The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Graeme Davis

  The couple lived happily, bound together by the memory of Sauvresy, until the body of the Countess is found floating in the Seine by a poacher named Bertaud and, a short time later, the Count’s body is also found. Suspicion falls upon Guespin, a gardener on their estate of Valfeuillu, who maintains his innocence in the face of some damning but circumstantial evidence.

  After a careful investigation, Monsieur Lecoq, accompanied by Monsieur Plantat, the local justice of the peace, presents his findings to Monsieur Domini, the presiding judge, and sets in motion the climactic hunt for the true murderer.

  M. Plantat, in speaking of M. Domini’s impatience, did not exaggerate the truth. That personage was furious; he could not comprehend the reason of the prolonged absence of his three fellow-workers of the previous evening. He had installed himself early in the morning in his cabinet, at the court-house, enveloped in his judicial robe; and he counted the minutes as they passed. His reflections during the night, far from shaking, had only confirmed his opinion. As he receded from the period of the crime, he found it very simple and natural—indeed, the easiest thing in the world to account for. He was annoyed that the rest did not share his convictions, and he awaited their report in a state of irritation which his clerk only too well perceived. He had eaten his breakfast in his cabinet, so as to be sure and be beforehand with M. Lecoq. It was a useless precaution; for the hours passed on and no one arrived.

  To kill time, he sent for Guespin and Bertaud and questioned them anew, but learned nothing more than he had extracted from them the night before. One of the prisoners swore by all things sacred that he knew nothing except what he had already told; the other preserved an obstinate and ferocious silence, confining himself to the remark: “I know that I am lost; do with me what you please.”

  M. Domini was just going to send a mounted gendarme to Orcival to find out the cause of the delay, when those whom he awaited were announced. He quickly gave the order to admit them, and so keen was his curiosity, despite what he called his dignity, that he got up and went forward to meet them.

  “How late you are!” said he.

  “And yet we haven’t lost a minute,” replied M. Plantat. “We haven’t even been in bed.”

  “There is news, then? Has the count’s body been found?”

  “There is much news, Monsieur,” said M. Lecoq. “But the count’s body has not been found, and I dare even say that it will not be found—for the very simple fact that he has not been killed. The reason is that he was not one of the victims, as at first supposed, but the assassin.”

  At this distinct declaration on M. Lecoq’s part, the judge started in his seat.

  “Why, this is folly!” cried he.

  M. Lecoq never smiled in a magistrate’s presence. “I do not think so,” said he, coolly; “I am persuaded that if Monsieur Domini will grant me his attention for half an hour I will have the honor of persuading him to share my opinion.”

  M. Domini’s slight shrug of the shoulders did not escape the detective, but he calmly continued:

  “More; I am sure that Monsieur Domini will not permit me to leave his cabinet without a warrant to arrest Count Hector de Tremorel, whom at present he thinks to be dead.”

  “Possibly,” said M. Domini. “Proceed.”

  M. Lecoq then rapidly detailed the facts gathered by himself and M. Plantat from the beginning of the inquest. He narrated them not as if he had guessed or been told of them, but in their order of time and in such a manner that each new incident which he mentioned followed naturally from the preceding one. He had completely resumed his character of a retired haberdasher, with a little piping voice, and such obsequious expressions as, “I have the honor,” and “If Monsieur the Judge will deign to permit me;” he resorted to the candy-box with the portrait, and, as the night before at Valfeuillu,* chewed a lozenge when he came to the more striking points. M. Domini’s surprise increased every minute as he proceeded; while at times, exclamations of astonishment passed his lips: “Is it possible?” “That is hard to believe!”

  M. Lecoq finished his recital; he tranquilly munched a lozenge, and added:

  “What does Monsieur the Judge of Instruction think now?”

  M. Domini was fain to confess that he was almost satisfied. A man, however, never permits an opinion deliberately and carefully formed to be refuted by one whom he looks on as an inferior, without a secret chagrin. But in this case the evidence was too abundant, and too positive to be resisted.

