing
that he left behind him a most valuable piece
of circumstantial evidence.'
"It is all quite telling, and quite likely.”
Bending his wrist forward as far as he could,
he took one side of his cuff and held it, then
he seized the other side with his free right hand
and gave a sudden jerk. The chain broke and
fell on the floor, carrying with it a little gold
ball with a turquoise in the centre. The other
half link was still in its place; Coche put it in
his waistcoat pocket; and in his haste to do this
he did not notice that his fingers were bleeding,
that he was staining his shirt and his white
waistcoat. From the inside pocket of his coat
he took out an envelope with his name and tore
it up in unequal pieces. The writing on one
piece was-
“Monsieur On
22 RI
On the other-
ue del
On the third one-
E.V.
esil
On the fourth-
mus Coche
Douai.”


29, BOULEVARD LANNES 49
As the last one showed his name too clearly
he made it into a little ball and swallowed it.
He bit off the first two letters of his name
written on the first fragment, and so left three
small pieces, almost impossible to decipher, but
capable, however, when properly joined, of
giving the name of the supposed murderer.
Without giving too many trumps to his adver-
saries, he would play in good style to the
end, and would give them a fair chance. He
threw down the three little bits of paper. One
fell on the table, almost in the very middle, the
other two stuck into the carpet. To make sure
that they should not be confused with the let-
ters belonging to the victim he picked up the
other scattered papers and put them in a
drawer, which he shut. Then he cast a glance
round the room, to make certain that he was
not forgetting anything; he put on his over-
coat, laid two of the soiled towels over the face
of the dead man, whose eyes, now glassy and,
as it were, flattened, had lost their clearness;
put out the light, and then left the room, going
with long strides down the corridor and the
stairs, and on into the garden.


50 THE GRIP OF FEAR
In crossing the path he was careful to do
away with all trace of the footprints, already
dimmed by the wind. He spread some yellow
sand over them and, walking carefully, with
one foot on the sand and the other on the
hardened earth of the grass border, he reached
the gate, opened it, closed it behind him, and
was at last on the pavement outside. Motion-
less shadows stood arrayed on either side of
the road. The great, impenetrable soft night
had no sound and no scent. Away in the far-
off distance a dog began to howl at the moon.
And suddenly the silence was filled with an in-
finite sadness. Coche remembered an old serv-
ant who used to say to him when she heard the
lonely howling of a dog in the country:
"That is to tell St. Peter that the soul of a
dead man is about to knock at the gate of
Paradise.”
Strange magic of old memories! Eternal
childhood of man! He shuddered, remember-
ing the time when, quite a tiny boy, he used to
hide his head under the bed-clothes, not to hear
the great, mysterious moaning that at night
seemed to spread among the plants; and he


29, BOULEVARD LANNES
51
felt again for a moment the sweetness of his
mother's kiss, which had so often rested on his
forehead.
Then all was still. He looked at his watch.
It said one o'clock. Once more he looked at
the house where he had spent that memorable
half-hour; then he went back to the gate, poked
aside with his walking-stick the ivy that cov-
ered the number, and read “29.”
He repeated twice over: “2, 9. 2, 9." He
added up the numbers by way of finding a
memoria technica to remember them by, saying
again to himself: "9 and 2-11.” He cast
about in his memory for some well-known date
that might coincide with this number, and, re-
membering that he was born on the twenty-
ninth day of the month, he was sure he would
not make a mistake or forget, and he went off.
He reached the end of the boulevard without
meeting any one. He was, in fact, walking
straight on without looking around him, too
unnerved to think freely, trying now to classify
his memories. They were growing confused,
mixed up to such a point that he could no
longer see quite clearly what was now his


52 THE GRIP OF FEAR
course of conduct. He was to become, as it
were, a double personality. His life would,
in any case, have to be very different from
what it had been an hour before. One act of
hesitation, one false manoeuvre, might destroy
his plan. Quite innocent, and only incrimi-
nated through his own will, yet he could only
allow himself the mistakes of a criminal.
Not far from the Trocadéro he came across
a couple walking slowly in the opposite direc-
tion to his own. When they had passed he
turned round, and as he watched them disap-
pearing in the darkness he thought:
"There go two people who have no idea that
a horrible crime has been committed a few
steps away from here; except the murderers, I
am the only living man who knows."
He felt a kind of pride in being the only
holder of such a secret. For how long would
he keep it? When would the murder be dis-
covered? If the victim, as by all indications
seemed likely, lived alone and had no attend-
ants of any kind, several days might elapse
before his absence was noticed. Some day a
tradesman would ring at the door; receiving no


29, BOULEVARD LANNES 53
answer, he would insist, would go in. A fright-
ful odour would assail him; he would climb the
wooden staircase, penetrate into the room, and
there ...
Then would come the mad flight and shrieks:
"Help! Murder!" The Police would be set
afoot; the whole Press would be bent upon
discovering the murderer; the public would go
half mad on this now celebrated case, which
would, as usual, send up the sale of newspapers
in one day;—for the mysterious circumstances
attending this crime could not fail to give it
unusual importance. During the whole time
he-Coche-would continue his own life, at-
tending to his ordinary avocations, carrying his
secret with him from place to place, with the
joy of the miser who keeps in his pocket, and
fingers at each step, the key of the strong-
box where he stores his goods. Man is never
so clearly conscious of his moral strength and
of his individual value as when he is even a
partial depositary of some mystery which sur-
rounds him. But what a heavy responsibility
a secret is! How it weighs on a man! What


54 THE GRIP OF FEAR
a temptation it must be, at every moment, to
cry:
“None of you know anything; I know.”
More than once, in the daytime, Coche would
cross the Boulevard Lannes and would give
himself the satisfaction of watching the people
pass before the house of the murder, and of
raising his eyes and saying to himself:
"Behind those closed shutters there is a
murdered man.”
And he thought: “I need only speak one
word, and I could rouse in a flash the curiosity
of all these people coming and going so in-
differently around me now. ...I shall not
speak that word. I am going to trust myself
to chance. It was by chance that I came out
of my friend's house at the very moment neces-
sary for finding out these things: chance shall
settle upon the exact moment when the tragedy
is discovered.”
Thus wrapped in thought, he arrived before
a café; through the filmy glass he could see
men playing cards and the cashier, a woman,
dozing at her post. A cat curled up before
the stove was also asleep. A waiter, standing


29, BOULEVARD LANNES 55
behind one of the gamblers, looked on; another,
in a corner, was turning over an illustrated
paper.
The wind blew very strongly. From the
little bourgeois café came a warm, cosy breath.
Coche, who was shuddering a little with
fatigue, emotion and cold, went in and sat
down. He experienced a gentle and pleasant
sensation of warmth. In the close air, clouded
by the smoke of the pipes, there was a smell
of cooking and coffee and absinthe, brought
out by the heat; and this smell, which he usually
loathed, seemed to him altogether pleasant at
this moment. He ordered coffee with brandy;
he rubbed his hands, picked up an evening
paper absent-mindedly from the corner of his
table, then suddenly put it down, and, getting
to his feet, said, almost aloud, though he didn't
know it:
“Good Lord!..."
One of the card-players turned round. The
waiter, who had moved and now stood before
the counter, thinking that Coche had called
him, hastened back.
“Yes, sir?”


56 THE GRIP OF FEAR
Coche waved his hand.
“All right. Nothing. ... Have you a tele-
phone here?”
“Yes, sir. First door on the right; straight
down the corridor.”
“Thank you.”
He passed between two tables, crossed the
corridor, shut the door behind him, and rang
up the Exchange. He grew impatient at the
delay of the attendant. At last they answered.
He took down the receiver and began:
"Hullo! 115-92 or 96.”
He listened to the calls from one clerk to
the other. He heard the bells, that seemed to
strike against his ears as drum-sticks might on
too taut a skin. At last the voice said:
"Hullo! Yes?”
Coche disguised his voice.
“Are you 115-92?"
“Yes, sir.”
"The World? I want to speak to the sub-
editor.”
Another voice came to the telephone, call-
ing for a number.
“Hullo, hullo, hullo!”


29, BOULEVARD LANNES 57
"Excuse me, sir. The line is engaged. ...
Hullo! The World? Yes! I want to speak
to the sub-editor.”
“He can't come, sir; he is in the compositors'
room; he can't be disturbed.”
“It's a very urgent matter.”
“Very well, sir. Who shall I say?"
"By Jove!” thought Coche, “I hadn't
thought of that.” But he had no hesitation.
“The editor-in-chief, Monsieur Chenard.”
“Very good, sir. . . . I will take your mes-
sage. Please hold the line.”
The confused sounds of the newspaper office
came to his ear over the telephone in a rumbling
medley. A constant humming, the sound of
crumpled paper; all the light murmurs that
Coche knew so well, having heard them for
ten years every night at the same hour when
his work was over and he made ready to go
home.
"Monsieur Chenard?” said the voice of the
sub-editor, a little out of breath.
“No, sir,” replied Coche, still changing his
voice; “forgive me, I am not the director of
your paper. I used his name to make sure


58
THE GRIP OF FEAR
that you would come, for I have something to
tell you which is most important and most
urgent.”
“Who are you, then?”
"If I were to say that my name is Smith
or Jones, that would add nothing to what I
have to say, sir, and it would be nothing but
a waste of very precious time.”
“I think the joke's gone far enough. ..."
"For Heaven's sake, sir, don't cut me off!
I am the bearer of a sensational piece of news
that no paper will have either to-morrow or
after to-morrow unless I give it. First of all,
one word: is the paper in the press ?”
“Not yet; but it will be in ten minutes.
You see I have no time...."
“You must find time to take out something
from the stop-press news and put in this, just
as I dictate it:
“A horrible crime has been committed at
No. 29, Boulevard Lannes, in a house inhabited
by an old man of about sixty. Death was
caused by a tremendous gash which reaches
from the ear to the breast-bone. The motive
of the crime appears to be theft.'”


29, BOULEVARD LANNES
59
ve
“One moment; repeat the address.”
“29, Boulevard Lannes.”
“I thank you. But ... how can I tell ...?
What have I to prove ...? How on earth do
you know? I can't prove such a startling piece
of news with no proof.... There is no time
for me to verify it. ... Tell me something by
which I may know how you came to hear. ...
Hullo, hullo! don't go. ... Come back, sir."
“Well,” said Coche, "you may think, if you
choose, that I who speak to you am the mur-
derer!... But I can tell you this: I shall buy
the first number of the World that comes out
this morning, and if I don't find in it the an-
nouncement that I have just given to you I
shall pass on my information to the Telegraph,
your rival; and, after that, you can settle it
with Monsieur Chenard. Believe me, you'd
better cut out a few words and put in my
own. ..."
“One word, sir. How long have you
known ...?"
Coche gently put back the receiver, went
out of the box and back into the room, and sat
down to sip his coffee at leisure, like a well-


60
THE GRIP OF FEAR
satisfied man. Then, having paid with a bank-
note—the only bank-note he possessed, and
one which he kept in his pocketbook from the
1st of January to the 31st of December of each
year, for appearances' sake—he turned up his
coat collar and went out. And as he walked
out of the room he halted a minute, saying
convincingly to himself:
“Coche, old boy, you're a genius.”


III
THE LAST MORNING OF ONESIMUS
COCHE, REPORTER
FOR more than five minutes the sub-editor
of the World shouted and swore and
stamped his feet.
"Hullo, hullo-Damn it! Answer, won't
you? Oh, the idiots, they've cut us off!
Hullo, hullo!”
He put back the receiver and began to ring
up the Exchange furiously.
“Hullo! I say! You cut me off.”
“No, sir. They must have rung off at the
other end."
"Then it was a mistake. Put me on again,
please.”
After a minute a different voice asked:
“Hullo, hullo! What do you want?”
“Did you telephone a moment ago?”


62 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“We did telephone, sir, but I don't know
whether it was to you. ..."
"Would you mind telling me whom I am
speaking to?"
"Café Paul, Place du Trocadéro."
“Right. Please tell the gentleman that I
want to speak to him again.”
“Sorry, sir, the gentleman has just gone."
“Send some one after him. Run!”
“Impossible, sir. We're just closing up,
and the gentleman must be quite far by now."
“Could you tell me what he was like? Do
you know him? Is he one of your customers?”
"No, sir; it's the first time he's been here.
As for what he's like, sir: he looks about thirty;
dark, with a short moustache. . . . I think he
was in evening dress ... but I didn't notice.”
“Thank you; I'm sorry to have troubled
you.”
“Not at all. Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening.”
The sub-editor was perplexed. Had he
better publish the news, or should he wait till
next day? If the thing was true, it would be
most annoying to let another paper forestall


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 63
his. But supposing it were not true?... This
important matter must be settled at once.
He thought deeply, then gave a slight shrug,
took out some lines detailing the insults that
members of opposing parties had publicly
hurled at one another in the Croatian Diet,
and inserted the following:
“HORRIBLE TRAGEDY!
“We are informed that a murder has been
committed at No. 29, Boulevard Lannes, in a
house inhabited by an old man. The unfortu-
nate victim was found dead with a deep slash
across his throat. Our representative is inves-
tigating the case.
“Stop-press news, unverified.”
A few seconds later the paper was being
printed off as fast as possible, and by 3 a.m.
three hundred thousand copies, containing the
news of the murder of the Boulevard Lannes,
were on their way to the different depots. By,
a quarter to five half the Paris edition was out.
The sub-editor, who had not left the office,
looked at his watch and sent for a messenger.


64 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“Go to Mr. Onesimus Coche, 16, Rue de
Douai, and tell him to come here immediately.
He is wanted on urgent business.”
“That's the way,” thought he, "to prevent
that incorrigible man from hawking the news
all over the place. If it's not true, my note
frees me from all reproach; and if it is true, no
other paper has the lead. Ah! if Coche only
had more ballast, I should tell him the whole
thing at once; but who can trust a youth who,
in all good faith and with the best intentions,
would have the story all over Paris? a charm-
ing creature, but so very erratic and unreliable.
And this night, of all others, he chooses not to
come to the office! The moment one really
needs him he can't be found. Well! well!”
Then, perfectly satisfied with himself, he
lit his pipe and rubbed his hands, thinking:
“Yes, old boy, you're an amazingly clever
chap.”
Onesimus Coche had just fallen asleep when
the messenger from the World rang at his
door. He woke up with a start, and listened
for a minute, thinking it might be a dream;


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 65
but he heard the bell ring again, so he sat up
and called out:
“Who is there?"
"Jules, from the World.”
“One moment. I'm coming."
He lit his candle, threw his dressing-gown
over his shoulders, and opened the door, saying
rather crossly:
“What on earth do you want? What's the
matter now?"
"Monsieur Avyot says, will you come at
once.”
"He wants to take a rise out of me, does
Monsieur Avyot! It isn't five o'clock yet.”
“Beg pardon, sir; it's five-twenty.”
“Five-twenty! A pretty time to haul people
out of bed. You can tell Monsieur Avyot
that I am not at home. ... Good night, Jules.”
And he pushed him gently towards the door.
“Well, sir, I don't mind, sir; only, I–I
think it is quite important, sir, about that
business. ..."
“What business?”
Jules pulled out a copy of the day's paper,
still wet, and smudged in several places. He


66
THE GRIP OF FEAR
opened it at the third page and pointed to the
paragraph about the murder in the Boulevard
Lannes at the bottom of the stop-press news.
While Coche read over these lines the boy
added:
“It came by telephone just as we were going
to press. Unless it's a hoax, the mate who
sent us this has earned twenty-five francs in
one night.”
“Twenty-five francs? ..."
“You don't believe we're the only paper he
has given that news to? I expect he made the
same little speech to all the morning papers,
and presently he will turn up at the office for
his pay. I did that about the Charity Bazaar
fire; I happened to be there just when it broke
out . . . only, it was for the evening papers,
and there are only just two that pay you at
all. ..."
"Just so, just so,” said Coche, handing back
the paper. "You're quite a wag, Jules! ..."
But to himself he thought:
“The idiot!"
Then he added:
“Yes, that's probably it; you tell Monsieur
sal


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 67
Avyot that I'm coming. Just a minute, to
put on my clothes. ..."
Once he was left alone, Coche began to
laugh. It really was rather funny that they
should come and tell this piece of news to him!
For the first moment, he had felt a real sur-
prise. Two or three hours of heavy sleep had
made him forget the events of the night; he
had really wondered what they were calling
him for, and had only understood when Jules
spread out his paper. Surely enough, all was
going excellently well. He had been rather
afraid that somebody else might be given this
job, and that would have complicated matters.
Now the game was in his hands.
So thinking, he got dressed. It was cold in
his room without a fire, so he put on a flannel
shirt and thick clothes and a motor coat over
that. Last thing before leaving the room, he
felt in his pockets and saw that he had keys,
pocketbook, notebook, and stylo. He had for-
gotten nothing. When he passed before the
porter's lodge, and said he wanted the door
opened, a sleepy voice answered, grumbling
from the other side of the glass partition:


68 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“How many more times to-night?”
A cab was walking slowly past. Coche
hailed it, gave the address of the World, and
went on with his own thoughts.
The only possible attitude to take up at the
office was one of absolute ignorance. Even
to feign reluctance and incredulity might serve
to divert suspicion from himself, and to allow
the sub-editor the satisfaction of having used
his judgment rightly against all appearances.
Coche was too well acquainted with human
nature in general, and with newspaper men in
particular, not to be aware of the fact that if
one wants to reach a given aim one must share
with others, to a certain extent, the success
of the enterprise. Avyot would get all the
more excited over this business if he could say
to every one: “I have a very keen scent; no
one wanted to follow me. Coche thought some
one had got a rise out of me. But I stuck
to it; I knew I was not being duped; I'm not
to be caught so easily; I'm an old bird.”
The cab stopped. Coche paid his fare and
went up quickly to the office. The sub-editor


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 69
was waiting for him, pacing up and down his
room. When he saw him he cried:
“There you are at last; we've been hunting
for you since one o'clock. I don't know where
you go to spend your time, but, of course, that's
your business; only you certainly might con-
sent to present yourself at the office. One
never knows where to find you."
“At home,” said Coche, in a most natural
manner. “I dine in town, and by one o'clock
this morning I was tucked up in bed. I left
the office at half-past seven last night; every-
thing seemed perfectly calm. What's the
matter now?"
"Just this: about two o'clock this morning
I was told that a crime had been committed in
the Boulevard Lannes.”
"All right; I'll jump into a taxi and go
straight to the district police station."
The sub-editor put his hand on Coche's
shoulder. “One moment; they will be very
hard put to it to give you any information, for,
my dear fellow, they know nothing about it."
"I don't understand,” said Coche. "The


70
THE GRIP OF FEAR
IONI.
police know nothing about it, and you have the
news? How did you get it?"
“Look,” said Avyot, showing the paper to
him.
Coche read his own stop-press news for the
second time, and appeared to give it the great-
est attention.
“Upon my word,” he murmured, when he
had done reading; "that looks a tricky thing.
Are you sure it's not a hoax?”
"If I were absolutely sure," answered the
sub-editor, “I would not have put in: 'Unveri-
fied'; yet”—and he put on a meaning expres-
sion-"I have good, excellent reasons for
believing it to be true.”
“Would it be indiscreet to inquire ...?"
"Indiscreet?-no ... but, to say the least,
it would be quite useless. In point of fact,
the requirements of the case are simple enough,
and can be put into a few words: first of all
we must verify the information. Then, being
the first and only paper informed, we must take
advantage of our twenty-four hours' start to
push on our inquiry simultaneously with the
Police. I think the man who informed me


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 71
won't stop here, and I shall probably see him
shortly ... if only to claim the money due to
him.”
“Do you think so?” said Coche.
“I believe so," affirmed the sub-editor.
“Well,” murmured Coche.
“My dear sir, you will grant me a certain
amount of experience in a profession which I
have followed for twenty years?"
“Simple soul,” thought Coche, “how sur-
prised you would be if you knew the name of
the informer! You may brag now, but your
voice was not so authoritative last night when
you begged me. ... No, your informer is not
coming to ask for money. The louis which
you would give him does not satisfy all his
ambitions; your experience counts for very
little beside his cunning.”
And he added, aloud:
“Certainly ... and yet it is quite true that
this is a very strange business, and I wonder
where to begin.”
“That's your own look-out. First of all
make sure that the information is accurate,
and then simply see that you give me four


72 THE GRIP OF FEAR
hundred lines with photographs for this eve-
ning. If you carry this business through
properly, you shall have a rise of fifty francs
a month in your salary."
“I am very much obliged to you,” said the
reporter.
And to himself he thought: ..
"If I carry the thing through, what I call
carrying through, it will not be a question of
fifty francs, my dear man; any one who wants
Onesimus Coche will have to bid high; I will
do things on a grand scale, à l'Américaine!”
Outside, the blue of the sky was slightly
filmy; a faint glimmer of daylight blended its
white reflection with the light of the lamp.
Now that the printing-room engines had
stopped, the sound of their rhythmic hum was
exchanged for the confused noise of the street,
pierced from time to time by the horn of a
motor. A private omnibus passed by, with
a racket of wheels and windows. Onesimus
Coche stood up, took a copy of the World and
put it in his pocket.
“Boulevard Lannes,” he said; "number ..."


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 73
“Twenty-nine. Don't be absent-minded
now; it really is not the right moment."
“Oh,” said Coche, protesting, “you may feel
safe on that score. It is seven o'clock; I'll
start at once."
"And I'll be off to bed. I have deserved
my sleep. I was at work while you slept
soundly.”
Coche turned his head to hide the little flame
in his eyes and the smile which played about
his lips; and he went out. On the staircase he
met Jules, who asked:
“Was I right, sir?"
“Quite right.”
He took a cab and said to the driver:
“Avenue Henri-Martin, to the corner of
Boulevard Lannes.”
A kind of reserve, an unaccountable scruple,
prevented him from giving the exact address.
Without being aware of it, he was acting like
a criminal, not daring to stop his cab before the
house. But he fancied that on hearing the ad-
dress, 29, Boulevard Lannes, the cabman would
be sure to look at him with astonishment. On
the pavement, along the still shuttered shops,


74 THE GRIP OF FEAR
there was a swift passing of busy people. To
Onesimus it seemed that the slowly fading
night, which still enveloped all things in a cold,
sad mist, had been exceptionally long. He
sat back in a corner of his cab, and closed his
eyes. The vision of the café, where he had de-
cided upon his future plans, mingled with the
thought of what those plans might lead to.
The glimmer of early dawn, through his half-
closed eyes, brought to his mind the dismal
light that surrounds the scaffold at the hour
of an execution, and the faces of the two men
and their accomplice; then the bloodless face
of the murdered man, and, above all, the red,
enormous outspread hand which he had washed
out on the wall, passed in a monotonous suc-
cession again and again through the maze of
his thoughts.
It was broad daylight when the cab stopped.
Onesimus Coche walked slowly down the
Boulevard Lannes; one by one the houses
seemed to be waking. Still sleepy faces ap-
peared suddenly here and there between green
shutters, which opened with a click against the
wall. Scarcely any one was about. A grocer's


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 75
cart stood before one door; a butcher's boy,
with his tray under his arm, walked by, whist-
ling gaily; a postman was just ringing at the
gate of a little house. Coche looked at the
number and read 17. The boulevard was so
different in the daylight from what it had been
at night, that he had arrived quite close to the
house of the crime without being aware of it.
The day promised to be cold but fine. The
sun rose slowly over the horizon, behind small,
pink clouds, and cast a yellow springtime light
over the white soil and on the walls covered
.with ivy. There was nothing left of the shad-
ows of the night, and for a moment, so great
was the contrast in the appearance of the road,
the whole adventure seemed a nightmare. It
was past eight o'clock; the World had been on
sale for some time already, and no one seemed
to have the slightest inkling of the tragedy. A
policeman who was coming up towards the
avenue was reading the very paper in question
on the page where the news was printed. Coche
thought: “Either I have dreamt the whole
business or he will see and stop.”
But the policeman went on.


