الفصل الفصل 6 · Chapter VI

M. Lecoq was the first to reach the staircase, and the spots of blood at

once caught his eye.

"Oh," cried he, at each spot he saw, "oh, oh, the wretches!"

M. Courtois was much moved to find so much sensibility in a detective.

The latter, as he continued to ascend, went on:

"The wretches! They don't often leave traces like this everywhere--or at

least they wipe them out."

On gaining the first landing, and the door of the boudoir which led into

the chamber, he stopped, eagerly scanning, before he entered, the

position of the rooms.

Then he entered the boudoir, saying:

"Come; I don't see my way clear yet."

"But it seems to me," remarked the judge, "that we have already

important materials to aid your task. It is clear that Guespin, if he is

not an accomplice, at least knew something about the crime."

M. Lecoq had recourse to the portrait in the lozenge-box. It was more

than a glance, it was a confidence. He evidently said something to the

dear defunct, which he dared not say aloud.

"I see that Guespin is seriously compromised," resumed he. "Why didn't

he want to tell where he passed the night? But, then, public opinion is

against him, and I naturally distrust that."

The detective stood alone in the middle of the room, the rest, at his

request, remained at the threshold, and looking keenly about him,

searched for some explanation of the frightful disorder of the

apartment.

"Fools!" cried he, in an irritated tone, "double brutes! Because they

murder people so as to rob them, is no reason why they should break

everything in the house. Sharp folks don't smash up furniture; they

carry pretty picklocks, which work well and make no noise. Idiots! one

would say--"

He stopped with his mouth wide open.

"Eh! Not so bungling, after all, perhaps."

The witnesses of this scene remained motionless at the door, following,

with an interest mingled with surprise, the detective's movements.

Kneeling down, he passed his flat palm over the thick carpet, among the

broken porcelain.

"It's damp; very damp. The tea was not all drunk, it seems, when the

cups were broken."

"Some tea might have remained in the teapot," suggested Plantat.

"I know it," answered M. Lecoq, "just what I was going to say. So that

this dampness cannot tell us the exact moment when the crime was

committed."

"But the clock does, and very exactly," interrupted the mayor.

"The mayor," said M. Domini, "in his notes, well explains that the

movements of the clock stopped when it fell."

"But see here," said M. Plantat, "it was the odd hour marked by that

clock that struck me. The hands point to twenty minutes past three; yet

we know that the countess was fully dressed, when she was struck. Was

she up taking tea at three in the morning? It's hardly probable."

"I, too, was struck with that circumstance," returned M. Lecoq, "and

that's why I said, 'not so stupid!' Well, let's see."

He lifted the clock with great care, and replaced it on the mantel,

being cautious to set it exactly upright. The hands continued to point

to twenty minutes past three.

"Twenty past three!" muttered he, while slipping a little wedge under

the stand. "People don't take tea at that hour. Still less common is it

that people are murdered at daylight."

He opened the clock-case with some difficulty, and pushed the longer

hand to the figure of half-past three.

The clock struck eleven!

"Good," cried M. Lecoq, triumphantly. "That is the truth!" and drawing

the lozenge-box from his pocket, he excitedly crushed a lozenge between

his teeth.

The simplicity of this discovery surprised the spectators; the idea of

trying the clock in this way had occurred to no one. M. Courtois,

especially, was bewildered.

"There's a fellow," whispered he to the doctor, "who knows what he's

about."

"Ergo," resumed M. Lecoq (who knew Latin), "we have here, not brutes, as

I thought at first, but rascals who looked beyond the end of their

knife. They intended to put us off the scent, by deceiving us as to the

hour."

"I don't see their object very clearly," said M. Courtois, timidly.

"Yet it is easy to see it," answered M. Domini. "Was it not for their

interest to make it appear that the crime was committed after the last

train for Paris had left? Guespin, leaving his companions at the Lyons

station at nine, might have reached here at ten, murdered the count and

countess, seized the money which he knew to be in the count's

possession, and returned to Paris by the last train."

"These conjectures are very shrewd," interposed M. Plantat; "but how is

it that Guespin did not rejoin his comrades in the Batignolles? For in

that way, to a certain degree, he might have provided a kind of alibi."

