Le crime d'Orcival. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  XI

  A long silence followed the detective's discourse. Perhaps his hearerswere casting about for objections. At last Dr. Gendron spoke:

  "I don't see Guespin's part in all this."

  "Nor I, very clearly," answered M. Lecoq. "And here I ought to confessto you not only the strength, but the weakness also, of the theory Ihave adopted. By this method, which consists of reconstructing the crimebefore discovering the criminal, I can be neither right nor wrong byhalves. Either all my inferences are correct, or not one of them is.It's all, or nothing. If I am right, Guespin has not been mixed up withthis crime, at least directly; for there isn't a single circumstancewhich suggests outside aid. If, on the other hand, I am wrong--"

  M. Lecoq paused. He seemed to have heard some unexpected noise in thegarden.

  "But I am not wrong. I have still another charge against the count, ofwhich I haven't spoken, but which seems to be conclusive."

  "Oh," cried the doctor, "what now?"

  "Two certainties are better than one, and I always doubt. When I wasleft alone a moment with Francois, the valet, I asked him if he knewexactly the number of the count's shoes; he said yes, and took me to acloset where the shoes are kept. A pair of boots, with green Russialeather tops, which Francois was sure the count had put on the previousmorning, was missing. I looked for them carefully everywhere, but couldnot find them. Again, the blue cravat with white stripes which the countwore on the 8th, had also disappeared."

  "There," cried M. Plantat, "that is indisputable proof that yoursupposition about the slippers and handkerchief was right."

  "I think that the facts are sufficiently established to enable us to goforward. Let's now consider the events which must have decided--"

  M. Lecoq again stopped, and seemed to be listening. All of a sudden,without a word he jumped on the window-sill and from thence into thegarden, with the bound of a cat which pounces on a mouse. The noise of afall, a stifled cry, an oath, were heard, and then a stamping as if astruggle were going on. The doctor and M. Plantat hastened to thewindow. Day was breaking, the trees shivered in the fresh wind of theearly morning,--objects were vaguely visible without distinct formsacross the white mist which hangs, on summer nights, over the valley ofthe Seine. In the middle of the lawn, at rapid intervals, they heard theblunt noise of a clinched fist striking a living body, and saw two men,or rather two phantoms, furiously swinging their arms. Presently the twoshapes formed but one, then they separated, again to unite; one of thetwo fell, rose at once, and fell again.

  "Don't disturb yourselves," cried M. Lecoq's voice. "I've got therogue."

  The shadow of the detective, which was upright, bent over, and theconflict was recommenced. The shadow stretched on the ground defendeditself with the dangerous strength of despair; his body formed a largebrown spot in the middle of the lawn, and his legs, kicking furiously,convulsively stretched and contracted. Then there was a moment when thelookers-on could not make out which was the detective. They rose againand struggled; suddenly a cry of pain escaped, with a ferocious oath.

  "Ah, wretch!"

  And almost immediately a loud shout rent the air, and the detective'smocking tones were heard:

  "There he is! I've persuaded him to pay his respects to us--light me upa little."

  The doctor and his host hastened to the lamp; their zeal caused a delay,and at the moment that the doctor raised the lamp, the door was rudelypushed open.

  "I beg to present to you," said M. Lecoq, "Master Robelot, bone-setterof Orcival, herborist by prudence, and poisoner by vocation."

  The stupefaction of the others was such that neither could speak.

  It was really the bone-setter, working his jaws nervously. His adversaryhad thrown him down by the famous knee-stroke which is the last resortof the worst prowlers about the Parisian barriers. But it was not somuch Robelot's presence which surprised M. Plantat and his friend. Theirstupor was caused by the detective's appearance; who, with his wrist ofsteel--as rigid as handcuffs--held the doctor's ex-assistant, and pushedhim forward. The voice was certainly Lecoq's; there was his costume, hisbig-knotted cravat, his yellow-haired watch-chain--still it was nolonger Lecoq. He was blond, with highly cultivated whiskers, when hejumped out the window; he returned, brown, with a smooth face. The manwho had jumped out was a middle-aged person, with an expressive facewhich was in turn idiotic and intelligent; the man who returned by thedoor was a fine young fellow of thirty-five, with a beaming eye and asensitive lip; a splendid head of curly black hair, brought out vividlythe pallor of his complexion, and the firm outline of his head and face.A wound appeared on his neck, just below the chin.

  "Monsieur Lecoq!" cried M. Plantat, recovering his voice.

  "Himself," answered the detective, "and this time the true Lecoq."Turning to Robelot, he slapped him on the shoulder and added:

  "Go on, you."

  Robelot fell upon a sofa, but the detective continued to hold him fast.

  "Yes," he continued, "this rascal has robbed me of my blond locks.Thanks to him and in spite of myself, you see me as I am, with the headthe Creator gave me, and which is really my own." He gave a carelessgesture, half angry, half good-humored. "I am the true Lecoq; and totell the truth, only three persons besides yourselves really knowhim--two trusted friends, and one who is infinitely less so--she of whomI spoke a while ago."