  “I am convinced,” said he, “that a crime was committed on Monsieur Sauvresy with the dearly paid assistance of this Robelot. To-morrow I shall give instructions to Doctor Gendron to proceed at once to an exhumation and autopsy of the late master of Valfeuillu.”

  “And you may be sure that I shall find the poison,” chimed in the doctor.

  “Very well,” resumed M. Domini. “But does it necessarily follow that because Monsieur Tremorel poisoned his friend to marry his widow, he yesterday killed his wife and then fled? I don’t think so.”

  “Pardon me,” objected Lecoq, gently. “It seems to me that Mademoiselle Courtois’s supposed suicide proves at least something.”

  “That needs clearing up. This coincidence can only be a matter of pure chance.”

  “But I am sure that Monsieur Tremorel shaved himself—of that we have proof; then, we did not find the boots which, according to the valet, he put on the morning of the murder.”

  “Softly, softly,” interrupted the judge. “I don’t pretend that you are absolutely wrong; it must be as you say; only I give you my objections. Let us admit that Tremorel killed his wife, that he fled and is alive. Does that clear Guespin, and show that he took no part in the murder?”

  This was evidently the flaw in Lecoq’s case; but being convinced of Hector’s guilt, he had given little heed to the poor gardener, thinking that his innocence would appear of itself when the real criminal was arrested. He was about to reply, when footsteps and voices were heard in the corridor.

  “Stop,” said M. Domini. “Doubtless we shall now hear something important about Guespin.”

  “Are you expecting some new witness?” asked M. Plantat.

  “No; I expect one of the Corbeil police to whom I have given an important mission.”

  “Regarding Guespin?”

  “Yes. Very early this morning a young working-woman of the town, whom Guespin has been courting, brought me an excellent photograph of him. I gave this portrait to the agent with instructions to go to the Vulcan’s Forges† and ascertain if Guespin had been seen there, and whether he bought anything there night before last.”

  M. Lecoq was inclined to be jealous; the judge’s proceeding ruffled him, and he could not conceal an expressive grimace.

  “I am truly grieved,” said he, dryly, “that Monsieur the Judge has so little confidence in me that he thinks it necessary to give me assistance.”

  This sensitiveness aroused M. Domini, who replied:

  “Eh! my dear man, you can’t be everywhere at once. I think you very shrewd, but you were not here, and I was in a hurry.”

  “A false step is often irreparable.”

  “Make yourself easy; I’ve sent an intelligent man.” At this moment the door opened, and the policeman referred to by the judge appeared on the threshold. He was a muscular man about forty years old, with a military pose, a heavy mustache, and thick brows, meeting over the nose. He had a sly rather than a shrewd expression, so that his appearance alone seemed to awake all sorts of suspicions and put one instinctively on his guard.

  “Good news!” said he in a big voice: “I didn’t make the journey to Paris for the King of Prussia; we are right on the track of this rogue of a Guespin.”

  M. Domini encouraged him with an approving gesture.

  “See here, Goulard,” said he, “let us go on in order if we can. You went then, according to my instructions, to the Vulcan’s Forges?”

  “At once, Monsieur.”

  “Precisely. Had they seen the pr
isoner there?”

  “Yes; on the evening of Wednesday, July 8th.”

  “At what hour?”

  “About ten o’clock, a few minutes before they shut up; so that he was remarked, and the more distinctly observed.”

  The judge moved his lips as if to make an objection, but was stopped by a gesture from M. Lecoq.

  “And who recognized the photograph?”

  “Three of the clerks. Guespin’s manner first attracted their attention. It was strange, so they said, and they thought he was drunk, or at least tipsy. Then their recollection was fixed by his talking very fast, saying that he was going to patronize them a great deal, and that if they would make a reduction in their prices he would procure for them the custom of an establishment whose confidence he possessed, the Gentil Jardinier,‡ which bought a great many gardening tools.”

  M. Domini interrupted the examination to consult some papers which lay before him on his desk. It was, he found, the Gentil Jardinier which had procured Guespin his place in Tremorel’s household. The judge remarked this aloud, and added:

  “The question of identity seems to be settled. Guespin was undoubtedly at the Vulcan’s Forges on Wednesday night.”