76 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“Come, come,” said Coche to himself. “I
am not mad. Of course it's real. I did walk
down here last night; I did go in a garden and
see a man lying murdered across his bed.
I..."
He put his hand to his forehead and felt a
sharp pain near his temple. He looked at
his hand: there was a drop of blood on it.
Then all that had seemed vague and dim
grew clear; he remembered his fall on entering
the room and the bruise on his forehead. He
raised his eyes and saw that he had reached No.
29.
All was perfectly still. The mark of his
left foot showed plainly on the yellow sand,
and that of the other foot still more clearly on
the edge of the flower-bed, although a little
film of frost had formed since then. He had
not thought of that detail, but was glad of it,
as of a mark of favour from Fate, and he
began to pace up and down before the house.
Workmen passing by looked at him searching-
ly—at least, so it seemed to him. It was no
good prolonging this watch, at the risk of at-
tracting attention.


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 177
Would it not be smarter for him, from the
point of view of a journalist, to go to the
Police Commissioner and lay the paper before
him?
At that moment two cabs drew up and
stopped a few yards away. He saw several
men alight, and he recognized among them
the Commissioner of Police. Four police offi-
cers followed on their bicycles; they leaned
their machines against the little wall exactly
at the place where, a few hours before, he had
pulled the ivy aside to see the number.
The Commissioner hesitated a moment be-
fore the door. He pulled the bell and waited.
Then Coche, whom the Commissioner had
already noticed, came forward and said, with
his most winning smile:
"I don't think any one will open, sir. The
house is empty, or at least empty enough to
prevent any one answering your call."
“Who are you, sir? I don't want anything
of you; kindly leave me.”
“True,” said Coche, bowing; “I should first
have introduced myself. Pray forgive my


78
THE GRIP OF FEAR
omission: Onesimus Coche, from the World;
here is my card. ..."
"Ah! that's another matter," replied the
Commissioner, returning his bow, “and I am
delighted to meet you; your paper has inserted,
in the stop-press news, a piece of information
which has greatly surprised me; I fear the
editor must have accepted the news very,
lightly.”
“I scarcely think so, sir. We take great
care to use all necessary precaution. If the
World has published the information of which
you speak, it is doubtless true. We have a
circulation of eight hundred thousand copies;
we are not the sort of paper for hoaxes or
catch-penny headlines.”
“I know, and yet I wonder what investiga-
tion you can possibly have made, considering
that the hour of the crime and the crime itself
are as yet hypothetical, and also that I myself
have heard nothing about it."
“The Press has at its disposal many and
various means of investigation. ..."
"Hm! hml" murmured the Commissioner,
sceptically, and he rang again.


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 79
“Meanwhile,” went on Coche, “do you not
think it rather odd that nobody answers ?”
"Not in the least; it is probably a mere
coincidence. The house may not even be
occupied.”
“But it is occupied.”
“How do you know it?”
"You must allow me, sir, to plead profes-
sional secrecy; I shall be delighted to help you
in your investigations, but do not ask me more
than I can tell.”
"For the sake of clearness, just tell me,
have you any real certainty?"
“Something of the kind. Our correspond-
ent was certainly well informed.”
"His name?"
“Come, sir; you are asking me to give away
one of our men. . . . You would not do the
same for one of your own!...”
The Commissioner looked Coche straight in
the eyes.
“What if I made you speak?"
"Short of putting me to the rack-and even
then—I don't see by what means you could
oblige me to speak if I do not wish to. But


80 THE GRIP OF FEAR
I'm too anxious to remain on good terms with
you, sir, to grow venomous upon this point,
and I prefer to tell you that our correspondent
is entirely unknown to me. I don't know his
name, or his age, or his sex, or anything about
him ... nothing ... except the tone of sincerity
in his voice, the exactness of his information,
and the authority with which he spoke. ..."
“I tell you again, sir-seeing that the Police
knew nothing about it, the only people who
could have spoken are the murderer and his
victim. Now the victim, according to you, is
dead . . . it must therefore be the assassin
who ..."
“Did I say anything to the contrary?”
“Upon my word, he would be the most ex-
traordinary murderer I have ever heard of.
During my whole career—a pretty long one
alreadyI have come across some unaccount-
able types, but never one like this. Indeed, if
he is a friend of yours, Monsieur Coche, you
must introduce him.”
“The difficulty is,” murmured Coche, with a
little fixed smile, "that he does not share your
desire. And let me add that 'he' means, as I


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 81
me
say it, not the criminal, but my informer. If
I were quite sure that he was the murderer,
my respect for the law would oblige me to hide
nothing from you. But I am rather inclined
to think that he is an amateur detective-a
clever one, it is true; one of the sort that work
for the pleasure of it, for glory's sake.”
At this moment one of the policemen came
up to the Commissioner.
“There is no entrance the other side. The
house is built up against a big building which
isn't occupied now, and this is the only door.”
"Then we will go in,” said the Commissioner.
“Is the locksmith there? ... Ah! I see he's
not needed. It seems that we can push the
door open."
"Have you any objection to my accom-
panying you?” said Coche.
“Objection is scarcely the word. I natu-
rally prefer to be alone for the first investiga-
tion. However legitimate may be the desire
of the public to know all the facts, the law.
requires privacy at present.”
Coche made a bow of assent.
"And I do not think,” went on the Com-


82 THE GRIP OF FEAR
missioner, “that I am slighting your paper.
Your well-informed correspondent knows al-
ready, no doubt, as much as I shall know by
the time I leave this house. Indeed, if I hap-
pened to think it to the interest of the inquiry
to withhold some detail, he could easily provide
you with it...."
Coche bit his lips and thought to himself:
“You're making a mistake with your irony,
my dear fellow. We shall have it out some
day."
One thing was always quite unbearable to
him: he could not stand being made fun of.
And although he was quite sure—and had
cause to be—that he would be the one to score
in the end, it irritated him to be quizzed just
now.
He watched the Commissioner, his secretary,
and a police-inspector entering the house. He
shrugged his shoulders and remained on guard
before the door to make quite sure that if he
could not go in, no newspaper colleague should,
either. Attracted by the presence of the
Police and by the unusual coming and going
about the house, several passers-by had stopped


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 83
before it; they were now gathering in small
groups, asking one another what had happened.
One man explained the matter after his own
invention: it was a matter concerning politics,
and the Police were searching the house; an-
other, one who had read the World, gave the
true reason: there had been a murder. He
added details, telling the exact time, and hint-
ing at the low motive of the crime. The crowd
was already beginning to blame the Police for
its slowness of action. Instead of sending their
agents to watch the house, would it not be much
better to send them in all directions and search
in the known thieves' dens ?-What was there
so surprising, after all, in the daring of this
crime? There was never a policeman to be
seen in dangerous places. Who was there about
in the streets after midnight? Only cut-
throats, and you had to pay heavier rates each
year, and were not protected, after all. The
policemen about the place, quite impassive,
listened to these accusations. Coche, for the
first few moments, was amused at them. But
soon he ceased from listening. An eager curi-
osity took hold upon him. In his own mind


84 THE GRIP OF FEAR
he followed the Commissioner; he seemed to
see him enter the corridor, climb the stairs,
hesitate on the landing to decide which door
he should enter first-unless, indeed, some
traces of blood, that had escaped him, Coche,
in the darkness, pointed the way. For one
second he was really upset: if the murderers
had left any sign on the staircase, his whole
mise en scène became useless. But this fear
was soon dispelled. If that were the case, the
Commissioner would already have entered the
room, and Coche could hear his voice. No.
Up there, in the darkness of the curtained
room, they were only groping their way. The
window in the corridor, opening on the boule-
vard, was covered by a thick blind; he had
pulled it down himself in the night to make
sure of not being interrupted.
While he elaborated all this there came back
to him the stale mustiness of that room all cov-
ered with blood, the acrid smell of the glasses
half-filled with red wine. ... He saw again
the large black hole in the broken mirror, and
the blood-curdling sight of the body lying
across the bed ... the horrible dilated eyes. ...


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 85
He had never gone through moments of such
violent emotion; his mind had never worked
so fast as now. He looked at the four win-
dows, wondering:
“Which is the bedroom window? Which
one will open first?”
Suddenly there was a stir in the crowd-a
rather large crowd by now—and then a great
silence, amid which was clearly heard the click-
ing of shutters against the wall. A head ap-
peared between the two uprights of the half-
opened window and then disappeared quickly,
and the window was shut again.
Coche looked at his watch. It was three
minutes past nine.
The law was now finding out a part of
what he had known since the middle of the
night. He had a start of exactly eight hours.
He must now be careful not to lose his start;
but he must first of all learn what was the first
impression gathered by the Commissioner.
This first impression—which is generally a
wrong one—is of considerable importance to
the proceedings. A bad detective goes off
blindly after the first clue, and aims, above all,


86 THE GRIP OF FEAR
at being quick; but the true bloodhound goes
on slowly, without ever losing his self-control,
quite sure that no time is lost which is put to
a judicious use, and that the most logical rea-
soning is worth less than the tiniest real clue,
while the latter can always be found if one
knows how to look.
The crowd had rapidly grown so large that
the Police had found it necessary to clear the
immediate surroundings of the house. There
remained on the cleared space only Coche and
a few other newspaper reporters who had
turned up in a great hurry and were now talk-
ing excitedly. The correspondent of an eve-
ning paper-a fiery Southerner who spoke very
loud-was quite angry at not having any exact
information. He absolutely must have his re-
port ready for twelve o'clock, and it was
now nearly ten. Coche, whose paper had been
the first and only one to give the news, was
badgered with questions; but his usual freedom
of speech had given way to an obstinate reserve.
He knew nothing; he was waiting just like
the others; if he had had the slightest knowl-
edge of the details he would have been most


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 87
pleased to share it with his brethren. Is not
this the usual course among reporters, and is
it not the best means for giving full and trust-
worthy information? Every one gleans what
he can; even if one is the “special correspond-
ent” of a newspaper, one shares the job with
the others, and one's telegram is only the more
or less well-written summary of what every
one knows. That's the best way all round, for,
after all, no man can be in ten places at once.
If each were obliged to collect the facts with-
out any assistance, he would need very large
sums of money, and unusual and sometimes un-
obtainable means of conveyance; whilst with
three or four working together one shares ex-
penses and results. Over and above this gen-
eral information, one tries to give one's article
a personal character, and to pretend that one
has said something new, by inventing a little
and elaborating. If a correction has to be
inserted next day, one puts it in because the
law requires that much; but one carefully adds
to it a little note to the effect that, with all
due respect to the right of one's opponent, one


88 THE GRIP OF FEAR
still desires to uphold the statement made the
day before.
And Coche, as he parried his colleagues'
questions and affirmed that he knew nothing,
reminded them of ten or twenty occasions on
which, as a good comrade, he had not kept for
himself information obtained either by chance
or through his own cleverness.
The Southern correspondent agreed, but was
on pins and needles; the others could afford
to be calm, confound them; they had their
whole afternoon and evening for running after
news, but he was run very close for time.
He could not understand that at this moment
even the High Commissioner might possibly
have any more serious preoccupation than this
-his own personal need to know.
Time went by, and still no one came out of
the house. One of the reporters suggested
that it was thirsty weather, and that they might
as well go and wait in a café; but in this horrid
place, where could they find one?
“There's one five minutes away,” said a man
in the crowd; “at the end of the boulevard you


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 89
go through the Avenue Henri-Martin, and
there's a café in the Place du Trocadéro.”
“Good!” said the Southerner; “are you com-
ing, Coche?"
“Oh, I can't; at least, I can't just now; but
you go. If I hear anything I'll let you know.”
“All right. Are you others coming?”
Coche watched his colleagues walk off, and
was glad to be left alone.
Since they had arrived he felt all the weight
of his secret; he had been twenty times on
the point of letting out a word or of making
an allusion. It had cost him a tremendous
effort to keep it all from that man of the South,
knowing as he did that the poor devil was reck-
oning upon his evening article at four centimes
the line to pay something on account to the
restaurant where he took his meals. But why,
should he, out of vain pity or unnecessary sen-
sitiveness, spoil his whole sport, take the
freshness off his information, run the risk of
losing a game that had begun so well for him?
... Later on he would make it up to him. For
the time being, this business was his business.
Little by little he began to feel conscious of


90 THE GRIP OF FEAR
the flatness of waiting. He was torn between
the secret joy of knowing that the Police were
about to make fools of themselves and the curi-
osity of learning the details of their present
experiences. Now and then he listened to the
chattering of the crowd, trying to catch some
word that would reveal the name of the victim,
his habits, his manner of life; for he was in this
curious position, that he knew better than any
one else one part of the truth—the thrilling,
the horrible part—but he was absolutely and
entirely ignorant of things which the first
comer could find out at any time-even the
name of the murdered man.
From what snatches of conversation he could
overhear he learnt nothing except that none
there present was any better off than himself.
Some neighbours told how the old man went
out very seldom, just to do his shopping; that
sometimes in the summer, quite late at night,
he would walk a little in his garden, but always
alone; that no one ever came to see him; that
he did all his housework .himself, and led an
uneventful and mysterious life, the secret of


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 91
which had often been sought for, but always in
vain.
Towards midday, the Commissioner, accom-
panied by his secretary and by the inspector,
came out. The three men stopped in the gar-
den, looked at the windows, walked up to the
wall, talking all the while with great animation,
and then came towards the gate. Just as they
reached it, Coche moved a step forward.
"Well, sir?” said he.
"Your information is quite correct. ..."
"Now that you have made the first inspec-
tion alone, would it be possible for me to go
in, were it only for a moment?”
“There would be absolutely no advantage
in the proceeding, I assure you. I should like
nothing better than to help you in your task,
and if you wish to come back with me to my
office, I will tell you on the way what I have
seen, all that I can of it. I will add that I
have already made up my mind, and that affairs
will proceed successfully. ..."
"Did you find any clues or traces of any
one? ..."
: "Monsieur Coche, you must not put too


92 THE GRIP OF FEAR
many questions. . . . And during this time,
what have you been doing?”
"I have been thinking, and ... listening
and ... looking about me. ..."
"Is that all?”
"It's about all.”
"You see that if I didn't tell you anything
you would be rather hard put to it to make
up your article for to-morrow? But don't be
afraid; I will tell you more than you need for
a two-column article.”
"Well, Monsieur le Commissaire, I will not
be behind you in generosity. During the three
hours that I have spent here I have, as I said
a moment ago, thought and listened and
looked. My thoughts, I must confess, have not
led me very far; my listening has brought me
no valuable information. But my sight... oh,
my sight!... you have no idea how sharp the
sense of sight becomes when it is working alone.
What gets in our way most of the time, what
paralyses the effort of our various senses is
always that one hinders the other; I have al-
ways thought that it is, if not impossible, at
least very difficult, to be clearly conscious—in


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 93
shooting, for instance of the sound of the
shot, of the cloud of smoke and the smell of
the powder and the little pressure on one's
shoulder. But if I succeeded in concentrating
on any single one of my senses—that of hear-
ing, for instance—I could analyse the sound
quite perfectly. In that apparently simple yet
violent noise I could distinguish almost the
firing of each tiny grain of powder, the quiver
that the flying ball sends through the leaves—
and I would hear it echo the very second that
it sounded in the woods. . . . Now, a few mo-
ments ago, feeling quite sure that I should
hear nothing, that no sound would reach me
from the interior of the house, that the clatter
of the loafers around had no more importance
than old women's gossip, tired of trying to
analyse a mystery, the key of which was doubt-
less in your hands, I looked ..."
The Commissioner, who for a moment had
listened rather absent-mindedly, opened his
lips and began:
“But ..."
Coche did not give him time to finish the
OL


94
THE GRIP OF FEAR
question, and went on as if he had not been
interrupted:
“I looked—oh, I looked intently, passion-
ately, as a man must look who has only the
sense of sight to go by; I looked as a deaf man
looks or as a blind man listens: my whole in-
tellect, my whole will to understand went into
my eyes; and my eyes, working alone without
the help of any other senses, saw something to
which you have not paid the slightest atten-
tion; a thing which may be of no interest or
may be of foremost importance, a thing which
one must look at to-day, for it will no doubt
have disappeared to-morrow or this evening
or in an hour's time. ..."
"And this thing ...?"
“If you turn round you will see it, not as
well as I can, for it melted away an hour ago,
but sufficiently, nevertheless, I am sure, to feel
sorry that you paid no attention to it at first.
This thing is a footprint left upon the ground,
that little spot outlined on the grass, a little
darker in the white frost; the sun has spoilt it
a little. A short while ago it was remarkably
clear.”


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 95
“Let's go back," said the Commissioner
quickly.
This time Coche followed him. When he
put his foot on the sand of the path he felt a
strange sensation of pride and fear. Automat-
ically he looked closely at his own footprint.
The long, narrow outline did not look in any
way like that which his big American shoes had
just printed on the sand. For his workaday
shoes he had chosen the square, broad-welted
pattern, but in the evening he wore very fine
shoes, being rather proud of his shapely, well-
arched foot.
The Commissioner bent over, and looked in-
tently at this mark. The sun, by now high on
the horizon, had broken through the grey
clouds. A few moist sunbeams gilded here
and there the thin layer of frost; one of these
beams fell straight upon the footprint.
“A measure; a pencil, quickly!” said the
Commissioner, putting out his hand without
turning round.
“Here's a pencil, sir," said the secretary;
“but I haven't got a measure.”
"Send for one quickly. Monsieur Coche,


96 THE GRIP OF FEAR
have you got a camera? Will you be kind
enough to take a snapshot of this footmark?”
“Certainly. But the photograph would only
give a likeness, a simple and very small like-
ness, without the landmarks that you can find
on the spot. Snapshots of things resting on the
ground are never very satisfactory; to show the
position of an article you must use special and
very complicated apparatus; indeed, I am
afraid it is too late now; the sun is melting the
whole thing ... my footprint ...”
He hesitated imperceptibly as he said those
two words—my footprint-and he corrected
himself quickly:
"... the footprint that I noticed is becom-
ing less and less definite ... the outline is
shading off, disappearing. . . . In a minute
there will be nothing left of it. . . . You see,
one can scarcely make out the heel ... the
sole of the foot is melting ... growing smaller
—there! What a pity you did not come out
a few minutes earlier.”
At the bottom of his heart he was really
and greatly relieved. For a few minutes it
had seemed to him it was a mere trick of


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 97
his imagination—that the three men had looked
at him askance, as if they had divined that
there were, under his thick shoes, small, narrow
feet, capable of leaving, on the white morning
frost, that impress which the sun had cancelled
in one minute. His aim was, indeed, to get
himself suspected and even arrested. But the
nearer he was to reaching it, the more anxious
he became, in spite of himself, to make it more
difficult of achievement.
The Law of the Land was beginning to seem
to him something formidable and strong, like
some animal with a hundred arms, unwilling
ever to let go its prey. And also, of course, he
realised that it was entirely to his advantage
that he should be able to take his own time,
and to choose the exact moment when he wished
to be arrested. He wanted to learn, and to be
able to judge of, all the wheels-within-wheels
of Police action, and for this purpose he must
follow its moves, almost command its advance,
slacken or hasten it, as he pleased. So that,
when the Commissioner, trying to hide his
vexation, murmured, “After all, perhaps this
impress was one of our own. My secretary was


98
THE GRIP OF FEAR
on my left, and may quite well have trodden
on the border”; when the Commissioner said
this, Coche did not demur to his explanation,
even though he did not altogether assent to it.
It was quite a good thing that there should
remain a little uncertainty in the mind of this
magistrate. Coche felt that the Commissioner,
in uttering those words, was hiding some part
of his thoughts; and that, without wanting
openly to attach much value to this trace of
a foot, he could not fail to go by it to some
extent in directing his investigations. He
therefore said, though somewhat unconcern-
edly:
“As far as I am aware, no one trod on this
border; while you crossed the garden, I was
following you with my eyes, and I think I
should have noticed. ... The only thing that
I am sure of is that this impress was perfectly
clear when I first saw it. But, again, this does
not mean that it was there before your entrance
into the garden. ... The best thing, in any
case, will be not to speak of it.”
These last words reassured the Commis-
sioner. It would have been highly distasteful


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 99
to him to be shown up as less observant than a
newspaper correspondent. This mistake might
hinder his promotion; so, understanding that
Coche had guessed his thoughts and forestalled
his desire, he said to him, almost with friendli-
ness:
“Come into my carriage; I shall have time
to give you a few hints.”
“I would far rather,” said Coche, aware that
he now had a certain advantage, "go into the
room of the crime with you, were it only for
a minute. The information you kindly promise
to give me will no doubt be most valuable;
but if any of my colleagues comes in an hour's
time to your office, you cannot keep from him
what you have told me. Whilst, you see, here
I am the only reporter present—the others
were tired of waiting, and have gone off; so
that if you grant my wish you can quite easily
say to the others, who might complain of your
partiality to myself, 'You should have been
there, too.'...
“Besides, the words of an eye-witness ac-
quire enormous importance for the reader.
Even if I see the body for no more than a


100 THE GRIP OF FEAR
second, I can give a much more realistic de-
scription "
“Well, if you wish for it so much, come with
me; we will only go in and out again; but
you shall see with your own eyes.”
"I ask no more than that.”
The four men went back into the house.
The passage that Coche had explored during
the night, groping through the darkness, now
seemed to him very wide; he had imagined it
narrow, with bare walls, and the grey stone
in them showing clearly. It was quite dif-
ferent.
The pavement was of red tiles; the wall,
painted light green, was adorned with old
prints, arms, and valuable old knick-knacks;
and the staircase, which he could have sworn
was of old worm-eaten wood, was, on the con-
trary, made of pitch-pine, and varnished.
Everything in this house was clean and bright.
When he got to the top of the stairs he felt
more familiar with the landing; and of his own
accord he stopped before the right door. He
was sorry he had done so, and asked himself:


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 101
"If I were in the Commissioner's place,
should I have noticed this?”.
But he had no time to spend in speculation.
The door was thrown open. He took a step
forward and then stopped, very much affected.
This room where he had spent such terrible
moments, seemed to him doubly terrible now.
For an instant he regretted his whole plan of
the night before and the curiosity that had
made him insist on returning to this spot.
Mechanically, without daring to look around
him, he took off his hat.
Strange thing! He, who in this very room
had meddled with the scattered papers, moved
the blood-stained clothes, even touched the
body itself, in the dead of night, and at a mo-
ment when he thought that he was risking his
very life at every gesture or sound, now started
and felt again in the depth of his heart the in-
definable, inexplicable, and masterful fear
which had first assailed him on the lonely boule-
vard near the quarters of the Army Police.
"Be very careful,” said the Commissioner;
"don't move or touch anything ... not even
that piece of glass there at your feet. ...