  The eyes of the other two met as if to question each other, and M. Lecoqcontinued:

  "What can a fellow do? All is not rose color in my trade. We run suchdangers, in protecting society, as should entitle us to the esteem, ifnot the affection of our fellow-men: Why, I am condemned to death, atthis moment, by seven of the most dangerous criminals in France. I havecaught them, you see, and they have sworn--they are men of their word,too--that I should only die by their hands. Where are these wretches?Four at Cayenne, one at Brest; I've had news of them. But the other two?I've lost their track. Who knows whether one of them hasn't followed mehere, and whether to-morrow, at the turning of some obscure road, Ishall not get six inches of cold steel in my stomach?"

  He smiled sadly.

  "And no reward," pursued he, "for the perils which we brave. If I shouldfall to-morrow, they would take up my body, carry it to my house, andthat would be the end." The detective's tone had become bitter, theirritation of his voice betrayed his rancor. "My precautions happily aretaken. While I am performing my duties, I suspect everything, and when Iam on my guard I fear no one. But there are days when one is tired ofbeing on his guard, and would like to be able to turn a street cornerwithout looking for a dagger. On such days I again become myself; I takeoff my false beard, throw down my mask, and my real self emerges fromthe hundred disguises which I assume in turn. I have been a detectivefifteen years, and no one at the prefecture knows either my true face orthe color of my hair."

  Master Robelot, ill at ease on his lounge, attempted to move.

  "Ah, look out!" cried M. Lecoq, suddenly changing his tone. "Now get uphere, and tell us what you were about in the garden?"

  "But you are wounded!" exclaimed Plantat, observing stains of blood onM. Lecoq's shirt.

  "Oh, that's nothing--only a scratch that this fellow gave me with a bigcutlass he had."

  M. Plantat insisted on examining the wound, and was not satisfied untilthe doctor declared it to be a very slight one.

  "Come, Master Robelot," said the old man, "what were you doing here?"

  The bone-setter did not reply.

  "Take care," insisted M. Plantat, "your silence will confirm us in theidea that you came with the worst designs."

  But it was in vain that M. Plantat wasted his persuasive eloquence.Robelot shut himself up in a ferocious and dogged silence. M. Gendron,hoping, not without reason, that he might have some influence over hisformer assistant, spoke:

  "Answer us; what did you come for?"

  Robelot made an effort; it was painful, with his broken jaw, to speak.

  "I came to rob; I confess it."

  "To rob--what?"<
br />
  "I don't know."

  "But you didn't scale a wall and risk the jail without a definiteobject?"

  "Well, then, I wanted--"

  He stopped.

  "What? Go on."

  "To get some rare flowers in the conservatory."

  "With your cutlass, hey?" said M. Lecoq. Robelot gave him a terriblelook; the detective continued:

  "You needn't look at me that way--you don't scare me. And don't talklike a fool, either. If you think we are duller than you, you aremistaken--I warn you of it."

  "I wanted the flower-pots," stammered the man.

  "Oh, come now," cried M. Lecoq, shrugging his shoulders, "don't repeatsuch nonsense. You, a man that buys large estates for cash, stealflower-pots! Tell that to somebody else. You've been turned overto-night, my boy, like an old glove. You've let out in spite of yourselfa secret that tormented you furiously, and you came here to get it backagain. You thought that perhaps Monsieur Plantat had not told it toanybody, and you wanted to prevent him from speaking again forever."

  Robelot made a sign of protesting.

  "Shut up now," said M. Lecoq. "And your cutlass?"

  While this conversation was going on, M. Plantat reflected.

  "Perhaps," he murmured, "I've spoken too soon."

  "Why so?" asked M. Lecoq. "I wanted a palpable proof for MonsieurDomini; we'll give him this rascal, and if he isn't satisfied, he'sdifficult to please."

  "But what shall we do with him?"

  "Shut him up somewhere in the house; if necessary, I'll tie him up."

  "Here's a dark closet."

  "Is it secure?"

  "There are thick walls on three sides of it, and the fourth is closedwith a double door; no openings, no windows, nothing."

  "Just the place."

  M. Plantat opened the closet, a black-looking hole, damp, narrow, andfull of old books and papers.

  "There," said M. Lecoq to his prisoner, "in here you'll be like a littleking," and he pushed him into the closet. Robelot did not resist, but heasked for some water and a light. They gave him a bottle of water and aglass.

  "As for a light," said M. Lecoq, "you may dispense with it. You'll beplaying us some dirty trick."

  M. Plantat, having shut the closet-door, took the detective's hand.

  "Monsieur," said he, earnestly, "you have probably just saved my life atthe peril of your own; I will not thank you. The day will come, I trust,when I may--"

  The detective interrupted him with a gesture.

  "You know how I constantly expose myself," said he, "once more or lessdoes not matter much. Besides, it does not always serve a man to savehis life." He was pensive a moment, then added: "You will thank me afterawhile, when I have gained other titles to your gratitude."