  “So much the better for him,” M. Lecoq could not help muttering.

  The judge heard him, but though the remark seemed singular to him he did not notice it, and went on questioning the agent.

  “Well, did they tell you what Guespin went there to obtain?”

  “The clerks recollected it perfectly. He first bought a hammer, a cold chisel, and a file.”

  “I knew it,” exclaimed the judge. “And then?”

  “Then—”

  Here the man, ambitious to make a sensation among his hearers, rolled his eyes tragically, and in a dramatic tone, added:

  “Then he bought a dirk knife!”

  The judge felt that he was triumphing over M. Lecoq.

  “Well,” said he to the detective in his most ironical tone, “what do you think of your friend now? What do you say to this honest and worthy young man, who, on the very night of the crime, leaves a wedding where he would have had a good time, to go and buy a hammer, a chisel, and a dirk—everything, in short, used in the murder and the mutilation of the body?”

  Dr. Gendron seemed a little disconcerted at this, but a sly smile overspread M. Plantat’s face. As for M. Lecoq, he had the air of one who is shocked by objections which he knows he ought to annihilate by a word, and yet who is fain to be resigned to waste time in useless talk, which he might put to great profit.

  “I think, Monsieur,” said he, very humbly, “that the murderers at Valfeuillu did not use either a hammer or a chisel, or a file, and that they brought no instrument at all from outside—since they used a hammer.”

  “And didn’t they have a dirk besides?” asked the judge in a bantering tone, confident that he was on the right path.

  “That is another question, I confess; but it is a difficult one to answer.”

  He began to lose patience. He turned toward the Corbeil policeman, and abruptly asked him:

  “Is this all you know?”

  The big man with the thick eyebrows superciliously eyed this little Parisian who dared to question him thus. He hesitated so long that M. Lecoq, more rudely than before, repeated his question.

  “Yes, that’s all,” said Goulard at last, “and I think it’s sufficient; the judge thinks so too; and he is the only person who gives me orders, and whose approbation I wish for.”

  M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded:

  “Let’s see; did you ask what was the shape of the dirk bought by Guespin? Was it long or short, wide or narrow?”

  “Faith, no. What was the use?”

  “Simply, my brave fellow, to compare this weapon with the victim’s wounds, and to see whether its handle corresponds to that which left a distinct and visible imprint between the victim’s shoulders.”

  “I forgot it; but it is easily remedied.”

  “An oversight may, of course, be pardoned; but you can at least tell us in what sort of money Guespin paid for his purchases?”

  The poor man seemed so embarrassed, humiliated, and vexed, that the judge hastened to his assistance.

  “The money is of little consequence, it seems to me,” said he.

  “I beg you to excuse me; I don’t agree with you,” returned M. Lecoq. “This matter may be a very grave one. What is the most serious evidence against Guespin? The money found in his pocket. Let us suppose for a moment that night before last, at ten o’clock, he changed a one-thousand-franc note§ in Paris. Could the obtaining of that note have been the motive of the crime at Valfeuillu? No, for up to that hour the crime had not been committed. Where could it have come from? That is no concern of mine, at present. But if my theory is correct, justice will be forced to agree that the several hundred francs found in Guespin’s possession can and must be the change for the note.”

  “That is only a theory,” urged M. Domini in an irritated tone.

  “That is true; but one which may turn out a certainty. It remains for me to ask this man how Guespin carried away the articles which he bought? Did he simply slip them into his pocket, or did he have them done up in a bundle, and if so, how?”

  The detective spoke in a sharp, hard, freezing tone, with a bitter raillery in it, frightening his Corbeil colleague out of his assurance.

  “I don’t know,” stammered the latter. “They didn’t tell me—I thought—”

  M. Lecoq raised his hands as if to call the heavens to witness: in his heart, he was charmed with this fine occasion to revenge himself for M. Domini’s disdain. He could not, dared not say anything to the judge; but he had the right to banter the agent and visit his wrath upon him.