102 THE GRIP OF FEAR
Nothing must be overlooked in a case like this.
... There ... there, you see . . . that's a bit
of a cuff-link ... it probably has no impor-
tance whatever ... but one can never tell. ..."
Coche's mind was of the type that reacts
naturally against unpleasant sensations. By,
dint of talking humbug when other people were
depressed, he had learnt to humbug himself,
and the Commissioner's naïve remark filled
him with joy. That cuff-link was an unimpor-
tant thing, was it? ... Then he thought to
himself:
“What if this man is a genius among de-
tectives? what if he has actually been clever
enough to distinguish, among all this untidi-
ness, between the true indices and the faked
ones? What if he is now reading quite clearly
into my mind, and ironically enjoying after
his own fashion my efforts to fib decently?”
The Commissioner went on:
“There is every sign of a short but desperate
struggle. ... The table, you see, is displaced;
that chair is broken; the mirror split from
top to bottom; the body is thrown back across
the bed. . . . Look at it: you will never see a


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 103
more terrifying expression on a murdered
man's face. The whole scene is depicted there
in those tortured features. I can divine it by
the drawn lips and the convulsed eyes; I can
read it on those hands clutching the sheets....
It is perfectly harrowing. You have never
seen anything quite like that, I am sure!”
“Yes," murmured Coche, as if speaking to
himself. “One day I did see a murdered man
... one murdered scarcely an hour before,
perhaps half an hour only. His body was
not quite cold yet; he still gathered in his eyes,
as it were, a memory of life; he was stretched
like that, in a pool of blood; his wound was
almost identical with this one ... and yet there
was something, I know not what, still more
sinister in the man I remember. . . . I can look
at this one without fear, as I might gaze upon
a face moulded in wax. ... This is a dead body,
that's all. ... This room is like many other
rooms ... whilst, looking at the other one ...
the other murdered man whom I saw once ...
I felt as if there still were horror around his
head, between his lips, before his eyes; the
house--a peaceful and happy house like this


104
THE GRIP OF FEAR
one-reeked with murder, smelt of blood, of
living, hot, smoking blood, such as runs on
the floor of a slaughter-house. . . . To-morrow,
in a week's time, I shall have forgotten the
man I see now ... but the other one ... I
still see him before me, and I know that the
memory will never fade. ..."
Coche spoke in short, dry tones, yet strongly,
clenching his hands, both tormented by a real
horror and elated by the dangerous joy of
feeling on the brink of a precipice and of
thinking:
“At this moment the words that I speak
hold no real meaning except for myself; no
one can penetrate within the impassable barrier
of my external self, to my mind, where the
whole truth lies treasured! I hold that truth
between my hands, like a captive bird. I half
open my fingers, I feel the wings fluttering
between my palms. The bird is ready to
escape; then I tighten my grip; I hold the
panting thing, I master it. . . . I need only
speak a word ... make one gesture, at this
moment. ... No! I will not speak that word,
I will not make that gesture. ..."


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 105
“That is strange. ... I should have thought
..." said the Commissioner, ... “I, who yet
am used to these spectacles, must confess that
I am unusually stirred by this one.-Was it
in Paris, that body?”
“Oh, no, in the country, a long time ago—
about ten years ago," faltered Coche.
And, realising that there was a ring of false-
hood in his words, he added, to diminish a little
the effect of his description:
"I was on my first campaign, reporting for
a local paper down south, near Lyons. . ..
The crime was a commonplace murder, and
created no sensation in the country at large.
... I remember the Paris papers never spoke
of it at all."
This time he was quite clear that all three
of his companions were staring at him; and
he was so suddenly and violently disconcerted
that he had to take a step back and lean against
the wall to steady himself.
“I think,” said the Commissioner, "you have
seen enough of this for your article. But,
my dear fellow, you, who can nurse such


106 THE GRIP OF FEAR
memories, should be steadier than this. ...
You're as white as a sheet. ..."
“Yes, I'm ... I'm sure—I expect I am
very pale. ... I suddenly felt giddy ... it's
nothing."
“Let us go,” said the Commissioner, leading
the way. And in an undertone he said to his
secretary:
“They're all the same sort, these blessed
journalists; they can always go one better in
words; but when they are put to the test ..."
Coche did not hear, but seeing the Commis-
sioner whisper and look at him sideways, he
felt sure that he had betrayed himself by his
clumsy speech and his insistence to give details
that no one wanted. And he thought:
"Surely I am not found out already! I am
a perfect fool!”
As he crossed the room, he threw a glance
at the mirror. He saw his face reflected there
in exactly the same spot as the night before;
but he was paler now, with blue marks under
his eyes; and he thought that a more sinister,
convulsive smile had settled on his lips, and
that this must be the kind of face that you see


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 107
on a criminal about to be dragged to the
gallows.
He closed his eyes to escape that sight and
went out of the room shuddering within him-
self, with joints all stiffened and his teeth chat-
tering.
He did not regain his composure until he
was in the street; there, the fresh breeze blow-
ing upon his face dispersed the horrible vision.
He smiled at his own fear, and, seated in the
cab, he exclaimed:
“Upon my word, I seem to have lost all my
pluck! I apologise, sir; I have behaved dis-
gracefully. ..."
“Oh, one can't help it when one is new to
these things. ..."
The cab growled along, swaying with the
uneven step of the old nag that pulled it.
The lights and shadows, after that momentary
touch of the wintry sun, were now beginning
to fade. The clouds fell lower, casting a dis-
mal veil over the world. Soon the snow, first
fine as dust, and then in heavy, close flakes,
began to fall over the great silence of the
deserted boulevard.


108 THE GRIP OF FEAR
The two men were silent, wrapped in
thought.
Coche made a little clear patch in the film
which covered the cab window, and watched
the passing houses in the street and the flakes
of snow. He wished he knew what the Com-
missioner was thinking about, what he had seen,
what explanation of the whole thing he was
working out for himself; but, out of excessive
caution, he hesitated to break the silence. At
last, realising that this might seem unnatural,
he asked:
“Well, sir; what do you think of this busi-
ness? Do you take it to be a common case of
burglary and thieves' murder, or do you think
it must have deeper causes?”
"I may as well tell you, perhaps, that theft
seems to me entirely out of the question as a
motive for this crime. I don't mean, of course,
that no articles or money or valuables have dis-
appeared; on the contrary, I am sure that
knick-knacks and money have been taken;...
but only by way of a blind.”
"You mean ...?"
“I mean that the murderer has tried to create


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 109
an artificial mise en scène in order to put the
Police on a false scent.”
"By Jove!” thought Coche;"have I hit upon
a Sherlock Holmes in the flesh? If that's the
case, luck's against me!”
And, aloud, he said:
"Not really! That would be interesting
indeed! I must confess that nothing that I
perceived gave me the slightest inkling of it.
If you put it like that, the problem becomes
singularly complicated.”
"For a superficial mind, it does. As for
me, I have worked for three-and-twenty years
in the most varied surroundings, unravelling
the most ingeniously-laid plots, and this is not,
after all, so peculiar. If I were to tell my
impression in a few words, I should state the
case like this:
“ 'Some one-a man-exceedingly well ac-
quainted with the habits of this old gentleman
-came into the house, possessed himself of
papers which he either needed or wished to
destroy....""
"Oh,” exclaimed Coche, extremely inter-
ested; “simply papers! Do you think so?"


110 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“I am sure of it. I found several hundred
letters jumbled up in a drawer, and I could
swear that they had not been left like that by
their owner. The murderer alone can have
thrown them back in such disorder, and he
must have had some reason to look them
through. Whether he found what he wanted
will no doubt be discovered in the course of
the investigation. But it seems to me quite
certain that he carried away the table silver-
there are traces of that and a sum of money
—we found an empty purse behind the bed-
simply for the purpose of deceiving the Police.
I should not be surprised if some jewellery
had been taken—for the same reason. There's
that bit of cuff-link which I showed you. In
an hour's time all the Paris jewellers, and by
to-morrow all the jewellers in France, will
know of it, and be requested to give what in-
formation they can about the make and the sale
of it. It most likely belonged to the victim,
but we shall soon find out about that. ...
And to crown all—and the argument is no less
valuable because it is almost entirely of a
psychological nature the order that reigned
48


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 111
amid all the confusion, and a certain desire for
cleanliness, visible amid the horror of the
massacre, cause me to assert that the crime
was committed by a person belonging to a
perfectly respectable class of society; not only
that, but this person must be endowed with a
wonderful mental balance and extraordinary
self-possession; and he acted alone. I will
add . . . but no: I have already gone too
far...."
Coche had listened breathlessly to the Com-
missioner. The uneasiness which he had felt
at the start gave place to the most profound
satisfaction; the plot, so suddenly invented and
so carefully laid by himself, would not fail;
he was sure of it now. More than that, his
mise en scène had suggested ideas to the Police
undreamt of by himself. The Commissioner
seemed really to be accumulating difficulties to
his heart's content, and neglecting real clues
in order to exploit to the utmost the real com-
plications of the case. The simplest things
acquired, in his eyes, the importance of serious
events. Once started on a false scent, he
brought the most diverse indications into line


112 THE GRIP OF FEAR
with his scheme. Having rejected from the
first the hypothesis of common burglary end-
ing in murder—the only true hypothesis, and,
in any case, the most plausible—he interpreted
all he knew according to the requirements of
his own private theory. He ran unhesitatingly,
head down, into the trap which he-Coche-
had laid for him. When the Commissioner had
said, “The murderer has tried to create an arti-
ficial mise en scène," Coche had thought that
this official, gifted with a rare power of insight,
had had some glimmer of the truth; but no,
in reality he was but hiding the truth in a
thicker cloud, fencing it off by a more impassa-
ble barrier. Thus, not only was Coche's
stratagem entirely unsuspected, but, by an ex-
traordinary inversion of facts, everything that
had seemed to the reporter to form the nucleus
of a presumption against himself was thought
absolutely insignificant by those in charge of
the preliminary investigations. The situation
was so grotesque that Coche desired to hear it
stated again and quite unmistakably.
"Then I take you to mean that this singular
murderer, this criminal genius, wished to give


ONESIMUS COCHE, REPORTER 118
out his crime as that of some common burglar;
that he tried-unsuccessfully—to 'create' dis-
order; that he did not steal as an ordinary
burglar would; but, working alone, yet tried
to give the impression that he had accom-
plices?"
"Exactly so."
The cab stopped at the door of the Com-
missioner's office. Coche got down first, and
began stamping on the pavement to stretch
his legs. He was perfectly delighted; the
whole thing was going far better than he had
dared to hope. In a few hours he had col-
lected more information and had heard more
mistakes than he needed for his first two arti-
cles. He thanked the Commissioner, and said
to him, in quite a natural tone of voice:
"All you have told me is most convincing.
Thank you. Pray let me know if I can be of
use to you in any way. ...".
"I daresay ... if occasion offers. ..."
"One word more you don't intend to men-
tion that footprint in your report?”
"Well, no. . . . I really scarcely saw it. ..."
“Right, quite right. Then I won't speak


114 THE GRIP OF FEAR
of it either. Good day, sir, and thank you,
again.”
“At your service. I hope to see you again
shortly.”
“Thank you.”
“And now,” thought Coche to himself,
"we'll see who gets the best of it!"


FIRST NIGHT OF ONESIMUS
COCHE, THE MURDERER
NOCHE entered the café of the Place du
Trocadéro just as his Southern colleague
was heard to call in stentorian tones for “la
Générale,” and, ever disdainful of ineffectual
action, was also sweeping the cards off the table
with one broad gesture, saying to his com-
panions:
“You don't really want to play, do you?”
In taking a cup to pass it to his right-hand
neighbour, the impetuous youth caught sight
of Coche, and said:
“Any news?”
"Quite sensational,” answered Coche, sitting
down on a form. "Get some ink and paper
and write at once; it will take just a minute;
you can cook it up afterwards as you like.
115


116 THE GRIP OF FEAR
I've had a long talk with the Commissioner,
and he has given me all the information I
wanted-except ... there! I am a fool! I
forgot to ask him the victim's name!”
“That's no odds—his name was Forget, he
lived on his small income, and had had this
house three years. For any more details of
that sort, we can call by and by at the police-
station."
“Good! Well, now ...".
And Coche began to dictate his conversation
with the Commissioner, laying great stress
upon the smallest details, reproducing the very
tone of each speaker, and mentioning all possi-
ble hypotheses. But he took good care not to
mention his visit into the house or the trace of
steps outside, or the flaws which he had noticed
in the Commissioner's reasoning; all that was
his very own; and, besides, no one could have
got any good out of it; it was of no value to
people who did not know the real truth of the
thing.
While dictating, Coche let his eyes roam
round the room; and in a minute he noticed
that he was in the café from which he had


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 117
telephoned the night before. By some curious
trick of chance he had sat down at the very
same place where he had sat then. At first
he tried to turn his head away from the waiters,
so as not to be recognised, but then he told
himself that, after all, it would need a great
deal of ingenuity to draw any conclusions from
the fact that a customer of one night came
back next morning. No one was paying the
slightest attention to him; the woman who had
been at the desk the night before was now
engaged in putting the sugar on the tables, the
waiters were laying the cloths, and the owner,
seated by the stove, calmly read the news-
paper.
Coche finished his story, and then answered
most amiably to a number of supplementary
questions, feeling doubly pleased that he could
save his colleagues a lot of trouble in writing
up their articles and that he could keep for
himself the benefit of the more sensational
news.
Presently they dispersed. Some got into
cabs; the Southerner hastened towards the
“tube" station; and Coche went off on foot,


118 THE GRIP OF FEAR
saying that he had something to see to close
by, and delighted to be alone at last, free to
think, and to act without the constant pre-
occupation of being watched.
He lunched at a fifth-rate restaurant,
glanced at the day's papers, and then came
back to the Boulevard Lannes as far as the
fortifications—still on foot, suddenly conscious
that he needed some physical exertion to com-
bat the unnerving effects of solitude and a
vague, unaccountable sensation of fear, which
began to possess him. It irritated him to think
that the real murderers—those whom nobody
was attempting to pursue—felt perhaps much
happier than himself at this moment. He
walked in the middle of the road, threading his
way through small, slippery alleys round the
barracks, and examining closely the faces of
men and women as they passed by. And sud-
denly he felt drawn towards all these tattered
and sinister-looking human beings by a kind
of tender commiseration—the brotherly in-
dulgence that is born in the hearts of men con-
scious of sharing in their nature both joys and
guilt.


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 119
Coche was not, himself, quite clear about
his present position. He felt a different man
from the Coche of the day before. He had
already adapted himself so completely to his
moral “make-up," and had so deliberately
made up his mind to attract suspicion, that
he almost felt as if he were guilty indeed.
And, after all, was there no guilt on his
soul? Were it not for him—who knows?-
Justice might be already on the trail of the
assassins. ... And what if he were to speak?
Up there, in the lurid chamber of the mur-
der, he had been that morning on the point of
telling all about his chance encounter and his
mysterious visit; then, thinking of all the loss
that this meant to him, he had held his tongue.
Now he felt the oppression of some heavy
and growing weight. Had he not in some way
connived with the murderers? One day—who
knows, to-morrow perhaps?—he would have to
account for all this before the Law.... Yet,
even so, what a triumph for a journal-
ist! and what a sensational inquiry! What
scathing pages he could write! This man was
so built that the only crime he realised to be


120 THE GRIP OF FEAR
wicked was a crime against a human being:
a crime against institutions, or against laws—
which he conceived as, after all, nothing but
an orderly enumeration of prejudices—left
him perfectly indifferent. If he were to be con-
demned to a few days' imprisonment for hav-
ing hoaxed the Police, he would not thereby
fall in his own estimation, and there would still
be time to tell all that he had seen and that he
knew; with no danger to himself, for, after
all, he was not in the least responsible for the
death of the poor old man, and by the time he
had entered the room the whole thing was over.
There remained the question of public justice.
... But who knows whether, through delay-
ing for this once the information he had, he
could not give to the public mind one of the
invaluable lessons that make men more cau-
tious, and the law more wise, and the law's
executors more intelligent?
When it was quite dark he made up his mind
to go home. As soon as he appeared the porter
told him that they had been for him twice from
the World, and that somebody else, who had
refused to leave his name, had asked to see


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 121
him. Coche asked for a description of this
latter visitor, but when it was given him he
could remember nobody with whom the de-
scription would tally. At any other time he
would have simply thought: Well, he'll come
back again.—This time he said it, but went
on obstinately thinking about the occurrence.
As it was seven o'clock he did not even go up
to his room, but made straight for the office.
There he was being impatiently expected.
As soon as he appeared, the sub-editor broke
out with a storm of questions and reproof.
For the last twenty-four hours his behaviour
had been really most extraordinary; he had
become impossible to find; he must be run after,
forsooth, all over the town. The day before,
when the first news of this business had reached
the office, he was not to be found; to-day his
article was feverishly expected, and he had
disappeared since eight o'clock in the morning.
His conduct meant that the next day's edition of
the World would have to appear without his
sensational report. By this time all the other
papers knew as much as his own, if not more.
The evening papers were already printing


122
THE GRIP OF FEAR
well-informed articles of two columns on the
crime of the Boulevard Lannes.
And the sub-editor brandished the Southern
reporter's newspaper before Coche's eyes.
"In here there's an interview with the Com-
missioner of Police. Don't you come and tell
me that there was no means of getting infor-
mation. This was written at eleven o'clock
at the latest. By eleven o'clock you knew noth-
ing at all!... What are you after?—I'll tele-
phone to that reporter, and entrust this busi-
ness to him.”
Coche stood quite still while the man was
storming; at last he spoke:
"Excuse me, you said that this article was
written by eleven?”
"Just so; half-past at the very latest. ..."
“This article was written at the very earliest
at half-past twelve or a quarter to one.”
"Well, half an hour makes no difference.”
"Excuse me, a great difference in this
case. ..."
"How do you know exactly what time that
reporter wrote his article?”
"Because I dictated it to him ... as, in-


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 123
deed, I dictated it to three other colleagues on
the morning papers.”
“Upon my word! this beats anything I have
ever heard! Then it was you who had the in-
terview with the Commissioner, and just for
fun, just to play the part of the fairy god-
mother, you pass it on? By to-morrow the
whole Press will be in possession of what should
have been exclusively our own. You beat me
hollow!"
“Alas, sir, the whole Press will not be in
possession of it, and I am sorry for that. Only
four papers will, and those are not among the
most important. ..."
“Look here, Coche, this won't do. You are
not quite yourself to-day. I cannot rely upon
such a very whimsical collaborator on so serious
a matter as the present, and when we really
need untiring exertion. I don't want to know
whether it is true that you have had an inter-
view and have scattered the fruit of it broad-
cast. ... I took my own steps four hours ago:
you may call at the cashier's, and you shall be
given a quarter in advance. We will dispense
with your services. ..."


124 THE GRIP OF FEAR
"I am perfectly delighted, sir. I was just
about to tell you that I desire to be free again:
you release me without my demanding it, and
add a quarter's salary; I could scarcely have
wished for so much.... I am not well, to tell
the truth. I am tired and unstrung. I must
have rest and solitude. ... Later on, when
I have recovered, I will call on you again....
For the time being, I want to go away. ...
I don't know exactly where, but Paris air does
not suit me...."
"A very sudden resolve,” sniffed the sub-
editor. “Yesterday you were perfectly well;
to-day you're too run down to continue your
work. ..." Then, suddenly changing his tone:
“My word of a moment ago is not final ...
you must not be too touchy, and parry my
thrust by pretending that you intended to leave
us in any case. . . . Let us forget our whole
conversation, and go quickly to your office and
write up your article. ... I know you well
enough to feel sure that you have something
to tell... that you are as well informed as any
one, if not better. . . . Come along, my boy;
that's settled.”