Dr. Gendron had been sitting on the only unbroken chair in the chamber,

reflecting on Plantat's sudden embarrassment, when he had spoken of

Robelot the bone-setter. The remarks of the judge drew him from his

revery; he got up, and said:

"There is another point; putting forward the time was perhaps useful to

Guespin, but it would greatly damage Bertaud, his accomplice."

"But," answered M. Domini, "it might be that Bertaud was not consulted.

As to Guespin, he had no doubt good reasons for not returning to the

wedding. His restlessness, after such a deed, would possibly have

betrayed him."

M. Lecoq had not thought fit to speak as yet. Like a doctor at a sick

bedside, he wanted to be sure of his diagnosis. He had returned to the

mantel, and again pushed forward the hands of the clock. It sounded,

successively, half-past eleven, then twelve, then half-past twelve, then

one.

As he moved the hands, he kept muttering:

"Apprentices--chance brigands! You are malicious, parbleu, but you don't

think of everything. You give a push to the hands, but don't remember to

put the striking in harmony with them. Then comes along a detective, an

old rat who knows things, and the dodge is discovered."

M. Domini and Plantat held their tongues. M. Lecoq walked up to them.

"Monsieur the Judge," said he, "is perhaps now convinced that the deed

was done at half-past ten."

"Unless," interrupted M. Plantat, "the machinery of the clock has been

out of order."

"That often happens," added M. Courtois. "The clock in my drawing-room

is in such a state that I never know the time of day."

M. Lecoq reflected.

"It is possible," said he, "that Monsieur Plantat is right. The

probability is in favor of my theory; but probability, in such an

affair, is not sufficient; we must have certainty. There happily remains

a mode of testing the matter--the bed; I'll wager it is rumpled up."

Then addressing the mayor, "I shall need a servant to lend me a hand."

"I'll help you," said Plantat, "that will be a quicker way."

They lifted the top of the bed and set it on the floor, at the same time

raising the curtains.

"Hum!" cried M. Lecoq, "was I right?"

"True," said M. Domini, surprised, "the bed is rumpled."

"Yes; and yet no one has lain in it."

"But--" objected M. Courtois.

"I am sure of what I say," interrupted the detective. "The sheets, it is

true, have been thrown back, perhaps someone has rolled about in the

bed; the pillows have been tumbled, the quilts and curtains ruffled, but

this bed has not the appearance of having been slept in. It is, perhaps,

more difficult to rumple up a bed than to put it in order again. To make

it up, the coverings must be taken off, and the mattresses turned. To

disarrange it, one must actually lie down in it, and warm it with the

body. A bed is one of those terrible witnesses which never misguide, and

against which no counter testimony can be given. Nobody has gone to bed

in this--"

"The countess," remarked Plantat, "was dressed; but the count might have

gone to bed first."

"No," answered M. Lecoq, "I'll prove to the contrary. The proof is easy,

indeed, and a child of ten, having heard it, wouldn't think of being

deceived by this intentional disorder of the bedclothes."

M. Lecoq's auditors drew up to him. He put the coverings back upon the

middle of the bed, and went on:

"Both of the pillows are much rumpled, are they not? But look under the

bolster--it is all smooth, and you find none of those wrinkles which are

made by the weight of the head and the moving about of the arms. That's

not all; look at the bed from the middle to the foot. The sheets being

laid carefully, the upper and under lie close together everywhere. Slip

your hand underneath--there--you see there is a resistance to your hand

which would not occur if the legs had been stretched in that place. Now

Monsieur de Tremorel was tall enough to extend the full length of the

bed."

This demonstration was so clear, its proof so palpable, that it could

not be gainsaid.

"This is nothing," continued M. Lecoq. "Let us examine the second

mattress. When a person purposely disarranges a bed, he does not think

of the second mattress."

He lifted up the upper mattress, and observed that the covering of the

under one was perfectly even.

"H'm, the second mattress," muttered M. Lecoq, as if some memory crossed

his mind.

