IN the farthest recess of Belon's bookshop M. Joly, ex-Inspector of Police, was endeavoring to get rid of one of those hours which since his retirement hung so heavily on his hands. His eye, wandering over the musty volumes on the shelf, had been caught by the title, Criminal Responsibility.
"Come, now," he said to himself; "let us see what web these gentlemen of the robe have spun for my children;" for M. Joly, in spite of his respect for the law, entertained a certain affectionate regard for those he pursued. Spread open on his knee, the book itself, apart from its contents, appealed to him. Bound in flexible covers, its every page, flat and obedient to his touch, invited him.
Except for Belon on his high stool, writing with his stub pencil on the fly-leaves of a new invoice the characters with which he disguised his profits, the shop was empty. A mournful silence hung like a pall over the dusty shelves and encumbered counters. For Belon's wares consisted chiefly of first editions in contemporary bindings and presentation volumes, books to be neither "tasted, swallowed, chewed, nor digested," but gloated over by those whose chief interest is found in the joy of acquisition.
"Belon," said M. Joly one day, "the sign over your door annoys me. Your bookshop is a mausoleum."
In this mournful silence, his attention diverted only by a large spider whose tranquillity had been disturbed by the extraction from its resting-place of Criminal Responsibility, an event which had not occurred in its lifetime, M. Joly read on in the feeble light of the dark window, thick with the accumulated dust of years. "Retribution is instinctive in all animal life. This instinct is the expression of the Will to Live. All life is the constant overcoming of things that would hinder or destroy it. Vengeance is biologically necessary for survival. Retributive punishment is the order of all nature." Here M. Joly turned over the leaf. On the page which followed three dull-red spots broke the thread of the argument. Reading on mechanically, they constantly obtruded themselves on his attention.
These spots have certainly fallen from a certain height. Even without a microscope one readily detects minute specks—the spatter of a liquid which drops from a distance.
What was that liquid? A viscous one, for the words on which it fell are entirely obscured. A drop of wine would not render the text illegible.
One must be on one's guard against jumping at conclusions. If Pichon were to see these spots he would pronounce them blood offhand. Pichon sees blood in everything which is red. Yet they made him Inspector! Do I complain? Not at all. Pichon is an excellent fellow. Nature abhors a vacuum. I retire—enter Pichon!
Yet that property of the blood which we call clotting would produce precisely such spots as these. When withdrawn from the veins it becomes converted into a stiff jelly, which in time becomes solid. On the other hand, when old, the identity of blood-stains is not readily determined.
"Belon," said M. Joly, closing the book on his knee, "of whom did you buy this amusing treatise?"
His pencil behind his ear under his bushy hair, Belon came down from his stool.
"From the library of Monsieur Vidal."
"How astonishing! You know the former owners of all these volumes"—M. Joly waved his hand in an embracing gesture—"without referring to your records?"
"It is my trade," replied Belon, simply.
"In asking its price—"
"Oh," interrupted Belon, contemptuously, "it is of no value. In every library the worthless outnumber the valuable. One buys the lot for the few treasures known only to the connoisseur like myself. I make you a present of it, Monsieur Joly."
"Thank you," said M. Joly; and to Belon's amazement he added, "I also am a connoisseur."
Belon surveyed him anxiously over his spectacles. "Is it possible," he said to himself, "that I have overlooked something!"
M. Joly went on thinking. "A nose-bleed is out of the question." Then, aloud, "This Vidal, he is dead, then, since you possess his treasures."
"Not at all. He has simply moved away."
Folding his hands over his waistcoat, M. Joly played his card of silence. "Naturally you are ignorant of this detail since you came to Passy after Monsieur Vidal changed his domicile. Formerly he lived in the house of the curé—the little house in the trees, in the Impasse St.-Jean."
"Yes," assented M. Joly. "A pleasant spot. One must have had good reasons for abandoning it."
"As to that, they were excellent," said Belon, remounting his stool and plunging into his calculations.