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 125
But Coche shook his head.
“No, no; I am leaving; I must leave ...
I really must.”
“Are you by any chance off to join the staff
of another paper?-leaving us just at the mo-
ment when we have embarked on this very sen-
sational inquiry? If you wanted a rise in your
salary you should have said so.”
"Monsieur Avyot, I want no rise; and I am
not going on the staff of any other paper. I
simply wish to return, either for a time or for-
ever-events alone can settle which—to a state
of individual freedom. ..."
And he added, in an unsteady voice:
“I give you my word of honour that I will
do nothing that can in any way damage or
hinder your paper, and that you must not in-
terpret my departure as a trick of any kind.
Let us part friends, eh? ... Oh, and another
thing; I want absolute rest and absolute isola-
tion, and to live away from all Parisian life,
out of reach of the inquisitiveness of acquaint-
ances and the solicitude of friends. But as I
should not like my disappearance to look like
flight, will you kindly keep any letters directed


126 THE GRIP OF FEAR
to me here in your private room, instead of
leaving them in my pigeon-hole? People might
be surprised to see that I give no directions for
having them forwarded.... I can see to them
all on my return.”
“Won't you go back on your word?"
“I cannot.”
“I don't want to know where you're going,
but will you tell me when?”
“This very evening.”
“And when do you think you'll be back?"
Coche waved his hand vaguely, and said:
"I don't know. ..."
Then he shook hands with the sub-editor
and went out.
He at last felt free, in the street, amid the
passers-by, threading his way between the cabs
and walking fast. He drew a deep breath.
With a few minutes' thought he had settled
his whole plan of campaign. He had arrived
at the office too preoccupied to think clearly.
Since the previous day events had succeeded
one another with such swiftness that he had
not had time to arrange definitely in his mind
what attitude he wished to adopt. His aim


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 127
was to puzzle, if not to mislead, the Police;
he wanted to draw their attention upon him-
self, without apparent effort, and to keep
himself rather conspicuously before their
mind's eye, giving them so much to do that
they would end by watching almost exclusively
himself, by seeing in him the probable culprit,
and at last by arresting him.
Now, he could not achieve this result unless
he were perfectly free, held by no duties and
able to wander according to his will, modifying
his life and his habits as he chose, and owing
no duties to any one. On the staff of the
World he could not publish all he knew over
his own signature. And even if he had pub-
lished it, his words would have carried no more
weight than attaches to those of an ordinary
journalist. Indeed, what logic was there in a
man making himself" the historian of the mur-
der of which he wanted to be the accused?
Moreover, these special circumstances could
not last forever. Once on the wrong scent, it
was quite likely that the Police would grow
obstinate, and then, finding nothing to con-
firm their preconceived ideas, they would end


128
THE GRIP OF FEAR
by shelving the whole business. In that case,
unless it came to his making an anonymous and
precise declaration, he-Coche—would be left
peacefully alone! This he would not have at
any price.
He hesitated on the rather difficult question
whether he would or would not return home,
and he decided in the negative. He was well
provided with money, for he had just received
his quarter's salary—a matter of a thousand
francs—from the World: it was more than he
needed to keep him for a few weeks. He
would, besides, not have occasion to spend
much on himself. His needs would be confined
to a bedroom in some obscure corner of the
town, and to meals in modest restaurants; as
for his travelling expenses, they would natural-
ly be reduced to the minimum. On that score,
then, he was perfectly safe. As for the ad-
vantages of his plan, the moment that he fell
under suspicion, his sudden departure would
be sure to look like flight, and the conclusions
that could not fail to be drawn from the coin-
cidence between his flight and the discovery
of the murder would lend considerable weight
DN-


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 129
to any other point of circumstantial evidence
that might be proved against him.
About ten o'clock he began to consider the
choice of a resting-place for the night. For
a moment he thought of Montmartre. It
would be perfectly easy to escape attention in
that quarter, where all was living and astir,
amid the holiday-makers and variety artists and
the demi-monde who walk about there day and
night; but from Place Blanche to Place Clichy,
from Place Saint-Georges to the Rue Caulain-
court, he risked meeting a friend at every step.
La Villette and Belleville offered the shelter
of their restless population; but the Police raids
were too frequent there, and, also, without
being a coward, he yet preferred a quarter
where the knife was less freely handled.
Then he remembered the time when, a
barely-fledged young journalist, he had wanted
to live the life of the Quartier Latin, amid
those students whom he had pictured to him-
self like the heroes of Murger. In those times
he had a small room high up in the Rue Gay-
Lussac, with no furniture but an iron bed-
stead, a table which served him both for dress-


130 THE GRIP OF FEAR
-
-
-
ing and writing, and his own large wooden
trunk.
He would not be sorry to live again for a
few days in that corner of the gay capital,
where, on his first appearance, when he first
marched to the conquest of Paris, he had spent
his days of youthful enthusiasm and dreams.
And, moreover, in that quarter or in its neigh-
bourhood he would be both near enough to the
heart of the city to know all that was happen-
ing there, and far enough to escape being
found.
The Boulevard Saint-Michel, filled with
light and with gaiety, amused him. He went
into a café near the Luxembourg and ate sand-
wiches, just to allay his hunger. Then he
looked through the evening papers.
The Temps, even the stately Temps, gave
up nearly two hundred lines in a centre column
to the murder of the Boulevard Lannes.
Properly considered, this was but a common-
place crime; every day something of the sort
was discovered in Paris, and except in summer,
during the slack season, when the papers, hav-
ing no news, trade for all they are worth on the


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 131
slightest event, such matters as this are given
only a few lines in some obscure corner of the
page, under a modest heading—and that's all.
Now, by some strange caprice of Fate, this
murder of the Boulevard Lannes had been a
sensational thing from the start. One would
almost have thought that some extraordinary
instinct had warned people of something un-
foreseen and unusual about it; and, by an even
stranger coincidence, events had followed one
another in a manner so favourable to Coche's
desire that he would never have dared to hope
for such a measure of success. Now he would
soon be able, unseen and yet present, to follow.
these events, to affect them, and almost lead
them at his pleasure.
He read most attentively the articles relating
to his interview with the Commissioner, and he
smiled as he recognised his own wording, the
reflections he had made, and the questions he
had put.
"To-morrow,” said he, “I start the campaign
in good earnest.”
Having finished his meal, he went out,
walked up Rue Saint-Jacques and took a room


132 THE GRIP OF FEAR
in a hotel. His window looked out on the
street, and he could see the yard of the Val-de-
Grâce with its beautiful chapel and imposing
approach.
He remained for a few moments pressing
his forehead against the window-pane, assailed
by a thousand memories of former times, al-
most regretting his daring and regretting the
monotonous quiet which he had enjoyed now
for months. He remembered having had the
same sensation one day just before he began
to deliver a lecture which he had not prepared.
As he sat down before the little table with its
green cloth, he had said to himself that day as
he did now:
“What a foolish idea it was, to launch out
upon this! What need was there, O Onesimus,
to give yourself these pangs? At this time
you might be peacefully seated at home, in-
stead of standing before the public and defy-
ing the critics. ..." .
But he soon spurned the weakening thought.
He let the curtain drop, left the window,
and sat down near the fire, in the dancing lights
and shadows which it cast. Then, stretching


ONESIMUS COCHE, MURDERER 133
out his feet, soothed by the warmth of the fire
and the pleasantness of his surroundings, free,
quite unknown, as he now was in this quarter
of Paris where he had formerly lived, he began
to think, no longer in dreams, but clearly, with
calmness and with order. He went over the
last twenty-four hours, re-read the notes he had
taken so hastily, tore up the papers that he had
in his pockets, and threw them on to the fire.
After which he undressed and got into bed;
and, as he felt himself gently sinking into sleep,
he thought to himself:
“Who will sleep better to-night, I wonder?
The guilty, with no reason to fear the Police
for the moment, or the innocent man, who
desires a cause for fear?”


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL
W HEN Coche woke up next day it was al-
V ready late and a grey wintry morning.
He dressed quickly, anxious to read the papers.
As he passed the porter's office on his way out
the man called to him:
"Excuse me, sir, there's just the little for-
mality of the Police Register ..."
At the mere word “Police” Coche started.
He replied, nevertheless, putting on as natural
a look as he could:
“What about it?”
“We are obliged to keep a record of the
name, profession and date of entry of our
visitors. Generally, the precaution is quite un-
necessary, especially in such a good hotel as
ours; but one can never tell, with all these
crimes and murders. ... Look at the murder
of the Boulevard Lannes!"
134


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 135
Coche felt himself grow deadly pale. He
looked keenly at the man, and opened his lips
to put a question—almost to protest. But the
man was looking down, rummaging in his desk;
and when he raised his head soon after and gave
Coche the register, open at the right page, his
smiling countenance immediately reassured our
friend. The man pointed with his finger at
a line where the date was already filled in.
“Here, sir; you need only give your name,
your profession, and say where you come
from."
And while Coche was writing he added, fol-
lowing up his train of thought of a moment
before:
"Here, on the left bank of the river, it's
not so much against ordinary criminals that
we have to protect ourselves, as against
political criminals, Russian refugees, and
nihilists. We're overrun with them. It isn't
pleasant to give lodging to people who travel
about with bombs, and may blow up your house
at any moment."
“I should think not,” said Coche, giving
him back his pen.


136 THE GRIP OF FEAR
And he thought to himself:
"If, with this babbling fool about, I am not
tracked within forty-eight hours, it means that
the devil is against me.”
He was going out, when the man stopped
him.
“When you come back to-night you need
only ring three times. Your key will be hang-
ing up under your pigeon-hole.”
“Thank you,” said Coche.
Without knowing why, Coche remained for
a few minutes on the doorstep, looking up and
down the road, with the curious uncertainty
of action of one who does not know what to
do, but wishes to appear intent on business.
The man, sitting down again at his table,
looked at the register and read:
"Farcy, no profession, from Versailles."
He looked up, examined the outline of the
new-comer, and murmured:
"Hm! You no more live on income than
I do, my good man; I'm a good judge of
that. ..."
But when Coche, considerably more nervous
since the events of the day before, turned


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 137
ro
round, feeling the porter's eye upon him, the
latter smiled in the most engaging manner,
inwardly reflecting that, after all, it was no
business of his, provided that Coche paid his
bill all right.
One thought brought another in its train.
This visitor had come without any luggage;
there was therefore no guarantee of his return.
The man called after him:
"Monsieur Farcy! . . . Monsieur Farcy!
..."
As Monsieur Farcy did not come, he ran
as far as the door, and called again:
"Monsieur Farcy! Sir!"
Coche had heard the first call perfectly well,
but had not paid any attention to it. The name
of Farcy, adopted by him haphazard a moment
ago, was so perfectly unmeaning to him that
he only remembered it was his name when he
heard it called persistently. He felt decidedly
uncomfortable since he had left his room, and
especially since the hotel porter had mentioned
the murder of the Boulevard Lannes, though
evidently he had done so with no special intent.


138 THE GRIP OF FEAR
He turned round, therefore, somewhat out of
patience:
“What is it, now?"
“Sir, I'd forgotten to say that it is customary
to pay at least your first week's lodging in
advance.”
"All right,” said Coche; and, coming back,
he paid the sum required of him, although he
had quite decided not to return that evening.
He would give the Police another indication,
if not of his guilt, at least of his desire to re-
main unknown.
At the same time, and by some strange con-
tradiction, he experienced a sensation of dis-
comfort stronger even than he had felt the day
before. He had only been wearing his mask
for a few hours, and he was already oppressed
by it. Things began to feel unreal; the great,
automatic machinery of Justice seemed dimly
to be set in motion around him; with his mind's
eye he saw its action, uncertain at first, and
then brutally relentless. He was like a bird
which sees some gigantic net falling upon it
slowly from a great height and tightening its
meshes every minute—a bird capable of under-


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 139
standing that this net must inevitably imprison
it in the end.
Yet he desired this result at the same time
that he feared it. And now he reflected that,
except for that terrible first scene in the night,
he had done nothing to affect matters yet, and
that time was passing; he must act, and not,
having once deliberately entered upon this
road, leave everything to chance. Although he
knew that blunders are often made by the
Police, he had not come to the point of believ-
ing them so inevitable that at this juncture
he need only sit down and wait. His departure
from the staff of the World might give rise to
vague suspicion against him. He must now
try to give such suspicion a definite shape.
He walked about for a while, reading the
day's papers; all were full of idle or even
imaginary information concerning "the Mur-
der.” Some hinted already that the Police
were on a track of discovery. He smiled. On
the World he had been replaced by a man
named Béjut, who had no experience except as
Parliamentary reporter. Yet the man gave
his information with a tone of great authority.


140 THE GRIP OF FEAR
Could he have already been to interview the
Commissioner on his own account? That would
be useful for Coche, who wanted the Police to
know that he had left the staff of the World.
When he had finished reading, Coche care-
fully folded up his papers and put them in his
overcoat pocket.
“So,” thought he, “one need only displace
two or three bits of furniture and alter a mise
en scène, even in the clumsy way that I did,
for all these people to run off at a tangent.
So the Police, who are paid to be cunning, can
be caught by the first trap one sets on their
path! In spite of all the things that should
have carried real weight as evidence—the dis-
appearance of the silver, for instance, and even
the position of the body, which indicated un-
mistakably that the crime was committed by
two men at least-these people have only seen
one thing: my broken bit of a cuff-link! And
on that they have built up a whole imaginary
romance! There does not seem to be on the
public Press a single man capable of unravel-
ling the arbitrary and absurd tangle of police
deduction. My game is almost too easy."
CSS


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 141
And then he began to wonder what the real
culprits were doing at that moment. They had,
no doubt, found a receiver of stolen goods to
whom they had sold theirs; then they had left
their hovel, and were wandering among low
inns and public-houses.
At this point it suddenly occurred to him
that intoxication is a great revealer of secrets.
Besides, the scum of society constantly speak
of their crimes, for they take a pride in them.
“Unless I hurry up,” thought Coche, “who
knows whether the indiscretion of those men
will not give them away and turn my whole
plan into thin smoke. I haven't a minute to
lose.”
He lunched early and hurriedly, and about
one o'clock found himself in the street. Till
four there was nothing to be done. News-
paper offices are practically closed in the after-
noon; nothing happens there. Avyot always
arrived at the office of the World about five
o'clock. Till then Coche must simply kill
time.
No daylight hours had ever seemed to him
so long.


142
THE GRIP OF FEAR
He went into a café, ordered a drink which
he did not take, went out again, wandered
about aimlessly. ... At last people began to
light their shop-lamps. Twilight came on, and
then darkness. ...
He was in the quarter of the Military Col-
lege; there, at least, he was sure not to meet
any one he knew. Since he had reached it he
felt as if he were in another town.
He heard five o'clock strike. From this
moment he must regulate and co-ordinate all
his actions with the single aim of bringing
about his own arrest. He could, of course,
give himself up to the Police; but he would not
dream of that. He wanted to show up their
red-tapeism—their contemptible shortsighted-
ness; and for that purpose it was important
that they should arrest him on their own initia-
tive. Then he could point out afterwards how
lightly they rush upon any track, with what
unthinking tenacity they follow it up, and,
above all, how obstinately they cling to it, fly-
ing in the face of any amount of evidence.
The apogee of his triumph would be reached
when he could give the correct version of the


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 143
crime, and probably see, even then, how all
his indications would be neglected!
He went to a public telephone and rang up
the World. Then he changed his voice again
as he had done in the little café of the Place du
Trocadéro, and asked to speak to the sub-
editor on urgent business. He did not give
Avyot the time to question him, but began:
“Sir, I am your informer of the other night;
it was I who told you of the crime of the Boule-
vard Lannes; you have had occasion to see
that I was correctly informed, and I now
desire to add some details.”
“Thank you. But may I know to whom
OW
"To whom you are speaking? There's no
advantage whatever in that. My information
is good, and I give it to you for nothing; what
more could you wish? You shall hear nothing
about myself till I have fresh orders. Of
course, if that does not suit you, my informa-
tion can be bestowed elsewhere. ..."
“No, no!” protested Avyot. “I am listen-
ing.”
“Very well; then take it from me that the


144
THE GRIP OF FEAR
re
Police are on a false scent, and that nothing is
true that has been published the last two days.
There is no dark and mysterious motive behind
the crime; it was simply an ordinary murder,
the motive of which—the only motive—was
theft. As for the surmises of the Commissioner
of Police, they're very wide of the mark indeed.
If you want to find out the truth, continue your
own investigations, and be particularly careful
to tell your man that he must not believe every-
thing he is told.”
“Once more, sir ..."
"I may have a serious reason for revealing
to you things which I alone know. . . . Advise
the Police to abandon their present tack; assert
and uphold, in spite of every appearance to
the contrary and every possible correction, that
the culprits ..."
"You said ?"
"The culprits: quite so. Ask in your article
whether the Police are sure that there were
no footprints in the garden. Now, I have told
you enough for to-day. Some time I will
communicate with you again. I will give you
fresh details according as events shape them-


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 145
selves. ... One word more: make no mention
of your mysterious correspondent. Where-
upon, dear sir, I have the honour- "
Coche replaced the receiver and walked to
the door.
When the Police Commissioner read the next
day's article in the World he began merely by
smiling at it; but as he reached the last lines he
frowned, and then threw down the paper
angrily.
Notwithstanding his promise, the reporter
had mentioned the footprints. The allusion
was very indefinite as yet, but he could tell
that this was only a first hint, and that next
day details would be given. He had treated
Coche almost ag a friend, for the sake of his
promise; he had let him see what no other re-
porter had seen; and this is what he got for
it! It was not sufficient that the World should
have published the first news of this thing be-
fore he himself knew anything about it, but
that paper must, even now, be putting weapons
into the hands of those who are always ready
to disparage the Police!


146 THE GRIP OF FEAR
True, only very slight importance could be
attached to this article, which was full of ab-
surdities; true, he himself felt sure that he was
on the eve of discovery, and that in the end
he would be proved right. But was it not
strange, indeed, that the paper in favour of
which he had actually committed an irregu-
larity should be the first to discuss and discredit
his method of investigation?
“All these people seem to me to suffer from
megalomania. Just because luck made this
man the first to give a piece of sensational news,
he now allows himself to do anything he likes.
The World seems to be pursuing an investiga-
tion on its own account and vying with me.
After all, though, were it not for this mention
of the footprints, which may prove inconven-
ient, this article can only be useful to me. If
the real culprit thinks that attention is directed
altogether in the wrong quarter, he may not
hide so carefully, and may even give himself
away. . . . All the same, I shall know better
another time how to deal with reporters.”
He took the paper to his secretary, and said
to him:


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 147
“Have you seen this?”
“Yes, sir.”
"Well, what do you think of it?”
“It might be useful to see this Coche, even
if you don't want to give away much of what
you think. He will be quite satisfied with a
few irrelevant scraps of information, if we
don't give the same to the others. ..."
“But what do you think of his hypothesis
-altogether the opposite of mine?”
“It seems just as good as any other jour-
nalist's. None of the reports that have come
in the last forty-eight hours have provided us
with anything really in favour of our idea ...
nor of any one else's.”
The Commissioner stood still a moment; then
he said, half to himself:
“There's not a shadow of a doubt. I'm
quite sure I'm right.” And he added, aloud:
"Just ring up the World, and ask them to
send me this Monsieur Coche as soon as he
comes. I'll go back to Boulevard Lannes and
see to a few more details, so that the Examining
Magistrate may find everything ready when
he takes up the case.”


148 THE GRIP OF FEAR
29, Boulevard Lannes was in exactly the
same condition as when the Commissioner had
left it two days before, except that the body
of the victim had been conveyed to the public
mortuary, after a careful and minute registra-
tion of all details concerning it.
Yet there was something peculiarly harrow-
ing about that room now. The bed lay still
unmade, with its cold, crumpled sheets. The
rancid smell of blood had given place to that
peculiar smell of soot and smoke that always
seems to fill uninhabited houses. The ashes
piled up in the fireplace had become darker.
In the basin, the reddish water seemed to have
changed colour, and the tiny red clots sus-
pended in it showed clearly; and along the
edge of this water was a border of an indistinct
grey made of soap and blood. ... The re-
mainder of life, as it were, which was still
about the place when the Commissioner had
entered it for the first time had now quite
flickered away.
All human beings leave behind them a reflec-
tion of their personality or, at least, of their
existence; the walls of their habitations-con-


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 149
stant dumb witnesses of their lives-preserve
a trace of it for some time; and the history of
men continues in the dwellings which they have
inhabited, even after they are gone. The room
where human beings have loved and suffered is
a mysterious and yet speaking witness to those
who know how to see and understand. There
are apartments, no matter whether rich or poor,
gay or sad, that seem hostile to any new occu-
pant. After all, is it so perfectly impossible
that there should be a deep and unsuspected
life in what we call inanimate objects? Is it
not the quick succession of inhabitants of one
night or one day that gives that impersonal
and commonplace character to the rooms of
a hotel? The furniture is sometimes very like
that of the home one longs for. The rose-
wood bedstead, the wardrobe with its glass
mirror, the dressing-table with its flowery
chintz, the foliage pattern on the curtains, the
mat by the bed, the mantelpiece with its gilt
clock and its china candlesticks, the little what-
not with its imitation Dresden ornaments-
all these things are the same as one finds in
many an old village house.


150 THE GRIP OF FEAR
How is it, then, that in these old houses the
same things look cheerful and friendly?—un-
less it be that they take up some mysterious
character of life from human beings—a char-
acter which is weakened little by little and fades
away when those who lent it for a time disap-
pear from their places. ... Things are like
people: they forget.
Thus, in a few hours, the room where the
crime had been committed—a room now empty,
sinister, dead--had forgotten its guest!
"How chilly it is here,” murmured the Com-
missioner. ...
He began to walk slowly about, examining
the walls and the furniture and the corners,
where darkness seemed to have taken shelter.
He stopped near the dressing-table, fidgeting
absent-mindedly with a ruler that lay there;
then he noticed and examined an overturned
clock, which pointed exactly to twenty, min-
utes past twelve.
At the best of times a clock is a mysterious,
in a sense, an awesome thing. This machine,
made by the hand of man, marking time, regu-
lating our lives and advancing continually at


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 151
an even pace towards the impenetrable future,
seems to stand in regard to ourselves as the
spy of Fate.
What hour was registered here? Was it
an hour of the day or the darkness? Was it
noon, with its broad and joyous sunshine, or
was it the black and silent hour of midnight?
Had the hands stopped thus simply by chance,
or was this hour which they told the very min-
ute that preceded the crime? Had this clock,
an impassive looker on, witnessed the last sec-
ond of life of the murdered man? ...
“We must consult an expert,” said the Com-
missioner. "He may be able to tell us why
this clock stopped. We must find out whether
it was stopped by its fall.”
"Excuse me, sir,” said an inspector, picking
up three small bits of paper, “this seems very
odd! We did not notice these papers the first
time. ..."
The Commissioner took them in his hands,
and read:
"Monsieur
22
E.V."
esi
ue de


152 THE GRIP OF FEAR
n
He shrugged his shoulders:
“I don't think that that matters. What
can you make out of these few syllables? ...
No use bothering. ..."
“They may mean nothing, of course; but
who knows? ... If we could find the miss-
ing bits. ... Now that I look at these, I think
they are parts of an envelope. If we put them
in order they make up something like an ad-
dress:
“Monsieur—22—ue de—E.V There is
also ‘esi,' which may belong to the name of a
street or to the name of the man. We can,
anyhow, be sure that the man lives at 22 of a
street 'de' ... that makes it already easier to
find him.”
“Much good will it do us,” said the Com-
missioner, laughing.
The inspector went on turning the bits of
paper over and over, smelling them, holding
them up to the light. Suddenly he exclaimed:
"Hullo! This is better still. ... Look!
We've only been examining the front side,
but on the back is written:
‘Not known at No. 22'


A FEW POINTS OF DETAIL 153
and on the other bit:
'Try 16
and here, just by the side, there's half the
postmark: 'Rue Bay'... which must certainly
mean Rue Bayen; that's not difficult. In the
centre of the postmark there's something black
that must have been the date above, and below,
very clearly: ‘’08.' We are still in January;
this letter cannot have been sent very long ago.
I see no way out of it. You may think as
you please, sir, but I think it would be well
worth our while to find the unknown gentle-
man in the Rue de ... I don't know what, who
no doubt had previously resided at 16 of an-
other street, or even perhaps of the same. ..."
“Go ahead. ... As for me, I would give the
whole of your discoveries for the tiniest bit
of information about the life and habits of
the victim. . . . Can you see anything more?
No? ... Now we can go.”
And the Commissioner went off, followed by,
the two inspectors.
There were still some loafers on the boule-


154 THE GRIP OF FEAR
vard, and also policemen mounting guard be-
fore the house. A photographer had put up
his camera to take views of the house; and he
was taking them from every conceivable side.
Just as the Commissioner was about to enter
the carriage he exclaimed, addressing him:
“One second, sir . . . there, thank you.”
"You seem very pleased to have my portrait;
do you think it will amuse your readers? ...
What paper is it for?”
"For the World, sir. The first ..."
“In that case," said the Commissioner,
flaring up, "you may tell your people from
me ... well—no/tell them nothing at all....”