"It appears to be proved," observed the judge, "that Monsieur de

Tremorel had not gone to bed."

"Besides," added the doctor, "if he had been murdered in his bed, his

clothes would be lying here somewhere."

"Without considering," suggested M. Lecoq, "that some blood must have

been found on the sheets. Decidedly, these criminals were not shrewd."

"What seems to me surprising," M. Plantat observed to the judge, "is

that anybody would succeed in killing, except in his sleep, a young man

so vigorous as Count Hector."

"And in a house full of weapons," added Dr. Gendron; "for the count's

cabinet is full of guns, swords and hunting knives; it's a perfect

arsenal."

"Alas!" sighed M. Courtois, "we know of worse catastrophes. There is not

a week that the papers don't--"

He stopped, chagrined, for nobody was listening to him. Plantat claimed

the general attention, and continued:

"The confusion in the house seems to you surprising; well now, I'm

surprised that it is not worse than it is. I am, so to speak, an old

man; I haven't the energy of a young man of thirty-five; yet it seems to

me that if assassins should get into my house, when I was there, and up,

it would go hard with them. I don't know what I would do; probably I

should be killed; but surely I would give the alarm. I would defend

myself, and cry out, and open the windows, and set the house afire."

"Let us add," insisted the doctor, "that it is not easy to surprise a

man who is awake. There is always an unexpected noise which puts one on

his guard. Perhaps it is a creaking door, or a cracking stair. However

cautious the murderer, he does not surprise his victim."

"They may have used fire-arms;" struck in the worthy mayor, "that has

been done. You are quietly sitting in your chamber; it is summer, and

your windows are open; you are chatting with your wife, and sipping a

cup of tea; outside, the assassins are supplied with a short ladder; one

ascends to a level with the window, sights you at his ease, presses the

trigger, the bullet speeds--"

"And," continued the doctor, "the whole neighborhood, aroused by it,

hastens to the spot."

"Permit me, pardon, permit me," said M. Courtois, testily, "that would

be so in a populous town. Here, in the midst of a vast park, no. Think,

doctor, of the isolation of this house. The nearest neighbor is a long

way off, and between there are many large trees, intercepting the sound.

Let us test it by experience. I will fire a pistol in this room, and

I'll wager that you will not hear the echo in the road."

"In the daytime, perhaps, but not in the night."

"Well," said M. Domini, who had been reflecting while M. Courtois was

talking, "if against all hope, Guespin does not decide to speak

to-night, or to-morrow, the count's body will afford us a key to the

mystery."

During this discussion, M. Lecoq had continued his investigations,

lifting the furniture, studying the fractures, examining the smallest

pieces, as if they might betray the truth. Now and then, he took out an

instrument-case, from which he produced a shank, which he introduced and

turned in the locks. He found several keys on the carpet, and on a rack,

a towel, which he carefully put one side, as if he deemed it important.

He came and went from the bedroom to the count's cabinet, without losing

a word that was said; noting in his memory, not so much the phrases

uttered, as the diverse accents and intonations with which they were

spoken. In an inquest such as that of the crime of Orcival, when several

officials find themselves face to face, they hold a certain reserve

toward each other. They know each other to have nearly equal experience,

to be shrewd, clear-headed, equally interested in discovering the truth,

not disposed to confide in appearances, difficult to surprise. Each one,

likely enough, gives a different interpretation to the facts revealed;

each may have a different theory of the deed; but a superficial observer

would not note these differences. Each, while dissimulating his real

thoughts, tries to penetrate those of his neighbor, and if they are

opposed to his own, to convert him to his opinion. The great importance

of a single word justifies this caution. Men who hold the liberty and

lives of others in their hands, a scratch of whose pen condemns to

death, are apt to feel heavily the burden of their responsibility. It is

an ineffable solace, to feel that this burden is shared by others. This

is, why no one dares take the initiative, or express himself openly; but

each awaits other opinions, to adopt or oppose them. They exchange fewer

affirmations than suggestions. They proceed by insinuation; then they

utter commonplaces, ridiculous suppositions, asides, provocative, as it

were, of other explanations.