  M. Gendron also cordially shook the detective's hand, saying:

  "Permit me to express my admiration of you. I had no idea what theresources of such a man as you were. You got here this morning withoutinformation, without details, and by the mere scrutiny of the scene ofthe crime, by the sole force of reasoning, have found the criminal:more, you have proved to us that the criminal could be no other than hewhom you have named."

  M. Lecoq bowed modestly. These praises evidently pleased him greatly.

  "Still," he answered, "I am not yet quite satisfied. The guilt of theCount de Tremorel is of course abundantly clear to me. But what motivesurged him? How was he led to this terrible impulse to kill his wife, andmake it appear that he, too, had been murdered?"

  "Might we not conclude," remarked the doctor, "that, disgusted withMadame de Tremorel, he has got rid of her to rejoin another woman,adored by him to madness?"

  M. Lecoq shook his head.

  "People don't kill their wives for the sole reason that they are tiredof them and love others. They quit their wives, live with the newloves--that's all. That happens every day, and neither the law norpublic opinion condemns such people with great severity."

  "But it was the wife who had the fortune."

  "That wasn't the case here. I have been posting myself up. M. deTremorel had a hundred thousand crowns, the remains of a colossalfortune saved by his friend Sauvresy; and his wife by the marriagecontract made over a half million to him. A man can live in easeanywhere on eight hundred thousand francs. Besides, the count was masterof all the funds of the estate. He could sell, buy, realize, borrow,deposit, and draw funds at will."

  The doctor had nothing to reply. M. Lecoq went on, speaking with acertain hesitation, while his eyes interrogated M. Plantat.

  "We must find the reasons of this murder, and the motives of theassassin's terrible resolution--in the past. Some crime so indissolublylinked the count and countess, that only the death of one of them couldfree the other. I suspected this crime the first thing this morning, andhave seen it all the way through; and the man that we have just shut upin there--Robelot--who wanted to murder Monsieur Plantat, was either theagent or the accomplice of this crime."

  The doctor had not been present at the various episodes which, duringthe day at Valfeuillu and in the evening at the mayor's, had establisheda tacit understanding between Plantat and Lecoq. He needed all theshrewdness he possessed to fill up the gaps and understand the hiddenmeanings of the conversation to which he had been listening for twohours. M. Lecoq's last words shed a ray of light upon it all, and thedoctor cried, "Sauvresy!"

  "Yes--Sauvresy," answered M. Lecoq. "And the paper which the murdererhunted for so eagerly, for which he neglected his safety and risked hislife, must contain the certain proof of the crime."

  M. Plantat, despite the most significant looks and the directprovocation to make an explanation, was silent. He seemed a hundredleagues off in his thoughts, and his eyes, wandering in space, seemed tofollow forgotten episodes in the mists of the past. M. Lecoq, after abrief pause, decided to strike a bold blow.

  "What a past that must have been," exclaimed he, "which could drive ayoung, rich, happy man like Hector de Tremorel to plan in cool bloodsuch a crime, to resign himself to disappear after it, to cease toexist, as it were to lose all at once his personality, his position, hishonor and his name! What a past must be that which drives a young girlof twenty to suicide!"

  M. Plantat started up, pale, more moved than he had yet appeared.

  "Ah," cried he, in an altered voice, "you don't believe what you say!Laurence never knew about it, never!"

  The doctor, who was narrowly watching the detective, thought he saw afaint smile light up his mobile features. The old justice of the peacewent on, now calmly and with dignity, in a somewhat haughty tone:

  "You didn't need tricks or subterfuge, Monsieur Lecoq, to induce me totell what I know. I have evinced enough esteem and confidence in you todeprive you of the right to arm yourself against me with the sad secretwhich you have surprised."

  M. Lecoq, despite his cool-headedness, was disconcerted.

  "Yes," pursued M. Plantat, "your astonishing genius for penetratingdramas like this has led you to the truth. But you do not know all, andeven now I would hold my tongue, had not the reasons which compelled meto be silent ceased to exist."

  He opened a secret drawer in an old oaken desk near the fireplace andtook out a large paper package, which he laid on the table.

  "For four years," he resumed, "I have followed, day by day--I might say,hour by hour--the various phases of the dreadful drama which ended inblood last night at Valfeuillu. At first, the curiosity of an oldretired attorney prompted me. Later, I hoped to save the life and honorof one very dear to me. Why did I say nothing of my discoveries? That,my friends, is the secret of my conscience--it does not reproach me.Besides, I shut my eyes to the evidence even up to yesterday; I neededthe brutal testimony of this deed!"

  Day had come. The frightened blackbirds flew whistling by. The pavementresounded with the wooden shoes of the workmen going fieldward. No noisetroubled the sad stillness of the library, unless it were the rustlingof the leaves which M. Plantat was turning over, or now and then a groanfrom Robelot. />
  "Before commencing," said the old man, "I ought to consider yourweariness; we have been up twenty-four hours--"

  But the others protested that they did not need repose. The fever ofcuriosity had chased away their exhaustion. They were at last to knowthe key of the mystery.

  "Very well," said their host, "listen to me."