VI
“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22"
THAT day was rather dull both for the
1 Police and for Coche. This affair, which
had seemed to grow more important every mo-
ment as the public curiosity waxed greater,
had now come to a temporary standstill." The
shop-people of the neighbourhood only dis-
closed vague recollections of a quiet, rather
silent, little old man who seemed to have no
relations or friends. He had lived there several
years, scarcely going out at all, speaking still
less, and only receiving letters at very long
intervals. The postman did not remember
having knocked at his door for months. He
said:
"I didn't even call for a Christmas box; you
really don't want a tip from people you never
do anything for.”
155


156 THE GRIP OF FEAR
As for Onesimus Coche, the waiting began
to unnerve him. He would have liked both
to hasten events and to delay them. He was
just beginning to realise the enormous com-
plications which he had brought into his life,
and to see the results which he expected from
this adventure in less brilliant colours. The
one certainty for the time being was that he
was a wanderer, that he dared not stop any-
where, could not ask for any news, was tor-
mented by the strong desire to see again the
scene of the crime ... for all the world as
if he were a criminal himself.
"And,” thought he to himself, “it wouldn't
be half a bad idea to go there. They must, of
course, have laid a police trap in the Boulevard
Lannes; among the crowd that passes before
the house there are sure to be as many police-
men in plain clothes as there are fools; and they
know me quite well. The World, with all the
mystery about its articles, is rather putting out
the Police, and I think they would not fail
to run me in. . . . After that things would go
on splendidly."


"NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 157
But the mere thought of really coming into
contact with the Police frightened him.
His loneliness of the last two days seemed
to have taken out of him all the energy and
the “go” which made him so incomparable.a
reporter when he was interested at all. He
was by nature very dependent on his surround-
ings and on the half-intoxication of speech, of
discussion, of fight, of a breathless and un-
ceasing activity. Deprived of this stimulus,
all his strength and power of decision seemed
to evaporate. As he was at present-elbowing
his way through crowds of unknown people,
or sitting in solitude at cafés and restaurants,
never hearing the sound of his own voice except
when he ordered his meals or a drink-he ex-
perienced, though still free in Paris and sur-
rounded by thousands of human beings, the
same dismal sense of isolation as if he had been
in the most secluded of prison cells.
About five o'clock he rang up the World.
But the line was engaged. He waited a mo-
ment and then called again. The line was
very much taken up; snatches of conversation
reached him confusedly amid the nasal tones


158 THE GRIP OF FEAR
of the attendants who repeated the call num-
bers. Suddenly, amid all that noise and buz-
zing, he heard somebody saying:
“The editor's office, the World?”
He bent quickly over the •mouthpiece and
said:
“I beg your pardon, sir, I beg your pardon;
I called first ..."
"I'm sorry; they seem to have attended to
me. Hullo! the World? ..."
“Damned impertinence! Hullo, Exchange!"
At the other end of the wire there was some-
body laughing.
He stamped impatiently.
· "Hullo, miss; you have put two of us on
the same line. ..."
"Sorry, sir. Please put back the re-
ceiver. ..."
"No, I won't! I've been waiting here for
a quarter of an hour. Put me through to the
clerk-in- ”
He did not finish the word, but took down
the second receiver and listened. He could
quite distinctly hear the whole conversation.
He had never known the line so still, nor had


"NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 159
he ever overheard a more interesting conversa-
tion than the present.
The man who had annoyed him a moment
ago was saying:
“That's awkward. What time does he gen-
erally come?"
And another voice, which he knew at once
was that of the sub-editor, spoke back:
“About half-past four or five. But it's no
good relying upon him.”
“What a nuisance!” said the first voice.
"Can you tell me where I am likely to find
him?"
Coche thought to himself: "Where in the
world have I heard that voice before?”
"I'm afraid 'not,” replied Avyot.
“Well, he's sure to come in during the eve-
ning, isn't he? Would you mind asking him
to call round ... an important communica-
tion. ..."
“I'm afraid that's quite impossible, sir. I
am extremely sorry. ... But he's away, and
I haven't the slightest ...”
"But when will he be back?” said the voice.


160
THE GRIP OF FEAR
“I don't know. ... He may be a long time
away or he may come back very soon. ..."
“He hasn't left Paris, has he?”
“I can't tell you, sir. I am extremely sorry
-extremely. ..."
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Coche, more and
more excited, “they are talking about me, and
that voice . . . that voice ...".
“Don't cut us off, miss. We haven't fin-
ished,” called out Avyot.
And Coche, quite carried away by his inter-
est in this dialogue, instinctively called out too:
“We haven't finished!”
Then immediately he bit his lip; it was pure
luck that he could overhear a conversation con-
cerning himself; and he must not be mad
enough to interrupt it. Fortunately the at-
tendant had already gone away and did not
hear him. The dialogue went on.
“In any case,” said the first voice, "will
you give me his address ?”!
“Certainly.”
"Is there any chance of my finding him at
home?”
.


“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 161
"By Jove!” murmured Coche. “I was quite
right; it's the Commissioner.”
A little shiver ran over him. His fingers
tightened automatically on the receiver, and
he could feel himself grow pale. Why was the
Commissioner so insistent, wanting to see him
or to know his address, unless . . . He had
not the courage to frame the end of his
sentence, even in his own mind, but the word
which he feared shaped itself before him with
quite wonderful clearness and strength: “To
ARREST me! they're going to ARREST me!”
It was now too late to draw back. No hesi-
tation was possible. The last three days had
fled so rapidly that he had not realised the pass-
ing of time, and he now felt that there was no
escape. He hoped for a moment that the sub-
editor would not answer; he nearly cried out:
"Don't! don't give my address!"
But that would have seriously compromised
him; and, although he did want to be arrested
and accused and examined, he was anxious to
be able at any time to shatter by a word the
accusations brought against him. And how


162 THE GRIP OF FEAR
could he have explained such a cry of anguish
as this? ...
The voice went on:
"I don't know whether you'll find him, but
here's his address. ..."
For the tenth part of a second the idea that
perhaps they were not talking about him, after
all, crossed Coche's mind. Avyot went on:
"16, Rue de Douai.”
“Thank you; I'm sorry to have troubled
you.”
“Not at all. Good-bye, Monsieur le Com-
missaire.”
“Good-bye.”
Coche heard them ring off; there was a little
buzzing on the wire, and then all was still.
He remained there listening, expecting,
hoping, fearing he knew not what, nailed to
the spot by intense emotion. It was two or
three minutes before he became once more
really conscious of his surroundings. As he
turned to go out, and seized the door-handle,
he had a moment's hesitation: What if there
were somebody just behind that door, whose
hand would fall heavily on his shoulder?


"NOT KNOWN AT No. 22" 163
The fact of his innocence did not even occur
to him at that moment. He could only think
this one thought: They are sure to arrest me
now.
Of course, he still might choose to speak out
the whole truth. The worst risk he ran was,
after all, only a few days' imprisonment, or
simply a rather severe and humiliating admoni-
tion. ... But he could not, somehow, speak the
truth now; he was fascinated, hypnotised by
this fixed idea:
"They are going to arrest me!"
And this thought, while it frightened him,
yet attracted him, allured him with obscure and
formidable power. It was horrible as the mag-
netic attraction of a precipice, seductive as the
treacherous call of a siren over sounding
waters.
At last he went out. No one paid attention
to him. Only the clerk behind the counter said:
“Two calls, sir."
"All right,” said Coche.
And he paid the second fee without remon-
strance, though he had not spoken at all.
It did occur to him to ring up the World;


164 THE GRIP OF FEAR
but he reflected that by now any move on his
part was superfluous; and so he went off, try-
ing to imagine what could have put the Police
so soon on his track, and feeling, on the whole,
rather annoyed that he had needed no greater
ingenuity to attract their attention to himself.
After his conversation over the telephone,
the Commissioner went at once to the inspec-
tors' office. One of the men, seated at a table,
seemed engrossed in important research.
The Commissioner addressed him:
“Are you doing something very urgent?”
The man smiled.
"Urgent? No... but the sooner it's done
the better. I am looking in the directory for
the streets beginning with 'de;' about that
paper we found this morning. . . . It's always
worth trying...."
"Well, please leave that alone for a minute.
Take a cab, and see if Mr. Onesimus Coche is
at home-16, Rue de Douai.”
“Rue de? ...” repeated the inspector, with
a start.
“Rue de Douai, 16. ... You know where it
is? ..."


“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 165
“Yes, yes; that's not it ... it's that No.
16, and then Rue de ..."
It was the Commissioner's turn to start now.
He had paid no attention to this number;
now it suddenly seemed to acquire great sig-
nificance. It was the very number that he had
read that morning on the piece of envelope
picked up at the house in the Boulevard
Lannes. ... He looked at the inspector and
the inspector looked at him, and they remained
like that for a few seconds, without daring to
put into words the suspicion which had sud-
denly crossed their minds.
"Well,” said the Commissioner, shrugging
his shoulders, "what next?... That's the way
one gets on the wrong tack. An idea comes
into one's mind; one jumps at it; one won't
let go; one becomes infatuated with it ...
and then it's nothing at all. If you start look-
ing suspiciously at everybody who lives at a
No. 16 ..."
“Of course, one can't tell, but it seems odd.
... I am off at once.”
The Commissioner would not appear to give
the least importance to his subordinate's idea


166 THE GRIP OF FEAR
wa
now, because in the morning he had thought
his discovery of no value, and again, now, he
had not been the first to observe what was,
after all, a rather strange coincidence. He
was annoyed not to have discovered the papers
or seen the possible connection, himself. Still,
he did not attribute much importance to it yet;
what likelihood was there that Coche should
have anything to do with the business? Was
he to build a whole theory of his guilt on a
simple coincidence of numbers? He went back
to his office, saying to himself:
“No.... it's absurd. ..."
But, however absurd the thing might seem
to him, he could not dismiss it from his mind.
He took up a sheaf of papers and began ex-
amining them one by one. But at the end of
the first he became aware that—although he
had read every line-he knew nothing at all
about its contents. The only things that came
back to his mind were a No. 16 dancing before
him, and the features of Onesimus Coche
slowly rising with it, at first rather dim, and
then quite clear.


“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22" 167
Little by little a number of lesser details
crowded into his memory.
First there was the information given by
the World, the source of which he had been
unable to discover; then the mysterious manner
of Coche, his attitude, sarcastic enough to be
almost insolent; his oracular replies; his dis-
covery of the footprints; his half-faint in the
room of the crime... all these to a certain point
formed circumstantial evidence against him.
... But, if the reporter had taken a part in the
crime, how could one imagine so much dar-
ing? ... and yet!...
Having reached this point in his argument,
he came to a standstill: there seemed to be
no adequate motive for Coche's demeanour.
Still, he would not worry; in a few moments
he would know what to think of the whole
thing. Without giving Coche any inkling of
the suspicion which had crossed his mind, he
would make him understand how unusual his
attitude appeared. He was quite sure now
that Coche knew all about the crime. The dif-
ficulty would be to worm out of him not what


168 THE GRIP OF FEAR
he knew, but, indeed, how he knew it. Had
not Coche already said to him:
“The Press has many and various means of
investigation”?
What were its means in this case? It was
important for him to know, and he would not
stop short of intimidation, if necessary, in order
to find out. There was also this: that the busi-
ness was about to be put into the hands of the
Examining Magistrate, and he wanted to pre-
sent a plain statement, cleared of all the
mystery which had surrounded this affair from
the beginning.
There was a ring at the telephone:
“What is it?” said he.
“Javel, the inspector you sent to Rue de :
Douai.”
“Well?”
"Monsieur Coche has not been home for three
days.”
An expression of blank astonishment came
upon the Commissioner's face. So, for three
days this reporter had not been seen either at
his office or at his own house? However un-
founded his suspicion might be, yet how could


“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 169
one account for this sudden disappearance
without finding some serious reason for it?
Considering what the events of the last few
days had been, and how swiftly and mysterious-
ly they had succeeded one another, a “serious”
reason must surely in this case be one in some
way connected with the murder of the Boule-
vard Lannes. If so, there were two possible
hypotheses: either Onesimus Coche had disap-
peared on purpose to conduct his inquiry in-
dependently and without interference, or else
he had had a hand in the drama; and in this
latter case he probably had put the frontier
and a few hundred miles between the Police
and himself—unless, indeed, it had been to
somebody's interest to suppress him, and his
disappearance had been entirely involun-
tary. ...
Still following his own impulsive and rather
fantastic method of reasoning, the Commis-
sioner made up his mind that his last idea was
the right one.
He put his mouth to the speaking-tube and
said to the inspector:
“Is that all?”


170 THE GRIP OF FEAR
The inspector did not answer at once, so the
Commissioner called out:
“Hullo! are you there?”
“Yes, sir; that's all.”
“Very good, then; I shall see to it myself
to-morrow morning.”
And he put back the receiver.
“To-morrow morning, my dear sir,” thought
the inspector to himself, “the game will be all
over; for if by to-morrow Coche is not in
my hands, it will mean that he is not wanted
in yours, either.”
He had, indeed, not told the Commissioner
all he knew, for he wanted to work out his
own idea himself. He was too young in the
profession to be much listened to if he gave
advice, so he had made up his mind to follow
in this case his own personal inspiration. Ever
since he had found that bit of envelope he had
somehow had an instinctive feeling that the
game was to hinge entirely upon this bit of
paper; and this instinct, at first quite indefinite,
had suddenly grown clear and conscious when
he had heard the number in Coche's address.
He was almost sorry now that he had betrayed


"NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 171
his thoughts in the presence of the Commis-
sioner; but, on the other hand, he knew that his
chief was too proud to adopt the suggestion of
a mere subordinate, and this consoled him for
his want of self-possession. More than that:
he began to think that he had done a very clever
thing in showing his feelings. The very fact
that he had established some connection be-
tween the two “sixteens” made it now certain
that the Commissioner would not attach the
slightest importance to that fact; on the con-
trary. Therefore, from this moment he might
go freely on his way without let or hindrance.
The reader knows that Javel was not quite
right there; but he was right in the main, owing
to the Commissioner's hasty manner of argu-
ment. Whilst his chief was interpreting
events, Javel was content with ascertaining
them. Indeed, he had obtained one piece of
information, and that with the greatest ease,
which threw that morning's discovery and the
other information collected at Coche's own
house quite into the shade.
Going down the Rue de Douai he had hap-
pened to look mechanically at a certain house


172 THE GRIP OF FEAR
whose number was 22. There was no mistake;
Fate seemed to insist that this number should
strike his eye, and Javel had too much belief
in Fate to refuse to obey its dictates. He
reflected that, after all, if it was all a mistake
no one need ever know anything about it, and
that his course of action here would neither
compromise anybody nor take up much time.
So he went in.
The porter's box opened on to the porch.
He half opened the door.
"Mr. Onesimus Coche, please?''
"Don't know him.”
Javel put on a disappointed expression and
insisted, though with a certain timidity:
"He's a newspaper correspondent. Couldn't
you tell me ..."
The porter, who was warming his hands by
the fire, shook his head in denial without turn-
ing round, but his wife came out of a little
back room and inquired what the gentleman
wanted. Javel guessed that she was, if not
obliging, at least inquisitive; so he repeated:
“I want to find a journalist~Mr. Onesimus
Coche. I was told that he lived here. There


"NOT KNOWN AT No. 22"
173
must have been a mistake in the address, and
I wanted to know if you could ..."
The husband shrugged his shoulders, but
the woman came forward.
“Why, can't you remember?”
Then she turned to the inspector, and she
added:
“There's nobody of that name in this house
now, but there used to be a newspaper gentle-
man, who went away about six months ago;
the postman has made a mistake several times
since then and left letters here addressed to
that name. ..."
Then she turned again to her husband.
“Don't you remember? He left one just the
other day. ... Try No. 16 or 18.”
Javel apologised for the trouble, thanked
them, and went out. When he was in the street
he gave free vent to his joy, exclaiming aloud
to himself:
"It's the right scent, it's the right scent!
I have him!”
He was so excited that he ran up against
an old man, without noticing it, and the man
turned round and grumbled:


174 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“Hullo, what's he up to?” The inspector,
in his joy, did not even hear it. He walked
up quickly to No. 16, and asked:
"Monsieur Coche?”
"He is not in, sir.”
“Do you know when he will be back?”
"No; he must have gone on a journey."
“What a nuisance!” murmured Javel. ...
“Then you can't tell me when I can find him
in?”
“No, sir. Would you like to leave him a
note? We can give it to him with his letters.
There's all his mail for three days."
“Three days,” thought Javel. “Am I really
on the right track then?”
And he added, half aloud, as if speaking to
himself:
“A note? ... Well ..."
Then, remembering that there might be some
information to be gleaned out of this woman,
and that she would be less on her guard against
a visitor talking disconnectedly while he wrote
a letter than against one standing on the
threshold, he replied:


“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22” 175
“Yes, if I may, I should like to write a
word.”
“Certainly, sir; take a seat. Have you any-
thing to write with?”
"No."
When the woman had brought him ink, pen,
and paper he sat down at her desk and began
to write a rather vague begging-letter, saying
that he was a journalist out of work and in very
low water, and begging his colleague to assist
him if he could.
When he came to the end of the page he
stopped, and picked up the sheet of note-paper
and waved it to and fro to dry it.
"A little blotting-paper?”
“Oh, thanks, if it's not too much trouble."
“Not at all. ... An envelope?”
“Yes, please.”
While he was slowly drying his page he
asked:
"Had Mr. Coche not told you that he was
going?”
"No; his charwoman came the day before
yesterday just as usual. She did not know any-
thing about his going, and asked me the same


178 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“That's right, sir; anyhow, you will find
his charwoman."
He thanked her and went out. There was
no more doubt in his mind that the receiver
of the torn-up envelope found in the house in
the Boulevard Lannes and Onesimus Coche
were one and the same person. The question
now was: was the journalist's sudden depar-
ture on the night of the crime more than a mere
coincidence, or was it not? This was a much
more delicate question to answer, and one which
must be looked into closely and coolly.
The inspector was at this point in his reflec-
tions when he rang up the Commissioner to
tell him the result of his inquiry; but he gave
no more information than was sufficient to
answer the question put to him: He had been
sent to No. 16, Rue de Douai to find out
whether Coche was at home; Coche was not.
For the present nothing need be added. The
rest of his doings was his own business, and
he would mind it himself.
It was Javel's habit, when trying to catch
a man, to think, not what would be the clever-
est thing for himself to do, but rather what


“NOT KNOWN AT No. 22”
179
was the most stupid thing possible for the other
man. Now, the worst mistake that Coche could
make if he were guilty was to come home again;
therefore Javel expected him to come home.
When a man has the choice between two alter-
natives, it is very rarely, especially if he stands
in fear of the Police, that he chooses the better.
The most elementary common sense would
have prevented the reporter from coming back
to the Rue de Douai; it was therefore in the
Rue de Douai that he must be expected.
Having come to this conclusion, Javel
punted guard a few steps away from the
door, and waited.


VII
TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M.
ONESIMUS COCHE came out of the
telephone box and pulled himself to-
gether. For three days he had seen and learnt
nothing—nothing except the anguish of a
hunted man; a subject, that, for good, sound
literature, but not for the sensational news-
paper copy for which he was in search. He
was in the dark about everything at the very
moment when he wanted to know everything;
and he now understood that being in the dark
about events must be for a guilty man the most
unnerving part of his condition. Moreover, as
for Onesimus Coche, the poor devil had not
been able to change his clothes, and this detail
counts for a great deal. His soiled collar felt
uncomfortable; his cúffs were dirty, and he was
altogether ill at ease. Physical discomfort was
180


TWELVE HOURS/6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 181
added to his moral discomfort. He resolved to
go home-after the gas had been put out in the
house so that the porter should not see him.
And towards midnight he stopped before his
own door. Javel, who had come up softly,
smiled with triumph on recognising Coche's
face. The mouse had come to the trap. The
inspector continued his beat without taking his
eye off the doorway. Two policemen, observ-
ing that he looked insistently at that house,
said to him rather roughly:
"What are you waiting for here?”
He replied, "Police!” scarcely turning his
head, and showed his papers.
About half an hour later, seeing that Coche
did not come out again, Javel thought to him-
self:
"Surely he won't have the daring to sleep
at home.” ... Then he reflected: “Well, after
all, if he really is not guilty, and if his de-
parture has nothing to do with the crime,
there'd be nothing surprising in that. He went
into the room of the crime in the Boulevard
Lannes with my chief, and he may have
dropped those bits of paper then. And yet...”


182 THE GRIP OF FEAR
He was so anxious, so eager to know, that
he was not even conscious of the cold. There
were fewer and fewer passers-by, and his watch
became all the easier. He walked to and fro,
quite sure that the journalist could not go out
without being seen. At last, about two o'clock,
the door opened. Coche stood for a moment
quite still on the threshold and shut the door
after him noiselessly. Javel watched him, saw
him hesitate, then take a few steps, look right
and left, and then walk away straight ahead.
He gave him a start of a few yards, and then
set off to follow him.
They went on like this as far as the boule-
vard, then on to the embankment by the Rue
de Richelieu, and across the river.
"I'm hanged if I know where he is taking
me to,” murmured Javel, seeing that he went
on in the direction of the Place Saint-Michel,
“but he can go where he pleases. I shan't let
go of him until I've tracked him home.”
Coche went up the Boulevard Saint-Michel
and on by the Luxembourg; then he stopped,
looking about him.
“What does it mean?” thought Javel.
Tul.


TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 183
"Surely he knows this part ... and he looks as
if he didn't know what he wanted. ..."
Half aloud, he said:
“Get along, young man; it's time to go to
bed. ..."
Just then Coche turned round: their eyes
met. Javel made no sign, but Coche started
and walked off again more quickly towards
the observatory. The boulevard was deserted,
and the detective watched the shadow of the
reporter in flight over the dry, white pavement.
This race towards an unknown goal was be-
ginning to tell on his own nerves; he felt both
the cold and the fatigue. Now and then he
had a strong temptation to spring on Coche
and collar him. But if he was innocent, what
a mistake this would be; it meant apologising
and no end of a bother. So he went on with
his fists clenched, nursing his rage. Coche
must surely end by going into a house; and
then he would have to wait until daylight out-
side in the icy night, with no hope of food, with
his feet frozen and his hands numbed. ....
All of a sudden a voice behind him said
softly:


184 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“Good morning, Javel.”
He turned round and saw one of his Police
colleagues. What a relief! He put a finger
across his lips, took his friend by the arm, and
said to him in a whisper:
“Sssssh! Be quiet! ..."
"Anything up?"
“Yes, look in front of us, twenty yards
away.”
“Do you mean it?"
"Don't I!...I believe I've got ... But
I can't tell you just yet. Look here, if you're
not too tired, I have a plan for you. Keep up
with my man, and don't let him go. I believe
I've got something quite first-class. ..."
“You can't tell me ...?”
"Not now; in a few hours I will. . . . I'm
quite done up; besides, I think our friend has
seen me and that I'm no use. He won't be
on his guard against you. Will you?”
“Well,” said the other one, “if it's any good
to you! You want me to track him down?..."
“That's the first thing; then you stick to his
door. To-morrow morning at ten o'clock send
word to me where he ends his night and where


TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 185
I can come to relieve you. I shall be before
No. 16, Rue de Douai, but for heaven's sake
don't let go of him for a minute! We may
never have such a fine quarry again. ... And
you shall have your bit of the cake if it comes
off, I promise you."
"All this sounds very nice; but, all the same,
I should like to know ..."
"Well,” said Javel, seeing that his comrade
was wavering, and that he must play an open
game unless he was prepared to risk the whole
thing; "well, I am probably following up the
murderer of the Boulevard Lannes.”
He was not in the least certain that Coche
was the murderer, but he realised that, if he
hesitated now, his companion would probably
refuse to go on. The attraction of such a catch
was enough to make the other fall in at once
with his plan, but the thing seemed almost
impossible; so he asked:
"Are you sure?"
“Quite sure,” said Javel firmly. “You see
that it's worth it?"!
“You may reckon upon me; I've got him.”