  “Ah so, my lad,” said he, “what did you go to Paris for? To show Guespin’s picture and detail the crime to the people at Vulcan’s Forges? They ought to be very grateful to you; but Madame Petit, Monsieur Plantat’s housekeeper, would have done as much.”

  At this stroke the man began to get angry; he frowned, and in his bluffest tone, began:

  “Look here now, you—”

  “Ta, ta, ta,” interrupted M. Lecoq. “Let me alone, and know who is talking to you. I am Monsieur Lecoq.”

  The effect of the famous detective’s name on his antagonist was magical. He naturally laid down his arms and surrendered, straightway becoming respectful and obsequious. It almost flattered him to be roughly handled by such a celebrity. He muttered, in an abashed and admiring tone:

  “What, is it possible? You, Monsieur Lecoq!”

  “Yes, it is I, young man; but console yourself; I bear no grudge against you. You don’t know your trade, but you have done me a service and you have brought us a convincing proof of Guespin’s innocence.”

  M. Domini looked on at this scene with secret chagrin. His recruit went over to the enemy, yielding without a struggle to a confessed superiority. M. Lecoq’s presumption, in speaking of a prisoner’s innocence whose guilt seemed to the judge indisputable, exasperated him.

  “And what is this tremendous proof, if you please?” asked he.

  “It is simple and striking,” answered M. Lecoq, putting on his most frivolous air as his conclusions narrowed the field of probabilities.

  “You doubtless recollect that when we were at Valfeuillu we found the hands of the clock in the bedroom stopped at twenty minutes past three. Distrusting foul play, I put the striking apparatus in motion—do you recall it? What happened? The clock struck eleven. That convinced us that the crime was committed before that hour. But don’t you see that if Guespin was at the Vulcan’s Forges at ten he could not have got back to Valfeuillu before midnight? Therefore it was not—he who did the deed.”

  The detective, as he came to this conclusion, pulled out the inevitable box and helped himself to a lozenge, at the same time bestowing upon the judge a smile which said:

  “Get out of that, if you can.”

  The judge’s w
hole theory tumbled to pieces if M. Lecoq’s deductions were right; but he could not admit that he had been so much deceived; he could not renounce an opinion formed by deliberate reflection.

  “I don’t pretend that Guespin is the only criminal,” said he. “He could only have been an accomplice; and that he was.”

  “An accomplice? No, Judge, he was a victim. Ah, Tremorel is a great rascal! Don’t you see now why he put forward the hands? At first I didn’t perceive the object of advancing the time five hours; now it is clear. In order to implicate Guespin the crime must appear to have been committed after midnight, and—”

  He suddenly checked himself and stopped with open mouth and fixed eyes as a new idea crossed his mind. The judge, who was bending over his papers trying to find something to sustain his position, did not perceive this.

  “But then,” said the latter, “how do you explain Guespin’s refusal to speak and to give an account of where he spent the night?”

  M. Lecoq had now recovered from his emotion, and Dr. Gendron and M. Plantat, who were watching him with the deepest attention, saw a triumphant light in his eyes. Doubtless he had just found a solution of the problem which had been put to him.

  “I understand,” replied he, “and can explain Guespin’s obstinate silence. I should be perfectly amazed if he decided to speak just now.”

  M. Domini misconstrued the meaning of this; he thought he saw in it a covert intention to banter him.

  “He has had a night to reflect upon it,” he answered. “Is not twelve hours enough to mature a system of defense?”

  The detective shook his head doubtfully.

  “It is certain that he does not need it,” said he. “Our prisoner doesn’t trouble himself about a system of defense, that I’ll swear to.”

  “He keeps quiet, because he hasn’t been able to get up a plausible story.”

  “No, no; believe me, he isn’t trying to get up one. In my opinion, Guespin is a victim; that is, I suspect Tremorel of having set an infamous trap for him, into which he has fallen, and in which he sees himself so completely caught that he thinks it useless to struggle. The poor wretch is convinced that the more he resists the more surely he will tighten the web that is woven around him.”