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| What a story ! |
A girl had been killed. There were four of us in the waiting room at the police station. Twenty years ago, a Swedish camper accused me of rape, we had drunk so much that night that neither she nor I could remember if she said yes or no. The affair had ended in a rut. Because of this old story, I was one of the suspects today. I pulled out my card as soon as something happened. When the girl died, I was at my cousins' house in Limoges, everyone had seen me at the mass, the bistro and the flea market. I am unable to rape or kill anyone. I should not have too much trouble convincing the police.
On the bench in front of me, there was a tramp ... They make good suspects, tramps, wander, booze and sleep anywhere. He did not look worried. He hummed and winked at us.
To my left, there was an Arab. Whenever there is aggression, there is always a witness who has seen an Arab! He was scared to death; for them, it's always more complicated.
And then, in the middle of the room, there was a madman running in circles, constantly shouting that he had killed the girl and asking that he be executed. He was the one the cops called first.
Very quickly, in the office, we heard shouts of voice. They did not keep it long. The door opened and they pushed him towards the exit.
- You make us waste time with your delusions, Marcillon ... Let us work. We do not want to see you anymore, do you understand that? Go see a psychiatrist and get treatment. And do you feel happy that you are not being sued for contempt and obstructing police investigation?
I had heard of those patients who accuse themselves of the most horrible crimes to make headlines or to be punished. They are lucky to live with us. In some countries, we do not waste time looking for evidence, confessions are enough. There, he would already be hanged or beheaded!
I was politely received: after the madman, I brought calm. They noted the names and addresses of the people I mentioned. Time to check my schedule, I had to stay at the disposal of Justice. It is always a test to be suspected, even if nothing has been done wrong. When I got out of the office, the tramp gave me a wink.
Arabic had a beaten dog look.
I was heading to the bar across the street. The iron curtain was slowly descending. He stopped halfway up when I reached the door and the boss made me a sign that he was closing. Customers were coming out, bending their heads under the curtain. Among them was the agitated accuser of the murder of the girl.
"They have not kept you long," he said.
- They quickly realized that I had nothing to do with this crime.
- Think again, they are stubborn and have understood nothing at all. Believe me, I'm in a good position to tell you. Did you come for a drink?
- Yes, but I think for tonight, it's missed
- I must have a whiskey background, I offer you one at home?
The guy looked a little exalted but did not seem threatening. These patients are rarely dangerous, aggression is directed against them. I followed him in a rather well-kept building. The apartment was tastefully decorated, many paintings adorned the walls and an impressive library sat in the living room. He made me sit in a deep leather chair and took a bottle of whiskey out of a rosewood bar. On a low table illuminated by a lamppost, I saw a copy of Edgar Poe's Extraordinary Stories, from which a papyrus bookmark went. The house evoked ease and the man had a certain class. The image of the sneering madman with a funnel on his head is reassuring: this madness is not likely to happen to us ... But the distinguished and intelligent crazy intrigue and I was eager to question this mouse who threw himself into the clutches of the While the majority of them spend their lives avoiding them ... This glass was probably a pretext and he would surely take the initiative to plead his case. He remained silent. To give me a countenance, I flipped through the Extraordinary Stories. The bookmark was positioned on the "The Stolen Letter" page.
- Have you read them? he asked
- Some, my memories are from college. Edgar Poe, an American writer translated by Baudelaire. As for the Extraordinary Stories, I had only read "The Golden Scarab" and an improbable story of a murderous monkey.
"We must read them all," he said. At this moment, I reread "The Stolen Letter" is a small wonder of psychology.
We talked about literature, it seemed tense and I decided to set foot in the dish.
- What an idea to accuse you of the murder of this girl Monsieur Marcillon ...
He sprang from his chair and began to turn in circles as in the waiting room of the police station.
- It's not an idea, it's the truth! You will see well. They say I'm wasting their time, but it's them who lose it. It would be enough to listen to me. For the cops, a culprit must necessarily hide, run away, deny. But remorse, what do they make of remorse? The worst thing is that with their stubbornness, an innocent person may end up in prison. The tramp, the Arab, you ... maybe ...
- Did you really kill this girl or do you think you killed her? I said.
Marcillon gave me a bad look, I had just entered dangerous territory. I doubted, I implied that he could be delirious. He breathed deeply as if to control himself.
- I stabbed her and threw the knife into the bushes. They did not even bother to look for it.
According to the newspapers, the girl had been strangled with her headscarf. At no point was there any mention of stabbings.
We can be smart and completely crazy. This man seemed to me very ill and it would probably have been dangerous to contradict him. I thanked him and found myself in the street.
All this had made me cocky and I did not want to go back to my room.
I decided to visit Emma, an old friend from the neighborhood who taught French at Collège François Villon. When I arrived, she was correcting some copies, I suggested that she return to another day. Emma told me that this work was not urgent and that in fact, she was moving a little. She put the copies back in a folder and she stuffed her red pen. We talked about the rain and the good weather and then, as I had big on the heart, I told him my day. Emma knows me well, she knows that I am a good guy and I have never hurt anyone, no more Swedish than this poor girl. I told her about my meeting with Marcillon. She described to me with scholarly words the clinical picture of self-accusing melancholy and attempts to explain their troubles.
I was speaking to the French teacher ...
- Do you think "The Stolen Letter" is a little marvel of psychology, Emma?
- That's the subject of the dissertation, professor?
- If you want ... Marcillon told me about it. I have not read it and I would like you to tell it to me.
"The Stolen Letter" is one of Edgar Poe's Extraordinary Stories and she's actually pretty cool. A letter of the highest importance was stolen from the King's boudoir. The police know when she disappeared and the identity of the thief. They search his home from top to bottom and find nothing. The entourage of the King is very worried, the owner of this missive could put pressure on him. The police then appeal to Auguste Dupin, a famous detective who restores a few days later the famous document to the Prefect of Police. The police had however disconnected the mattresses and cushions, probed the furniture in search of double bottoms, raised the floorboards, used microscopes ... The letter was placed prominently on a desk! It had been folded upside down, with another stamp and another writing. The genie of the thief, and then that of Dupin, consisted in thinking that the police would look for something carefully concealed and pay no attention to a prominent letter.
A week had passed. The investigation stalled and public opinion showed signs of exasperation. During a white march organized in memory of the girl, some eggs were thrown in the direction of the police station and the press did not hesitate to denounce "the impotence of the Police".
We were again summoned. On his bench, Marcillon had a big smile. His day had arrived and the truth was about to break out. We were finally going to believe it! The tramp was humming and the Arab carried all the misery of the world on his shoulders.
As I stared at him, Marcillon suddenly appeared uncomfortable.
- Why do you look at me like that? You too think that I'm dingo, is that right? I do not even know your name. What is your name first?
- Dupin. Auguste Dupin, I say. You're screwed, Marcillon
His face turned grayish and his mouth began to shake.
He jumped on me, his fingers closed around my neck. We rolled on the ground making a noise of thunder. Police came out everywhere and quickly separated us.
- Are you crazy or what? shouted the Commissioner
"No one is mad, Commissioner," I said. Especially not Marcillon that you would be well advised to listen carefully when he says he is the murderer. Marcillon, who has, from the beginning, put his "madness" prominently on your investigation, like a letter on a desk. Then it was enough for him to become so noisy and visible that he could not be heard or seen.
- I will end up believing that you are as disturbed as each other. What is this letter story on the desktop?
Marcillon had his head in his hands, he had just understood that he had lost and no longer wanted to fight.
"It's an extraordinary story, a little marvel of psychology," he said. I will tell you this, Commissioner.