186 THE GRIP OF FEAR
W
W
“And, above all, no blunders. The black-
guard has a sight ... and such legs! ..."
"So have I.”
“Ten o'clock, a messenger: 16, Rue de
Douai.”
“Right you are.”
Javel turned on his heel and went back to-
wards the centre of Paris. He was happy now:
Coche would not escape him; and, if he had
made a mistake, no one except the comrade
who had now the same interest in the business
as himself, and would keep it dark if it did not
come off, would know how he had spent his
night.
Coche had not turned round again since that
first time near the Luxembourg. He went on
straight before him at random, aware of the
danger in which he stood, more by instinct
than by the glimpse he had had of the Police
official. Now and then he slackened his steps
in order to hear better the sound of that other
footfall which regulated itself according to
his own. For one second, when the two police-
men had met, he thought he had been saved.
If there had been a cross-road near him at that


TWELVE HOURS-6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 187
moment he would have run down it at full
speed; but there was none. Soon the sound
of the footsteps behind him reached him more
clearly still; and he had understood that, in-
stead of one man behind him, there were now
two. The anguish of this night was even more
acute for him than that of the first night of
the crime had been, when he walked alone up
the deserted boulevard. And yet.it was of the
same kind. He was seized with the same fear
of the unknown; his ears were filled by the same
motionless silence; the more he hurried on the
long road that stretched before him the less
he seemed to advance. He could feel the
men's eyes resting upon him; he could detect
the whispered sound of their words, as if the
imperceptible shiver that they set up in the
air was a succession of sound-waves that could
reach him through all that distance. His nerv-
ousness was such that he gripped the butt-end
of his revolver with the intention of suddenly
turning round and pulling the trigger. One
thought only—and that a most unaccountable
one-stopped him from committing this mad
action: the fear that he would find nobody


188 THE GRIP OF FEAR
there, and would be obliged to realise that he
was losing his mind.
Madness had always appeared to him as one
of the most frightening things possible, and the
idea that his reason might have given way filled
him with a vague terror. He was gradually
becoming conscious of loss of mastery over him-
self, and of a horrible fear which took posses-
sion of him, paralysing his will and falsifying
his judgment. Quite suddenly he felt himself
overcome with fatigue, the kind of fatigue that
wears arms and legs to the breaking point,
against which one feels that there is no fight-
ing; it makes the feet leaden and the mind a
blank, driving out even a sense of grief, dan-
ger, remorse. He hesitated, seized by an im-
perious need of sleep which tortured him like
hunger or thirst. He went on with his teeth
clenched and his throat gripped by fear, and
repeated to himself:
“Go on!... Go on! ..."
At the very bottom of the Avenue d'Orleans,
near the gate of the town, he saw the lamp of
an hotel. He rang and waited, leaning against
the wall for the door to be opened. Then he


TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 189
asked for a room, threw himself, dressed as
he was, on the bed, without even taking the
precaution to bolt or lock his door, and was
plunged into a sleep as deep as death.
Two minutes later the detective, who did not
care to spend the night in the cold, rang too,
and, putting on a perfectly natural voice and
look, said to the man:
"Please give me a room next to that of my
friend who has just come in, and call me when
he wakes up, but don't tell him that I am there.
I am playing a little trick on him.”
He climbed the stairs three by three, and
as soon as the man had left the room he put his
ear to the wall; he could hear Coche's deep and
even breath. Then he stretched himself on
his bed, and, sure that he would not lose his
man, he fell asleep in his turn. ...
That night Coche dreamt that he was in a
prison and that a jailer was watching over his
sleep: a dream strangely near the truth. For
the last few hours he had ceased to be a free
man and had been only a hunted animal, pos-
sessed of a growing consciousness that he was


190 THE GRIP OF FEAR
.
surrounded by a circle of bloodhounds ever
closing in upon him. ...
At eight o'clock in the morning Javel took
up his watch again before 16, Rue de Douai.
He might have simply gone straight up to
Coche’s apartment to talk with the charwoman,
but he preferred to avoid the porter, and waited
about until she had left her box. As it is un-
heard of, in Paris, that a woman porter can
be over an hour without moving from her post
—especially during the morning at the hour
of gossip—he was sure he could soon pass with-
out being seen. Indeed, a few minutes later
the porter went out. He immediately walked
in and, although he did not know on what
floor were the reporter's rooms, he was in no
way troubled by such a detail, but rang at
the first door he came to, and asked:
"Monsieur Coche, if you please?”
“Not here; fourth floor."
“I beg your pardon.”
On the fourth floor the door was opened by
an old woman.
“Is your master in?” said Javel in the tone
of voice of a man who asks the question as a


TWELVE HOURS-6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 191
mere formality, being quite sure at that time of
the morning “the master" must be there.
"No, sir...."
He smiled, and went on:
“Tell him who it is . . . he will be sure
to see me. , . . You need only say my name—
Monsieur ..."
“But, sir, my master is not at home.”
"I should have thought. . . . That is most
annoying. . . . Can you tell me when he will
be back?”
The woman put up her hands.
"I can't tell at all now. He's been away
four days . . . he may be back any moment,
or he may not.”
"The thing is,” said Javel, “that I want
rather badly to see him.”
“Can I do anything for you, sir?" said the
woman. “Come in; perhaps he may soon be
back.”
“Yes. . . . I will wait a minute.”
He went into the study and sat down, won-
dering how he could start a conversation. But
he need not have troubled about that. The


192
THE GRIP OF FEAR
charwoman took it all upon herself, and, with-
out his addressing her at all, she went on:
“Yes, he's been away four days. That's
funny, seeing that he never goes away with-
out telling. There are letters for him—tele-
grams. People come here to ask for him, and
we can't tell them anything."
"Perhaps he's gone to his home.”
“Oh, no, it can't be that. His portman-
teau's here . . . and then, he went away so
queerly, sir. ..."
“Did you see him go off ?”
“No, sir. When I got here in the morning
I found the bed unmade and his evening clothes
on a chair. I cleaned up everything and put it
tidy. I was rather surprised, because he never
goes out before eleven; and when I went home
for lunch, I don't know why, but I kept think-
ing it over, and do you know what I thought
at first?... I must tell you that once before
he went off like that, very early, to fight a
duel. ... Well, I thought to myself that per-
haps he had done the same thing again. ..."
“Oh, do you think so?... I should have
heard of it. ..."


TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 193
“Well, now I think as you do. But the
first day, what put it into my head was that
it looked as if he had been fighting. You are
his friend, and so you know how careful he
is ”
“Oh, yes,” said Javel; “most careful. ..."
“Well, his shirt-front was stained with
blood, and ..."
“And what?” said the detective, scarcely
able to contain his excitement. ...
“His shirt-cuff was all crumpled and torn,
and he had lost one of his cuff-links—one of
his links that he was so fond of, sir. ..."
“His gold links, with the turquoises?”
"I don't know what you call them.”
“Well,” said Javel, almost stammering with
joy, "little blue stones? ..."
“That's it. Well, the button-hole was torn
and the link was off; so, of course, you'd have
thought, just as I did, that he had been quar-
relling, only ..."
Javel hastened to interrupt the old woman.
Anything that she might wish to say now be-
came a matter of no importance compared with
the two invaluable statements which she had


194 THE GRIP OF FEAR
already made: that there was blood on his shirt
and-still more striking—that a cuff-link, like
the one found in the room of the murder, had
been lost from that same shirt!
But the thing seemed to him so astounding,
and also Fate seemed to be helping him in such
an extraordinary manner, that he decided he
must make sure at once. So he pretended to
be astonished, and said:
"Are you sure?”
“Am I sure! Since you know his links you
shall see for yourself. I kept the shirt on pur-
pose, in case he hadn't noticed that the link
was lost, and because he might think it was
my fault. I'll just show you."
She went into the bedroom; but she had
no sooner got in than she exclaimed:
“Well, upon my word! He has been here
since yesterday, and has changed his clothes!
The cupboard is all topsy-turvy. . . . Look,
there's his flannel shirt in the clothes basket;
it wasn't there yesterday.”
“By Jove!” thought Javel. “He can't have
taken away the bloodstained shirt and the other
cuff-link when he came here in the night! In


TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 195
any case, we should still have the old woman
there to identify the link that we have got; but
the proof would be less striking and conclu-
sive. ..."
He followed her into the bedroom, murmur-
ing:
“What did you say? ... That he changed
his clothes here yesterday?..."
“Yes, and I'm sure of it. There's his flan-
nel shirt which he only wears in the morning;
yesterday there was nothing in the basket but
his evening shirt, with the bloodmark here ...
look ... and the cuff torn—there. . . . As for
the other half of the link—it's there on the
mantelpiece. ... You see that I'm speaking
the truth.”
If any one had shown the detective the most
wonderful precious stone in the world, he could
not have looked at it with the joy and the love
with which he gazed upon this worthless little
ornament. He turned it over and over, and
the more he handled it and played with it with
trembling fingers, the more his eye shone with
pleasure, as the certainty won its way into his


196 THE GRIP OF FEAR
mind that this link was identical with the one
picked up at 29, Boulevard Lannes.
Thus, in less than twenty-four hours, with
no clue but a little bit of paper and a few scraps
of writing, he had succeeded in unravelling this
mystery which had so long appeared insoluble!
So long as he had only had this bit of envelope
as a proof against Coche, he had scarcely dared
to give a definite shape to his surmise. But
now it was no longer possible to have a doubt
about it; he could see it all in his mind with
extraordinary clearness. The stain on the shirt-
front was a splash of blood. The torn sleeve
and broken cuff-link ... did not everything in
the room of the murder bear witness to a des-
perate hand-to-hand fight?
There was only one thing that remained in-
explicable in the whole business, and that was
Coche's attitude after the discovery of the
crime; his smiling presence of mind, his desire
to see the body of the victim—his victim!—in
the presence of the Commissioner. And be-
sides, what could explain the fact that a quiet,
contented, honourable youth had suddenly
become a thief and a murderer? ... unless he
"&


TWELVE HOURS—6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 197
had been seized by a sudden attack of insanity.
... But that matter was no concern of his.
What he cared about was that, following up a
clue judged by others to be of no value, he
had started upon a campaign all alone, and that
the scent which he had followed had led him to
his goal with the most astounding swiftness.
In an hour's time the whole business would be
clear. Coche would be arrested and safe under
lock and key ... "unless my pal has let him
go,” thought Javel. The mere idea made him
boil with rage, and he said to himself to reassure
himself:
“He couldn't, he couldn't have done that!”
Now that he knew all he could possibly
learn, he was too anxious for news of the man
he already considered his prisoner to stop a
minute longer with the old woman. He looked
at his watch and said:
"I'm afraid I can't wait any longer. I'm
going away; but I shall be back again soon.”
And as he pronounced these words, “I shall
be back again,” he smiled in spite of himself,
experiencing a strange delight in the thought
-a thought so simple and yet so weighted with


198
THE GRIP OF FEAR
menace. In the archway he passed the porter
with whom he had talked the day before, but
this time he did not stop. He set foot in the
street at half-past nine exactly. There he
found a man pacing up and down before the
door. As soon as the man saw him he came
up to him and said under his breath:
“Javel?”
“Right,” said the detective, and he added:
“Where is he?”
"In the hotel at the corner of the Avenue
d'Orleans and the Boulevard Brune ... with
his friend.”
“Good. Jump into a cab and go after them,
and between you keep him there for an hour
longer. If need be, don't hesitate to lay hands
upon him; I take the responsibility upon my-
self. You need not be afraid; it's all right.”
The man went off. Javel got into a cab, told
the driver to go to the police-station, and sat
there rubbing his hands, joyful, triumphant.
Just then no thought of reward or promotion
even crossed his mind. He was joyous simply
with the joy of success; he was full of a new,
disinterested pleasure, and his heart swelled


TWELVE HOURS-6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 199
with such pride that he would not have given
away his secret for all the world.
At the police-station he met a colleague,
who whispered to him:
“Go up quickly; the chief is waiting for you.
I think he's got something to say to you."
Javel shrugged his shoulders and answered
without hurrying:
“That's all right, that's all right!"
He naturally expected to be pitched into,
for having absented himself with no warning
and without calling for orders; but with the
turn events had taken, he had had neither time
nor thought for such details. On the whole,
he was not sorry to be met with a scowl; that
would make rather a good set-off for the news
he had to bring. So when he came in the pres-
ence of his chief, he let the storm take its course
without interrupting it by the slightest protest.
The Commissioner was all the more irritable
because the Examining Magistrate for this
case had already been appointed, and the Com-
missioner found himself obliged to present a
ridiculously insufficient report. He therefore


200 THE GRIP OF FEAR
seized the occasion to vent his vexation upon
somebody.
It was extraordinary that a police inspector
could behave in such an entirely irresponsible
manner! Who had told Javel not to come
back? He had been charged with a special
mission, and Javel allowed himself to consider
his duty discharged simply by ringing his chief
up on the telephone. And what if he was
needed? Indeed, he had been needed ... the
other inspectors were all busy with other
things; the Commissioner had reckoned upon
him, had waited for him till eight o'clock the
night before. If he had had a man at his orders
then, he might perhaps be on the right scent.
What answer could Monsieur Javel give to
this? What explanation, what justification
could he offer for his presumption?
"Sir,” said Javel at last, carefully picking his
words, "you are no doubt aware that I must
have had some serious reason to prevent my
attending to my duties here, as you wished
me to do. The reason which I had is simply
this: follow me, and in less than an hour I
will present to you the assassin of the Boule-


TWELVE HOURS/6 P.M. TO 6 A.M. 201
vard Lannes, and you will have nothing to do
but to arrest him. You see that I've not been
at play all night, and as for the scent you men-
tion, sir, unless it were the same as my own,
I can assure you that it would have led you
nowhere."
The Commissioner listened in open-mouthed
astonishment. The announcement seemed to
him so startling that he wondered whether the
inspector was making fun of him, and he said,
rather to make sure that he had really heard
aright than out of mistrust of the man's judg-
ment:
"Please say that again.”
"I repeat, sir, that I've got the assassin of
the Boulevard Lannes, and that in an hour's
time you will have got him too."
"But how did you ..."
“Well, sir, although I am quite sure of my
business, we mustn't lose a minute just now;
a bird in the hand, sir ... let us go at once.
On the way I will give you all the details.
For the time being I will tell you just this,
which is neither the least surprising nor the
least decisive of them all: the murderer of the


202 THE GRIP OF FEAR
old man at 29, Boulevard Lannes, the man
whom I have pursued all night, whom a friend
has tracked home in the Avenue d'Orleans, and
is watching at this moment—the man, in short,
whom you, sir, are coming to arrest—is
Onesimus Coche.”
“Are you MAD?” cried the Commissioner.
“I think not ... and if I tell you that the
cuff-link found near the body is the twin
brother of one reposing on the mantelpiece at
16, Rue de Douai, you will no doubt recognise
that it may be a matter of interest to demand
of Mr. Onesimus Coche an account of his
doings on the night of the 13th.”


VIII
UNEASINESS
ONESIMUS COCHE woke up about
half-past ten with a heavy head. During
the night he had been agitated by so many fan-
tastic dreams that he now found it difficult
to collect his thoughts. He was at first aston-
ished to find himself in a room which he had
never seen before, and to realise that he was
lying fully dressed upon a bed. It was very
cold. Everything around him was uncomfort-
able, wretched, and dirty. Bits of old rag
peeped out of the rusty fireplace; the wall-
paper, a light design of pink and blue roses on
a cream background, was soiled with grease
or damp; the bed looked suspicious, the
patched-up quilt was torn, and little tufts of
wool fell out of it here and there. A woman's
skirt hung over a portmanteau which stood up
303


204 THE GRIP OF FEAR
on end in a corner. He had to look round him
for a moment before the recollection of the visit
to his own rooms and his aimless, hunted run
over the boulevards came back to his mind. He
tried to reason coolly with himself.
Had he really been followed? ... Now,
was it likely? Why should he choose to believe
that, when it would have been so simple and
natural to conclude that the man whom he
passed on the Boulevard Saint-Michel was just
a peaceful citizen? ... This man had come
exactly the way he had ... well, what of that?
The quarter he was now in was populous
enough! The man might quite well have been
going home ... and yet he could not help shud-
dering when their eyes had met.
The anguish which he had succeeded in al-
laying for a moment seized upon him again.
He shivered with cold, and the dismal misery
of the room he was in seemed just the very
setting for a sordid drama, a hovel which had
no doubt witnessed all manner of human sin
and degradation. He had slept the sleep of
a free and innocent man on this ricketty bed,
where many criminals had probably spent their


UNEASINESS
205
nights, huddled up, their eyes wide open in
the darkness, their hearing sharpened by sus-
pense. He was now becoming familiar with
this sense of the torture of fear which used to
be dim and unreal in his mind. He understood
the agony of these men; he pitied their exas-
peration; he realised how the criminal, sudden-
ly transformed into a beast at bay, turns round
in his den to face his pursuers and throws him-
self upon them, not for the sake of making
them pay dearly for his life, but just for the
savage joy of avenging, by murder, the horror
of his endless nights.
The drama of his own capture was now en-
acted before his fancy. He saw himself thrown
to earth, clutched by brutal hands; he felt
hot human breath pass over his face . . . and
there arose within him a feeling akin to that
of a leader of a forlorn hope.
He got up, went over to the window, and
looked into the street without daring to raise
the curtain. He saw a man walking slowly to
and fro on the pavement below. He thought
the man raised his eyes in his direction, so he
drew back, but continued to watch. For the


206
THE GRIP OF FEAR
second time the man looked up. Then a cold
perspiration broke over him. There was no
possible doubt; that man was waiting, watch-
ing for somebody ... and that somebody was
himself! He tried to drive the absurd sus-
picion from his mind, but he could not, and
the vision of his own struggles as he had pic-
tured them a moment ago rose up again before
him.
At the time of his greatest danger man, in
his weakness, returns almost to the state of
childhood. So deep is the trace of those early
years that the thoughts and occupations, even
the games of our first age remain when all
acquired habits and reasoned principles count
for nothing. Coche's reason, exhausted by the
dreams of that night, was slowly clouding it-
self over. His fear changed into a kind of
stupor so complete that he could almost be-
lieve his whole life was nothing but an illusion,
a dream. And at this poignant moment he
began involuntarily to play being the perpe-
trator of a crime, just as, in his childhood,
he used to play all alone at fighting or at
hunting, being himself both the general and


UNEASINESS
207
the soldier, the hunter and the quarry, and
experiencing every emotion by turns, afraid
at times of the sound of his own voice and the
fury of his own gestures, acting for an imagi-
nary spectator, who was none but himself, the
gigantic and unsuspected dramas that live in
the soul of a child.
In to-day's sinister game he naturally was
the criminal. He knew himself to be watched.
There were men mounting guard before his
house; other men, he thought, were stealing
up the stairs; he could hear the steps creaking
beneath their feet. ... The sound ceased, and
then began again. A stifled sound of voices
reached his ear. He soon caught the words,
snatches of sentences: "He is there ... take
care ... no noise. ...” Then, nothing more.
What was he to do? He was surrounded on
all sides. There were spies under his win-
dow; he could not escape from there. Near
the fireplace there was a door that opened into
another room; but there were two big bolts:
would he have time to unfasten them? No...
must he wait till the door of his room should


208 THE GRIP OF FEAR
open, and then rush head foremost on his
assailant? ... Yes, that was it. ...
He picked up his revolver, and standing at
bay, in a corner by the window, he waited. ...
The voices—was it a dream or reality?-
were more distinct. One said:
“At the least movement ... you under-
stand? ..." Then there was a silence. Not
even the sound of a passing vehicle in the
street. Life seemed to have suddenly stopped.
The tick-tack of an alarum in a room close by
reached Coche distinctly....
Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
The knock seemed to Coche quite in keeping
with his thoughts; not that he imagined for
a moment that it was a servant coming to do
the room. Was he not just playing at being
trapped by the Police? They were there, of
course, behind the door. ... Of course, he must
not answer: he stood quite still and gripped
his revolver. There was another knock: silence
again. Suddenly the door opened. He had
made so sure that the door would give way
under a violent thrust that he was almost
stunned—he had forgotten that the night be-


UNEASINESS
209
fore he had omitted to lock it. He had scarcely
time to level his revolver before he felt himself
held by many hands, some grasping his shoul-
ders, others wrenching his wrist. His sur-
prise and pain were so great that he dropped
his weapon and allowed himself to be hand-
cuffed without resistance. It was only now
that he understood what was happening, and
saw that his game had been reality—that he
was caught. He stood there, so roughly torn
from his waking dream that the most extraor-
dinary events could not now surprise him.
Little by little he regained possession of him-
self as his ideas grew clearer. He heard the
Commissioner say sarcastically:
“My congratulations, Monsieur Coche!"
This voice sufficed to call him back to reality.
And by a strange recoil he was relieved at his
capture. The thing he had been in such fear
of for four days had now come to pass. He
was caught!
He would at last be able to rest, and since he
had committed no wrong, he would sleep the
peaceful slumbers of those who, having noth-
ing to reproach themselves with, can drop their


210 THE GRIP OF FEAR
eyelids over eyes innocent of any vision of
crime. Now at last—and for the first time
perhaps since the night of the thirteenth—he
had a clear idea that he was about to achieve
his purpose, and that his triumphant journal-
ist's work was about to begin. His features
instinctively relaxed; he began to breathe deep-
ly and freely. A smile of contemptuous irony
curled his lips.
After having him searched from head to foot,
and having the whole bed searched as well, the
Commissioner said:
“Come along.”
"Excuse me,” said Coche, addressing the
Commissioner—and how glad he was to hear
his own voice-"would it be indiscreet to ask
you, sir, what all this is about?"
“You have no inkling of it, I suppose?”
"I know that your men have thrown them-
selves upon me, have overpowered and bound
me; I may add that they have locked my hand-
cuffs more tightly than they need; but I don't
know exactly what all this violence means, and
I hope you will have the kindness to enlighten
me. I search my memory in vain. I have no


UNEASINESS
211
recollection of any indiscretion of mine in the
Press; and even if I were guilty of one, you
would surely not bring ten policemen to cap-
ture me, among whom this gentleman,” he
added, pointing to Javel, "has graciously,
favoured me with his company since last
night.”
He had assumed such a confident manner
that for a moment Javel, the Commissioner,
and all the others thought to themselves:
“There must be a mistake! He can't
have ..."
But the same thought occurred to them all.
“If he has nothing on his conscience, why
did he receive us with a revolver in his hand?”
And this reflection was strengthened in the
mind of the Commissioner and that of Javel
by the much more weighty and precise con-
sideration:
“How can one account for his cuff-link hav-
ing been found near the body?”
With that, they dismissed every shadow of
doubt. Coche, with his hands bound, went
downstairs between two inspectors.