In this instance, the judge of instruction and Plantat were far from

being of the same opinion; they knew it before speaking a word. But M.

Domini, whose opinion rested on material and palpable facts, which

appeared to him indisputable, was not disposed to provoke contradiction.

Plantat, on the contrary, whose system seemed to rest on impressions, on

a series of logical deductions, would not clearly express himself,

without a positive and pressing invitation. His last speech,

impressively uttered, had not been replied to; he judged that he had

advanced far enough to sound the detective.

"Well, Monsieur Lecoq," asked he, "have you found any new traces?"

M. Lecoq was at that moment curiously examining a large portrait of the

Count Hector, which hung opposite the bed. Hearing M. Plantat's

question, he turned.

"I have found nothing decisive," answered he, "and I have found nothing

to refute my conjectures. But--"

He did not finish; perhaps he too, recoiled before his share of the

responsibility.

"What?" insisted M. Domini, sternly.

"I was going to say," resumed M. Lecoq, "that I am not yet satisfied. I

have my lantern and a candle in it; I only need a match--"

"Please preserve your decorum," interrupted the judge severely.

"Very well, then," continued M. Lecoq, in a tone too humble to be

serious, "I still hesitate. If the doctor, now, would kindly proceed to

examine the countess's body, he would do me a great service."

"I was just going to ask the same favor, Doctor," said M. Domini.

The doctor answering, "Willingly," directed his steps toward the door.

M. Lecoq caught him by the arm.

"If you please," said he, in a tone totally unlike that he had used up

to this time, "I would like to call your attention to the wounds on the

head, made by a blunt instrument, which I suppose to be a hammer. I have

studied these wounds, and though I am no doctor, they seem to me

suspicious."

"And to me," M. Plantat quickly added. "It seemed to me, that in the

places struck, there was no emission of blood in the cutaneous vessels."

"The nature of these wounds," continued M. Lecoq, "will be a valuable

indication, which will fix my opinion." And, as he felt keenly the

brusque manner of the judge, he added:

"It is you, Doctor, who hold the match."

M. Gendron was about to leave the room, when Baptiste, the mayor's

servant--the man who wouldn't be scolded--appeared. He bowed and said:

"I have come for Monsieur the Mayor."

"For me? why?" asked M. Courtois. "What's the matter? They don't give me

a minute's rest! Answer that I am busy."

"It's on account of madame," resumed the placid Baptiste; "she isn't at

all well." The excellent mayor grew slightly pale.

"My wife!" cried he, alarmed. "What do you mean? Explain yourself."

"The postman arrived just now," returned Baptiste with a most tranquil

air, "and I carried the letters to madame, who was in the drawing-room.

Hardly had I turned on my heels when I heard a shriek, and the noise of

someone falling to the floor." Baptiste spoke slowly, taking artful

pains to prolong his master's anguish.

"Speak! go on!" cried the mayor, exasperated. "Speak, won't you?"

"I naturally opened the drawing-room door again. What did I see? madame,

at full length on the floor. I called for help; the chambermaid, cook,

and others came hastening up, and we carried madame to her bed. Justine

said that it was a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence which overcame my

mistress--"

At each word Baptiste hesitated, reflected; his eyes, giving the lie to

his solemn face, betrayed the great satisfaction he felt in relating his

master's misfortunes.

His master was full of consternation. As it is with all of us, when we

know not exactly what ill is about to befall us, he dared not ask any

questions. He stood still, crushed; lamenting, instead of hastening

home. M. Plantat profited by the pause to question the servant, with a

look which Baptiste dared not disobey.

"What, a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence? Isn't she here, then?"

"No, sir: she went away a week ago, to pass a month with one of her

aunts."

"And how is madame?"

"Better, sir; only she cries piteously."

The unfortunate mayor had now somewhat recovered his presence of mind.

He seized Baptiste by the arm.

"Come along," cried he, "come along!"

They hastened off.

"Poor man!" said the judge of instruction. "Perhaps his daughter is

dead."

M. Plantat shook his head.

"If it were only that!" muttered he. He added, turning to M. Domini:

"Do you recall the allusions of Bertaud, monsieur?"