UNEASINESS
213
“Out with him! Death! Death!”.
An inspector quickly put his head out of the
window and said to the coachman:
“What are you waiting for? Drive on!
By ..."
Some policemen, who came up at last, suc-
ceeded in clearing the crowd away from the
van, which started off amid vociferous booing.
A few of the fiercest began to run after it,
shouting with all their might:
“Death! To the guillotine!”
People who stood on their own doorsteps
joined the procession for a few minutes, when
they saw the van escorted by the police on their
cycles, and joined in shouting:
“Death! Death!”
At last, at the crossing of the Rue d'Alesia,
a block in the traffic, where two tramways from
Mont-rouge and Gare de l'Est met from dif-
ferent directions, made it possible for the driver
to get a little ahead and outrun some of his
pursuers.
Coche, leaning back in a corner, had not
opened his mouth since they left the house,
except for a timid “Thank you” to one of the


214 THE GRIP OF FEAR
inspectors when he pulled down the blind to
protect Coche from the curiosity of the public.
The yelling and the threats of the people had
at first frightened him and then sickened him.
So that was the Parisian crowd, was it?—the
most intelligent crowd in the world! See what
blind hatred could rise up immediately in this
country, the cradle of all liberty—in this town,
which had been the first to breathe forth words
of justice and fraternity-against a man of
whom nothing was known but this: that he
was being dragged to prison! See what hor-
rible imprecations were thrown at him, just
because one voice, a single voice, had shouted
“Death!” Even if the terrible game he had
begun to play were to teach him nothing but
that, it would have been worth all the anguish
he had experienced and the annoyance he was
yet to undergo. Things would now proceed
in a normal manner. The amazing and para-
doxical game in which the mouse would play
with the cat was now to begin!
His facile irony which had come back to
him for a moment when he was arrested now
fell away again. The Law of the land loomed


UNEASINESS
215
before him now as an infinitely more complex
piece of machinery than he had at first thought
it to be. There stood behind him the magis-
trate and the judges, and that shadowy and
mighty thing—the crowd.
It is true, in theory, the voice of the crowd
becomes silent on the threshold of the Law
Court; true, the judges are only to be guided
by the witnesses of facts and by their knowl-
edge of the Law. But what man can be strong
enough, righteous enough, great enough to be
totally uninfluenced by the imperious will of
the people? A true criminal has almost as
much to fear from the verdict of the populace
as from that of the judge. Whatever may be
said about it, it is, nevertheless, true that even
penalties vary with public opinion. A crime
punished to-day with a few months' impris-
onment would have, in former times, brought
its perpetrators to the gallows. Damiens, who
was broken upon the wheel for having inflicted
an insignificant scratch upon Louis XV, would
now, in the twentieth century, have probably
been condemned to about two years' imprison-
ment on a charge of lèse-majesté.


216 THE GRIP OF FEAR
Once the preliminary inquiry was over,
Coche was shut up into a little cell at the police-
station. He could hear the policemen talking
outside his door, and from time to time one
looked in through the grating.
Towards twelve o'clock they came to ask
about his dinner. Was he hungry? He said
“Yes.” In reality he had a lump in his throat,
and the mere thought of eating made him feel
ill. Nevertheless, as he did not want to appear
too upset, he ordered his own dinner from the
bill of fare of a neighbouring restaurant, pre-
tending to choose what he liked best.
They brought him his meat all cut up and
his vegetables in little coarse, heavy plates,
which had been so often washed and knocked
about that they were cracked here and there,
and the greasy water seemed to spread inside
the cracks, leaving yellowish-grey spots. His
attempts to swallow even one mouthful proved
futile, but he eagerly drank both his bottles
of wine and water and then began to walk up
and down his cell, seized by a great desire for
movement, air, and freedom. Except for the
handcuffs, which had been put on rather too


UNEASINESS
217
tightly, he had not been ill-treated. He had
expected to find the policemen more rough
and brutal, and he had been prepared to assert
in his favour the rights of an innocent man
who must be treated as such until the courts
have found him guilty. He had, above all,
imagined that he himself would behave quite
differently from what he had done.
During the last few days, when he thought
of his probable frame of mind after the arrest,
he had always thought that he would preserve
his vigour and cheerfulness. But a few hours'
imprisonment had sufficed to change this idea.
He began to realise, little by little, the excep-
tional seriousness of the thing he had done,
and even before having had any experience of
the procedure of the law, he now stood in
fear of all that surrounded him. True, there
was always one reassuring thought at the back
of his mind:
“When I have had enough of it, I shall put a
stop to the play, and that's all.”
As the day began to wane, his thoughts took
a sadder turn. Nothing evokes more vividly
the sweet remembrance of home of one's own


218
THE GRIP OF FEAR
snug room with its cheerful fire, the white
cloth shining with its silver and glass, and the
comfort of the well-loved house—than the
treacherous chilliness which invades, at night-
fall, dark rooms where all the sounds of the
street only find a stifled echo. In the lobby the
policemen on duty had lighted a lamp and
seated themselves round a table, and there was
a smell of paraffin mixed with the musty odour
of wet cloth and leather which had tormented
him since the morning. Yet he could not hold
back, and, standing on tiptoe, he looked eagerly
through the little grating at those peaceful
men leaning over the table in tired attitudes-
and above all he looked at the lamp—a hideous
thing with a broken shade dotted with red-
yet which gave a little of that light which he
missed so dreadfully in his cell.
About six o'clock somebody opened the door.
He thought they were going to examine him,
but a policeman only handcuffed him again and
pushed him out into the lobby. There he found
two ragged-looking men, a pale young black-
guard who smoked a cigarette with a half-
sneer on his lips, and two women who reminded


UNEASINESS
219
him of the one he had seen that night on the
Boulevard Lannes. A police inspector made
the prisoners pass before him, counting them;
then, one by one, he made them get into a
prison van that stood before the door. Coche
was the last, and he heard one of the policemen
inside telling the inspector, pointing at him:
"You'd better keep an eye on that one."
There was only one step from the door to the
van, and Coche involuntarily turned away his
head so as not to meet the eyes of the loafers.
As his hands were bound he had to be helped
to get up. They put him into the last box.
He sat down; there was not room for his knees.
They closed the door after him, and the vehicle,
drawn by two old horses, started off at a trot,
jolting along the cobbled street.
This was the real beginning of the ordeal,
and it felt pretty stiff. But what joy he would
feel in “doing" magistrates and police, in
catching them in the act of flagrant error or
partiality and in getting out of them, without
their being aware of it for a moment, those
unique interviews by which he would be known


220 THE GRIP OF FEAR
Ous al
as the foremost among ingenious and brilliant
journalists. ...
He kept repeating this to himself rather to
keep up his courage than out of real convic-
tion; yet he hoped, it is true, to regain his
cheerfulness and his clearness of thought after
a night's rest.
He was deposited that night in a city prison.
The next day and the day after he only saw
his keepers. Although he felt oppressed by
the solitude, yet at first his anguish of mind
was less than it had been when he was walking
freely about Paris.
He spent the whole day on his bed; at night
he slept well enough, only inconvenienced by
the light of the electric lamp placed exactly
above his head.
Then the constant vigilance exercised over
him began gradually to irritate him. After
having dreaded solitude, he now wished that
his could be complete. The thought that all
his movements were watched, his every gesture
spied upon, maddened him, and a nervous
dread, dim at first, but increasing from hour
to hour, grew upon him:


222 THE GRIP OF FEAR
awakened; but he could discover nothing in his
attitude to explain why they had begun to look
in his direction at all.
He wondered whether he had not been
swayed from the very start by some unknown
force, whether he had not been followed, say,
on the night of the crime.
He tried to remember all the faces he had
seen in the street, at the restaurant, in the hotel.
None answered to the idea which he formed to
himself of the mysterious being who for four
days, he thought, must have shadowed him.
And here, again, it was the unknown which
frightened him.
From seeming to him quite unlikely, this
idea became possible; from possible it grew
probable; then certain. ...
"And so,” thought he, “I have lived for days
in the company of some being who has not left
me, whose eyes have followed me, whose will
has perhaps determined every gesture of mine!
... Who knows?—Perhaps this same being
was my master before ever I entered the house
of the murder. . . . And what if it was he who
suggested to me the very idea of the part which


UNEASINESS
223
I have acted and am acting still? That would
mean that I am entirely in his power, that I
am his tool; that he dictates my actions and my
words. ... Through the walls of my prison he
would be substituting his will for mine, and I,
living, acting, thinking, would be no more than
a puppet with a human shape and with the
appearance of life, the appearance of a will.
... Then, if he should choose, to-morrow or
in an hour's time, to make me fall under the
accusation of this crime of which I am inno-
cent, and to cancel from my memory the details
of that night ... I would still obey.”
His excitement increased at every moment.
He would then begin to write in an agitated
manner, putting down the least details of his
life, reading it over, to be sure that there was
a logical sequence in it, and that what he read
was really dictated by his own thought.
He had always had a certain fear of the
incomprehensible; he had never succeeded in
really disbelieving in spirits, or dared to deny
their power, their immaterial presence in the
world of the living, their intervention in the
existence of mortals. Although he was no


224 THE GRIP OF FEAR
spiritualist, he had never had the courage to
laugh at table-turning, and every time he had
heard the mysterious little knocks of the table
speaking, he had felt the same violent emotion,
and shivered under the same doubt.
All his present surmises, far from exciting
in him a natural and healthy revolt against un-
lawful trickery, reduced him to a perfectly
amazing state of feebleness. He said to him-
self: "If all that is now happening to me
has really been willed only by myself, I shall
know how to loose the knot that I have tied
and how to unravel the skein that my hands
alone have played with; but, if I am only the
agent of a superior will, only the tool in the
hands of another, then anything that I may
now desire will be of no avail, for I shall still
be unable to attempt anything that has not
been dictated to me by one whom I cannot
refuse to obey. ..."
He soon seemed to live only in a dream and
become insensible to everything, waiting with
oriental patience and fatalism for events to
embody his fears. Thus a strange apathy came
over him, and the third day, when he got into


UNEASINESS
225
a van to be taken before the Examining Magis-
trate, he adopted such a meek attitude that
those who watched him thought that isolation
had overpowered his will, and that before a
quarter of an hour elapsed he would have con-
fessed all.


IX
ANGUISH
IN fiction the Examining Magistrate is al-
ways portrayed with a thin face, drawn lips,
and a threatening gleam in his eye. Accord-
ing to some, his glance has a mysterious power
of fascination like that of great birds of prey.
By common consent he is the first and most
serious enemy of the accused. Although by
law prisoners are now protected from his
caprice or his prejudice or from any arbitrary
decree, yet he is the master of their honour,
their freedom, and their life. Cynical and
crafty, he evades the law without actually go-
ing against it. He has now lost the right to
isolate the accused or to question him except
in the presence of his lawyer; but he circum-
vents these regulations by postponing the day
of the examination and asking innocent-sound-
сс
226


228 THE GRIP OF FEAR
he may even control his blushing or growing
pale, but his hands know not how to lie—they
cannot deceive.
Our hands scarcely belong to us; our will
becomes ineffectual there; our intelligent, fool-
ish, coaxing or brutal hands are traitors that
we carry with us. And the judge did not
take his eyes off the hands of Coche. When
he saw them quiver, he thought to himself that
the moment for the first blow was coming near;
when he saw them contract he raised his head
and began his examination by the few indis-
pensable formal questions: name, age, pro-
fession, etc.; then he continued his investiga-
tion of the papers, whilst Coche, more and more
unnerved, clutched his knees convulsively,
Then, deeming that the psychological moment
had come at last, the magistrate spoke out
without further preamble:
“Will you explain to me why you suddenly
disappeared from your house, and how it came
about that you were found three days ago in
an hotel of bad repute in the Avenue
d'Orleans?"
Coche had expected quite a different begin-


ANGUISH
229
ning, and his voice did not sound half as firm
as he could have wished when he replied:
"I should like first of all to know for what
reason I am here."
"You are here because you have murdered
Monsieur Forget, Boulevard Lannes.”
Coche breathed more freely. Until that min-
ute he had not been able to forget his first
fear, unlikely though it seemed, that he might
be accused of some other crime. He therefore
replied, in a tone of surprise—too long pre-
pared, however, to sound spontaneous:
“What an idea! Really this is beyond a
joke.”
After an interval he added: “And if I un-
derstand your words aright, you imply not that
I am accused of this crime, but that I am
convicted of it.”
"It is quite a pleasure to talk with you,”
sneered the magistrate. “Nothing is lost upon
you.”
“You are too kind, sir. But even out of
gratitude for your politeness I find it impossi-
ble to confess to a crime which I have not com-
mitted.”


230 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“I will repeat my first question; you shall
answer it, and if you prove yourself to be
innocent, I will give you your freedom on the
spot.”
“Ah,” thought Coche to himself, "you're
really playing too well into my hands. That's
a good one for the beginning of my article!”
And, weighing every word, he replied:
"Excuse me, but there should not be this
inversion of parts: it is not for me to prove
that I am innocent, but for you to prove me
guilty. Once that is admitted and settled, I
shall be delighted to answer any question you
may choose to ask, provided it is in no sense
prejudicial to the tranquillity or the honour of
any third party.”
“This is a novel and simple manner of de-
fence. You give me to understand that there
are things which you are not able to say—
things no doubt of prime importance ?”
“I imply nothing at all. I say that I make
two reservations, on principle: you interpret
the second at your will, and I will remind you
of the first; namely, that I will only speak


ANGUISH
231
under certain conditions, as, for instance, in
the presence of my lawyer.”
"That is only natural, and I was just about
to invite you to choose your counsel for the
defence. We will continue our inquiry another
day.”
“But I am anxious, on the contrary, for my
examination to proceed at once. If your clerk
or a policeman will be kind enough to go into
the lobby and bring back the first lawyer he
comes across, even if he has never held a brief
in his life, I shall be perfectly content. If I
were guilty, I should try to get a shining light
of the bar to defend my cause; being innocent,
I wish to set up a defence merely because the
law requires this formality, and simply because
I am obedient to the law."
The man came back after a moment, bring-
ing a young lawyer with him.
"I thank you, sir, for having the kindness
to assist me. In point of fact, I imagine that
matters will proceed very quickly. Now, sir”
—to the magistrate—“I am entirely at your
service.”
“Then I will repeat my first question. Why


232
THE GRIP OF FEAR
did you suddenly disappear from your house,
and how is it that you were found three days
ago in an hotel of bad repute in the Avenue
d'Orleans?”
“I left my house because I wished to be
away for a time, and I slept in the Avenue
d'Orleans because I found myself by chance
near the hotel at too late an hour to return to
Paris that night.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“Really, I can't remember. ..."
"I can tell you, though. You were coming
from your rooms at 16, Rue de Douai. ...".
“What...?” stammered out Coche in amaze-
ment.
“Yes, indeed, from your rooms, where you
had changed your clothes and tried to recover
a link which, in other hands than your own,
might prove compromising for you in the fu-
ture. You did not find that link. It was
not very far, however, for here it is. ... Do
you know it?”
“Yes,” murmured Coche, truly frightened
this time, at the swiftness and deftness with
which he had been caught.


ANGUISH
233
“Would you tell me now where you lost the
other one?”
“I don't know.”
“ 'I don't know, I don't know'—always the
same answer! A moment ago you said, 'It
is for you to prove my guilt and not for me
to establish my innocence. There is a limit
to everything! Yet once again I will answer
for you: you lost the other cuff-linktin the room
where Forget was murdered. ... It was found
there. ..."
“There is nothing surprising in that. I went
in with the Police Commissioner; I expect my
link broke and fell then.”
“Just so; but as you wore a flannel shirt
with buttons, instead of links, your explana-
tion won't hold water. Besides, it is the cus-
tom, when one puts a link in one cuff, to put
the pair to it in the other cuff. Now, I repeat
to you, one of these links was left in your
evening shirt, and your charwoman found it
there.”
“I can't make out...
"Neither can I, or, rather, I see it all only.
too clearly.”


234 THE GRIP OF FEAR
“Then, sir, on the strength of a chance clue
you conclude that I am guilty! It surely isn't
possible.”
“A chance clue, indeed! I call it a piece of
circumstantial evidence, and a most serious
one; but I have other clues as well. What
could you say to explain a letter, dropped by
yourself in the room of the crime? Another
chance clue, is it?”
“I cannot have dropped any letters on the
site of the crime, for the excellent reason that
I went there, as I have already said, with the
Police Commissioner, and did not stop more
than three minutes, and ..."
"Come here. There, Counsel. Look at
these pieces of paper; taken haphazard, they
mean nothing at all; but put them like this,
and what do you see?—'Monsieur ... esi ...
22 ue de ... E. V.', which I interpret by sup-
plying the missing letters, and reading: 'Mon-
sieur Onesimus ... 22 Rue de ... E. V.' You
will agree, sir, that your Christian name is
not so common that it is unjustifiable to couple
it with your surname, although I will own that


ANGUISH
235
the latter is not there. That gives me ‘Mon-
sieur Onesimus Coche, 22, Rue de ...""
“Oh, no, no, no! I protest with all my might
against such a method of deduction. Out of
a few scattered letters, you make up my Chris-
tian name, then you deliberately add my sur-
name. Even from your own way of looking
at it, the next part of what you read there de-
stroys all the conclusions that you might ar-
rive at from the beginning. You have 22, Rue
de ... Rue de—what, first of all? And, be-
sides, I have never lived at No. 22. Since
you know so much about my having returned
home, you surely know that. I desire my pro-
test to be inserted in the official report.”
And to himself he thought:
“There's a little piece of ingenuity that you
shall pay for pretty dearly when I get out of
prison! I am most certainly getting plenty of
'copy.'”
"Your protest shall be inserted; have no
fear. But we will add to it this trifling obser-
vation: examine the back of these bits of paper
and fragments of writing—you are looking?
You may read-and it is written in full this


236 THE GRIP OF FEAR
time—‘Unknown No. 22, try 16. You live
at 16, Rue de Douai. This letter, addressed
by mistake to No. 22, was delivered at your
house, and it is not the first time that there
has been some confusion about the number of
your address. You see how, when I assert
that this letter belongs to you, I am not being
carried away by purely imaginary deductions.
Now, if you have anything to say I will listen
to you. ..."
Coche bent his head. When he tore up his
envelope, he had not thought of the postman's
correction on the back, and he now saw quite
clearly that the judge had already made up
his mind about his case. He therefore was con-
tent with replying:
“I don't know; I cannot understand. What
I can assert and swear to you is that I am in-
nocent, that I did not know the victim, had
never seen him at all, and, finally, that the
whole of my past life gives the lie to such an
accusation.”
“I don't deny that,” said the magistrate,
"but this will do for to-day. Now the report
as CO


ANGUISH
237
of your examination shall be read over to you,
and you will kindly sign it.”
Coche scarcely listened to the reading; then
he signed the document. He held out his hands
automatically to the policeman who was to
handcuff him, and went out.
In the corridor his lawyer said to him:
“I will come and see you to-morrow morn-
ing; we must have a long talk.”
"Thank you,” said Coche.
And he immediately followed his guide along
narrow corridors, leading to the exit of the
police-court.
Once alone in his little cell, he began to think
deeply. How far he was from feeling like the
adventurous reporter, with ready repartee, re-
sourceful and willing, if necessary, to play for
the highest stakes with a cheerful countenance!
He was now beginning to feel sorry that he
had started this game--not that he entertained
the slightest uneasiness concerning the final re-
sult. He knew that with a single word he
could reduce all the accusations to nothingness.
But nevertheless he felt the menacing circle
closing in upon him, and, once his finger was


238 THE GRIP OF FEAR
caught in the imposing machinery of the law,
he understood that he would have to make a
huge effort not to have his whole arm dragged
in too. He had pictured himself cunningly
worrying the police, convincing them of clum-
siness and indiscretion; he now found that he
had accumulated such proofs against himself
that the least prejudiced of men would not
have hesitated on seeing him to say:
“There goes the culprit!”
The magistrate's opinion of him was, after
all, so natural as to be almost inevitable. What
had his own replies been? Nothing. He had
proclaimed his innocence; and what else? The
“accent of truth,” you may say? It is about as
easily distinguishable as "thickness of blood”
in members of the same family. Take an
habitual liar, for instance; he will only look
as if he were lying when he is speaking the
truth. . . . His dread of the unknown was
added to his other causes for fear. What new
indictment would the judge now bring against
him? He had not known what to reply when
questions were put to him, two of which at
least he expected; what would be his attitude


ANGUISH
239
before an accusation that he did not expect?
Denial, blank denial in the face of any amount
of evidence, in the face of every appearance of
truth: such must be his defence. As for caus-
ing the slightest shadow of a doubt in the
mind of the judge, that was a thing no longer
to be even dreamt of. Yet—and this was the
only thing that he could rely upon to create
uneasiness in the mind of his jury—when the
consideration of motives came before the court
his position would be invulnerable. The in-
quiry would reveal the fact that he did not even
know of the existence of this Forget, and that
none of his associates had even heard the man's
name. Now would it be possible for a man,
whose past is irreproachable, to be detained
in prison under suspicion when no motive could
be discovered for his crime?
Next day his lawyer came for an interview.
He first put vague questions to him relating
to the events of his past life, his acquaintances,
his personal habits. He asked for exact in-
formation about some insignificant details
without daring to broach the subject of the
crime openly. After about a quarter of an


240 THE GRIP OF FEAR
hour's talk, Coche, who was growing more and
more unstrung, said to him:
“Come, sir, tell me the truth. You think
that I'm guilty. ..."
The lawyer stopped him with a gesture.
“Do not continue, I entreat you. I hold
your protestations of innocence to be sincere
and true; you understand ?—true. However
weighty are the clues which have been found
against you, I insist upon seeing in them no
more than the effect of a terrible caprice of
fate. Your defence is that you are innocent.
And I proclaim your innocence.”
“But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you
upon all that I hold dearest in the world—I
am innocent!”
At that moment Coche was seized with a
mad temptation to tell this man the whole
story. But what lawyer would have dared
to take his defence after such a confession?
He had condemned himself to the only possible
course of action, namely, complete denial with-
out any regard to probabilities.
Still, he did want his lawyer to believe in
his sincerity. He went on passionately:


ANGUISH
241
“I am innocent, I am INNOCENT! Presently,
very soon, perhaps, you will see; I will tell
you ..."
“But I believe you—I assure you I do.”
And Coche understood by his whole atti-
tude and demeanour that his lawyer was con-
cealing his thoughts, and that he too was
convinced of Coche's guilt. They went on
talking a little while, gently, scarcely men-
tioning the crime at all. Coche was almost
beginning to forget that there was anything
grotesque and dramatic in his present situa-
tion, and the lawyer was trying to fathom what
there could be at the back of the cool bravado
which seemed now to replace the extraordinari-
ly well-acted indignation with which he had
begun.
During the afternoon of the next day the
accused was fetched out of his cell and led
again to the prison van. He thought that he
was going to be taken again to the court, but the
way seemed longer than on his previous jour-
ney. Craning his neck a little, he tried to see
through the ventilators, but the bars of wood
were placed aslant, and in the opposite direc-
wer
ес.


242 THE GRIP OF FEAR
tion from the usual one, so that he could only
see a sad little strip of cold grey sky. At last
the van stopped. He got down, and they
hurried him along—not quickly enough, how-
ever, to prevent his seeing the Seine that flowed
past heavily, tinged with mud; and he realised
that he was at the Morgue.
"Ah, the whole thing has to be gone
through,” he thought. “I am to be confronted
with the body!”
The thought of a sight, the mere mention of
which fills the true criminal with a sense of
fear, did not trouble him greatly. What threat
could the darkened eyes of this poor dead man
convey to him? He could look fearlessly upon
the poor body which he had already seen twice:
in the night, when the pulses had barely ceased
beating, and again on the following morning,
stiff and cold. Nevertheless, when he found
himself in the hall, with its white walls and its
high windows, and with pale patches caused
by shafts of light upon the marble tables, he
experienced a sensation of recoil. A faint
odour of disinfectant, made of carbolic and
essence of thyme--an odour that was a cross


ANGUISH
243
between that of a pharmacy and of a burial
ground-filled the clammy air; and he thought
he could distinguish the terrible musty smell
of bodies after death. Yet he looked around
him eagerly, trying to fix every least detail
in his memory so as to be able, very soon, to
enumerate them all in his journalistic chef-
đauvre.
He was at last taken into a room where a
human body, covered with a sheet, lay stretched
upon a table. They took off the sheet, and
although he was prepared for the sight, he drew
back involuntarily. He did not seem to recog-
nise that body—at least, at first sight he did
not. Death, completing its work, had beaten
down the flesh and made it shrink. The face
which he had seen full and round was now
emaciated with grey-green shadows, from the
temples to the chin, as if some inhuman crea-
ture had delighted in modelling the yellow wax
of that face.
After he had looked for a few seconds, the
magistrate said to him:
“This is your victim.”
“Once more I protest against your horrible


246
THE GRIP OF FEAR
dependent researches of all the newspapers in
Paris, the results of the investigations stood
exactly where they stood the first day; namely,
that there were two clear and incriminating
pieces of evidence against Onesimus Coche:
the bit of envelope and the cuff-link picked up
in the room of the victim. From these dis-
coveries had sprung a presumption of his guilt
which he had never been able to disprove. A
further serious cause for suspicion lay in the
fact of his sudden departure from the World
and his flight across Paris, where he had been
traced for three days in three different hotels
under false names. Add to this his strange at-
titude at the moment of his arrest, his attempt
at armed defence against the Police, his night
visit to his own house—and one was confronted
by a case clear enough to authorise every sus-
picion and almost every certainty of his guilt.
The prosecution, it is true, could find no in-
dication of motive, but circumstantial evidence
took its place; so the investigation was closed,
and the affair of the Boulevard Lannes was
entered among the cases for hearing at the
spring sessions of the criminal court.


- stond
nating
Coche
IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH
نم
in the
been
H IS long imprisonment had told greatly
upon Coche. From being unstrung, as
he was during the first days, he had sunk into
a state of permanent depression. At the be-
ginning he could, after all, have confessed the
whole thing; now it seemed to him impossible,
after so many small untruths. He was waiting
for the opportunity to come to him. Surely
some event, some unexpected incident, would
occur to provide this opportunity! But day
after day went by and no incident arose.
Worse than that—and this was a cause of great
annoyance to Coche—nothing sensational oc-
curred during his imprisonment, any more than
it had done during the unravelling of his case.
He would almost have enjoyed some cause
for protest against injustice, or brutality, or
247


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 249
strange excitability; the thought that he was
the puppet of supernatural agencies had come
and gone, and come again so often that to his
mind it had now become a certainty.
He still tried to fight against it. One day,
unable to stand the thing any longer, feeling
his mind give way and his power of reasoning
fail him, he got up suddenly and decided to
put an end to this terrible comedy, to confess
everything and bear any pain or humiliation,
if only he could see the daylight again, the
vast sky and palpitating life around him, if
only he could be convinced, once and forever,
that he still was the arbiter of his own acts,
the master of his own will. He flung himself
towards the door and called the jailer. But
when the jailer came, he stammered brokenly:
“I called you. ... I wanted to tell you. ...
No... it's not worth the trouble ... it was
just a thought which crossed my mind. ..."
He had been suddenly seized with a con-
viction that he would not be able to speak,
that “they” had condemned him to silence.
One word would suffice to save him; he alone


250
THE GRIP OF FEAR
could speak that word; but he could not speak
it, for “they” willed him not to.
From the very start Coche had but one
enemy: his own imagination. He was a pris-
oner to nought save to his own abnormal weak-
ness; and this last effort-the supreme attempt
he had made to tear himself away from what
he thought was a diabolical possession—had
only ended in proving to him, indisputably this
time, that he could take no decision except
with the concurrence of that occult power, of
that mysterious will which acted upon his own.
Maniacs who after a crisis regain sufficient
balance of mind to be aware of their madness,
and to fear the attack which may seize them
again at any moment, are the most unhappy
of beings. Can there be any worse torture
than that of saying to oneself: “Presently my
reason will give way. Perhaps some horrible
instinct now dormant within me will make a
monster of me....”?
Like such maniacs, Coche felt sure that he
could not escape this mysterious force. As
soon as he wished to tell what he had done,
his thought was choked back as the voice is


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 251
choked in one's throat by too violent an emo-
tion. He saw before his eyes, he read within
his brain, the words which he must say, the
words of deliverance that would put an end
to his nightmare—but he could not pronounce
these words, he could not speak that sentence.
And yet, when he was alone, huddled up in his
bed, with his face hidden between his hands,
he said again and again:
“At the hour when the crime was committed
I was in the house of my friend, Monsieur
Ledoux, and it was when I came out of his
house that the idea of this grim comedy took
possession of me.”
As he said this sentence to himself he was
conscious of all the different inflexions in his
voice. But as soon as he found himself in the
presence of any one else his lips refused to
speak the words which flashed in his mind,
and he became an impotent witness of the slow
agony of his own will.
He was in this state of mind when the spring
sessions began.
This case, with its impenetrable mystery,
had kept the public of Paris at a white heat


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 253
dows, made violent contrasts of light and
shade upon the faces of those present, and
the whispers of the crowd soon grew to a loud
murmur, interspersed with exclamations and
stified bursts of laughter.
An usher cried:
“Silence in court!”
There was a sound of chairs being pushed
back and a shuffling of feet; you could hear
the tag-ends of sentences, begun almost aloud,
being finished now quickly and in a whisper;
then a few nervous coughs, one or two voices
saying “Hush!” and then a deep and solemn
silence. The judge ordered the accused to be
brought in, and the crowd pressed so hard that
one or two people cried out, and a young
woman, sitting on a barrier, lost her balance
and fell.
Onesimus Coche came in. He was exceed-
ingly pale, but his manner was neither aggres-
sive nor cowardly. When the door opened
before him, he said to himself once more:
“I shall speak; I will speak!”
Then his eyes scanned the crowd, but he saw
no friendly face there, only a fierce curiosity-


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 255
concerning his position and employment, he
sat down to hear the text of his impeachment.
This document, with all the proofs that it ac-
cumulated against him, produced the effect of
a terrible hostile summing-up. As the accusa-
tions were one by one brought to a head, he
understood how the judge's conviction had
been built up irresistibly. In spite of it all,
he said to himself:
"If I but speak I can destroy all that. Shall
I be able to speak?”
The cross-examination brought no fresh
light on any point. The public had hoped for
sensational disclosures, believing in certain
papers which had affirmed "on the best au-
thority” that the prisoner reserved his defence
for the public trial. But at every question
Coche replied invariably in the same manner:
"I don't know; I cannot understand. I am
innocent."
When the judge explained to him how dan-
gerous this manner of defence really was, he
gave a slow shrug of the shoulders and mur-
mured:


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 257
Emost 1
plane
Vert a
and be
b-edit
ladki
W hoz
she knew of her former master, of his habits
and his friends. Without omitting the least
detail, she told how she had found the shirt
spotted with blood, and the cuff torn, and the
gold and turquoise link missing; the whole
thing, she said, had looked suspicious to her
from the beginning, and, were it not that
"servants must not mix themselves up with
their masters' business," she would have com-
municated her suspicions to the Police long
before "the gentleman from the police-station”
questioned her.
After her came boys from the newspaper
office; the jeweller who had originally sold the
links; the postman who had left two or three
letters addressed to Coche at No. 22—they all
passed before the court without giving the
slightest detail of real interest.
The medical officer delivered a speech full
of scientific terms, numbers, and calculations,
proving that death had been caused by a knife-
thrust which, “starting from the sterno-cleido-
mastoid, had cut through the parotid gland,
severed obliquely the parotid artery, the cut
running downwards and forwards, and then,
meside
Then he
notie
for the
aner on
impor


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 259
marked the exact moment when the clock was
overturned.”
“So that would be the hour of the crime?”
said the judge, rather absent-mindedly.
There were no more witnesses to be called.
Now came a short interval, and then the Public
Prosecutor got up to make his speech. Coche,
somewhat reassured by the clear statement of
the watchmaker, listened to his indictment
without apparent emotion, although most of
the witnesses' statements told terribly against
him—dry, almost mathematically accurate, as
they were.
The public, already favourably impressed
for the prosecution by the cross-examination
and the depositions of the various witnesses,
were heard two or three times to murmur ap-
proval, and there was considerable clapping,
quickly stopped by the officials, when the Pub-
lic Prosecutor closed his speech with a demand
that this journalist, who had neither the ex-
tenuating circumstances of poverty nor of
provocation, should be sentenced to capital
punishment. A shudder ran through Coche's
frame, and he clenched his fists tightly. Yet


262 THE GRIP OF FEAR
n
when comparative order had been restored, he
said:
“Coche, do not try to deceive us any further.
Think of the consequences of your declaration
if it is found to be untrue. Think well before
you play that card.”
“I have thought, I have thought; I can swear
that I have spoken the truth. Let my friend,
Monsieur Ledoux, be sent for.”
“Sir,” said Coche's lawyer, addressing the
judge, “I request that the witness be called
immediately.”
"Such indeed is my intention. In virtue of
my discretionary powers, I command that the
witness called by the prisoner be brought in-
stantly before the court. Usher, please send
to Monsieur Ledoux, 14, Rue du Général-
Appert, and bring him here. The hearing is
adjourned.”
Coche's declaration had produced unbound-
ed amazement. The few partisans who had
taken his side among the audience were trium-
phant; the others, without being able to deny
the decisive importance of such an alibi, still
doubted its truthfulness. Especially among


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 265
“Sir!"
But Coche put his hands upon the lawyer's
shoulder and faltered:
"For pity's sake ... counsel ... not a word
more. ... It's all over ... I beg you ... it is
all over . . . all over ... all over."
The jury, already decided against the ac-
cused before the adjournment of the hearing,
did not take long over their deliberations.
After ten minutes they came back. Their
reply was unanimous:
“Guilty.”
Coche was reduced to the powerlessness of
an inanimate thing. He was now deep in the
grip of Fear. His will had triumphed, but too
late, over his weak superstition, and now he
saw clearly what kind of folly he had been
fighting against for three months; he saw above
all that nothing but a miracle could save him
now, and Fate had laid too heavy a hand upon
him for him to put any trust in miracles. He
knew at last the whole horror of human fear,
its monstrous terror, the desperate clinging of
man to life when he is about to lose it. His
eyes, his poor eyes like those of a hunted ani-


266 THE GRIP OF FEAR
mal, rested upon these people, who a moment
hence would see the street again, and feel the
joy of the open air and the happiness of their
loved homes—of the family hearth, where the
wise man comes to shelter him with his dreams,
as the sailor takes shelter for his boat in the
little bay where the stars dance over the
waters. ...
And while these visions crossed his bewil-
dered spirit, a voice rose up, first like a con-
fused murmur in his ears, then with a sound
as of thunder, saying: “... Onesimus Coche
is condemned to death!”
And then he heard, as in a dream:
“Three clear days for you to lodge your
appeal.”
He felt himself being carried away, and
some one shaking his hand. ... He found him-
self on his bed, in his cell, without knowir.g
how or why, and he fell into a dull, heavy
sleep.
During the night he had a horrible night-
mare:
He dreamt that he had just murdered the
old man of the Boulevard Lannes. He groped


268 THE GRIP OF FEAR
hound. ... A wild fire burned in his breast;
he ran on and on, losing all notion of time,
of the hour that was slowly dying. All that
remained to him of strength and energy lived
only for the promise of the pale dawn that
would soon appear upon the horizon, bringing
in its train the awakening of man and beast,
and faces of other human beings to people this
desert which filled him with such terror. And
still he ran. He had taken so many turnings
and crossed so many roads that he had reached
an unknown place, and was lost on the out-
skirts of the sleeping town. He ran, gasping
with fatigue and fear ... and lo! on the hori-
zon, the day began to break, grey and watery.
... The day! the day!... Then there rose a
confused murmur, as it were, the whisperings
of a crowd. Down there, a great, dark mass
moved like the swelling of the sea. . . . Was he
still possessed by the night's delirium. No, no;
there were men before him.... At last he would
no longer be alone with his fear. ... He would
touch human beings, he would be amongst
them. ... He listened keenly. A short sound
rose above the noise ... a rustle, swift like that


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 269
of the wind among the falling leaves . . . a
white light came into the lifting clouds. The
anguish of the night, the horrible solitude were
ended. ... But the sea of people opened as if
to make a way for him ... he advanced; and all
of a sudden he fell upon his knees: in his agony
he had not seen whither his flight was leading
him, and lo, now close before him rose a be-
wildering, bloodcurdling ghoul, with its two
great arms spread out in the wan light ...
the Guillotine!
Coche woke up with a shriek. . . . For one
second he experienced the joy of the awaken-
ing that dispels a nightmare. But soon the
reality, more fearful still than his dream, con-
tinued the story for him.
The Guillotine! The white blade, and the
basket for the severed head ... he was to see
them. He stuffed the clothes in his mouth to
stifle an agonised cry. ... Farewell, peaceful
nights; tranquil days! Between all that he
had loved and wished and hoped for, and him,
this horrible thing (he did not even dare to
think the word) rose now inexorably.....
The next day his lawyer came to see him, to


270 THE GRIP OF FEAR
make him sign his appeal and his demand for
mercy. He muttered, “What's the good!” but
signed all the same. When he had put down
the pen, he said, fixing his eyes, enlarged by
terror and by fever, upon his defender:
“Look here . . . you must know, I must
tell you...."
In a halting voice, interrupting his sentence,
with jerky actions and with broken words, he
told the whole story of the night of the 13th:
of his dinner at Ledoux', his departure, his
meeting with the burglars, his visit to the
house of the crime, and the sudden wish he
had had to outdo the police, to simulate flight
in order to attract attention. . . . He left off.
The lawyer took his hand and said gently
to him:
“No, come; it isn't worth it. ... The judge
will commute your sentence to penal servi-
tude. . . . Down there ... you will, later on,
be able to commence a fresh life. ..."
“Ah,” cried the wretched man, “ther. you
think that I am lying?... but I am not-you
hear me?... I am not lying. ... Oh, go away!
Go away!..."


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 271
Then, exasperated to the last degree, he
threw himself upon the man, shouting:
“Go, then, go, won't you? Can't you see
that you're driving me mad?”
When he was left alone he was seized by a
horrible access of despair. So-even the man
who had taken up his defence could not believe
in his innocence!—And at the same time the
fear of death and of physical pain grew upon
him, and he clung to life desperately. He
began to tear his hair, sobbing:
“I will not die; I am innocent!”
He became gentle, timid, entreating to-
wards all, as if the humblest of his keepers
were able to influence in his favour the highest
powers in the land, and so deliver him from
the scaffold.
It was still worse when they took him to la
Roquette. Until then he had a few seconds
now and then, when he could forget the scaf-
fold; but there-between those walls which had
held only men condemned to death, like himself
—the haunting thought grew clearer, the vision
more distinct. All the great historic criminals
had passed in a long procession through that


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 273
Little by little a kind of superstitious terror,
a need of finding refuge in some one, of being
listened to and pitied, inclined Coche towards
a kind of timid religiousness, filled with super-
stitious visions. He spoke no longer, but lis-
tened eagerly, clasping his hands round his
emaciated neck and suddenly letting go, as
if he felt the spot where the knife would fall;
repeating this gesture, mechanically and cease-
lessly. Even with the priest he avoided any
reference to his approaching end. He listened
to talk of repentance, of expiation; ... these
words had no meaning for him. What crime
was he to expiate? of what offence was he to
repent? If God did in very truth see the
actions of men, He would know the innocence
of this soul when it arrived before His
tribunal. ...
One day, however, nearly the fortieth day
of his captivity, when he already knew that
his appeal had been rejected and that there was
no hope left save possibly the mercy of the
President, he suddenly said to the chaplain:
“My father, I ask you to speak the truth out
of your very soul: if you were in the place of


274 THE GRIP OF FEAR
the President, would you sign my reprieve?
Be quite truthful with me. I must know. I
need to know.”
And the chaplain, looking him straight in
the face, replied:
“No, my child; I should not sign it. One
must pay...."
Strange thing, this answer almost calmed
him again. The worst torment of his exist-
ence was doubt. He had not dared to prepare
himself to die, fearing that he would draw the
fate of death upon him. Now it was all over.
He considered himself as he would be after
death, and thought that by this preparation he
could resist better the dismay of his awaken-
ing. Nevertheless, as the fatal day drew
nearer, his sleep grew crowded with night-
mares. At the least sound he would sit up
suddenly upon his bed and press his ear to
the wall, trying to guess what was happening
in the street or in the square; and when the
day was come, and he was sure that it was not
for “this morning," he fell asleep with sighs
and sobs. ...
About the close of the forty-third night he


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 275
seemed to hear a vague noise—the sound of a
hammer upon wood, and muffled footsteps.
His teeth began to chatter; he dared not listen;
he feared to hear the sounds. His eyes, riveted
upon the door of his cell, waited for the agon-
ising moment when that door•would open for
the executioner to come before him. And it
opened that morning.
Coche looked in a stupefied manner at the
men who surrounded him, and got up with-
out speaking a word or making a gesture.
They asked him:
“Do you wish to hear Mass?"
He nodded. During the service he looked
all the time at a tiny line that separated two
stones in the pavement, and thought that the
mark of the knife on his neck would not be
wider than that. ... The only surprise that
came into what little conscious thought was
left him was that of being still alive.
Then came the preparations upon his per-
son;—but things had no longer any signifi-
cance for him. He scarcely shivered at all
when the scissors touched the nape of his neck,
or when they put the rope on his hands and the
Coa


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 277
OTW
His knees were already touching the swing-
board. He cast one last glance around. ...
And suddenly, notwithstanding those who sup-
ported him, notwithstanding his shackles
and his weakness, he leaped back with a super-
human cry:
“There! There! There! ..."
And while they tried to push him, all rigid
and immovable, with his feet firmly planted
on the floor and his chin thrown forward, he
yelled and yelled.
There was something so fierce and so har-
rowing in his cry that even the assistants hesi-
tated for a minute. The chaplain followed
the direction of Coche's gesture, and from the
mob below there suddenly rose loud shrieks of
fear.
A soldier who was standing at attention fell
backwards, and two men and a woman were
seen trying to break through the crowd, which,
with an irresistible rush, had violated the cor-
don and had invaded the empty space where
the condemned man was writhing and crying:
“Arrest them! Arrest them! . . . The
assassins. ... There! ... There! ..."
TOV


278 THE GRIP OF FEAR
The chaplain threw himself forward, and
cried:
“The two men!... the woman!... Arrest
them! Arrest them!...”
Twenty hands fell upon them. One of the
men drew his knife; the woman began to utter
piercing shrieks. The chaplain threw himself
upon Coche, and, protecting him with his arms,
implored the Public Prosecutor:
"In Heaven's name, don't lay hands on this
man!”
Coche was now motionless. Great tears
rolled down his blanched face. For a few sec-
onds the Prosecutor and the Commissioner of
Police spoke to each other in an undertone.
The Commissioner said:
"I decline all responsibility. The execu-
tion cannot be proceeded with at present, sir.
I have not enough men to keep down this
crowd. There'll be some lynching. Consider
this, I implore you."
Then the Prosecutor muttered:
“... Take the prisoner back.”
Strange inconstancy of the masses! This
crowd, which had come there on purpose to


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 279
witness the death of a man, shouted with joy
on seeing him delivered.
CIT
This is what had occurred. At the last mo-
ment, before he was thrown on to the swing-
board, Coche had recognised the two men and
the woman whom he had seen on the night of
the crime, standing now in the first line of
spectators. That second, longer for him than
a century, had been enough: their features
were too deeply impressed on his memory for
him to hesitate in their presence; one glance
had sufficed him to pick out in detail the red
hair of the woman, the crooked mouth of the
short man, and the face of the other one,
marked by the scar which disfigured him
from over the temple right down to his nostril.
What sinister thought had made them come,
all three, to watch the execution of the man
who was to expiate their crime? On the days
of public execution all those for whom the
scaffold is waiting come eagerly to look, as if
trying to learn how to die. With these three
that feeling was blended with another—with
the fierce joy of impunity, and of the triumph
which saved them forever. ...


IN THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH 281
ness; never had life seemed more glorious a
thing. He shuddered again, remembering the
horror of the drama he had just lived through,
seeing the beauty, the sweetness, the goodness
of all these things which he had so nearly lost,
and perceiving the abyss into which his reason
had fallen. And as he contemplated, in a
garden near by, the brown branches of the
trees, bursting here and there into leaf, and
the green lawns with their shining grass, and
the great sky with its sailing clouds, he under-
stood that all the remainder of his life would
not be more than he could spend in contem-
plation of these things. And he smiled with
an immense pity for struggling mankind, as
he reflected that neither the riches nor the glory
after which we strive so passionately are worth
the simple joy of looking upon Life.