The Mystery of Orcival

E >> Emile Gaboriau >> The Mystery of Orcival


M. Lecoq's voice, accent, gestures, gave a vivid character to his
recital. The hearer might imagine that he saw the crime committed,
and was present at the terrible scenes which he described. His
companions held their breath, unwilling by a movement to distract
his attention.

"At this moment," pursued he, "the count's rage and terror were at
their height. He had said to himself, when he planned the murder,
that he would kill his wife, get possession of the letter, execute
his plan quickly, and fly. And now all his projects were baffled!
How much time was being lost, when each minute diminished the chances
of escape! Then the probability of a thousand dangers which had not
occurred to him, entered his mind. What if some friend should
suddenly arrive, expecting his hospitality, as had occurred twenty
times? What if a passer-by on the road should notice a light flying
from room to room? Might not one of the servants return? When he
is in the drawing-room, he thinks he hears someone ring at the gate;
such is his terror, that he lets his candle fall--for I have found
the marks of it on the carpet. He hears strange noises, such as
never before assailed his ears; he thinks he hears walking in the
next room; the floor creaks. Is his wife really dead; will she not
suddenly rise up, run to the window, and scream for help? Beset by
these terrors, he returns to the bedroom, seizes his dagger, and
again strikes the poor countess. But his hand is so unsteady that
the wounds are light. You have observed, doctor, that all these
wounds take the same direction. They form right angles with the
body, proving that the victim was lying down when they were
inflicted. Then, in the excess of his frenzy, he strikes the body
with his feet, and his heels form the contusions discovered by the
autopsy."

M. Lecoq paused to take breath. He not only narrated the drama, he
acted it, adding gesture to word; and each of his phrases made a
scene, explained a fact, and dissipated a doubt. Like all true
artists who wrap themselves up in the character they represent, the
detective really felt something of the sensations which he
interpreted, and his expressive face was terrible in its contortions.

"That," he resumed, "is the first act of the drama. An irresistible
prostration succeeds the count's furious passion. The various
circumstances which I am describing to you are to be noticed in
nearly all great crimes. The assassin is always seized, after the
murder, with a horrible and singular hatred against his victim, and
he often mutilates the body. Then comes the period of a prostration
so great, of torpor so irresistible, that murderers have been known
literally to go to sleep in the blood, that they have been surprised
sleeping, and that it was with great difficulty that they were
awakened. The count, when he has frightfully disfigured the poor
lady, falls into an arm-chair; indeed, the cloth of one of the
chairs has retained some wrinkles, which shows that someone had sat
in it. What are then the count's thoughts? He reflects on the
long hours which have elapsed, upon the few hours which remain to
him. He reflects that he has found nothing; that he will hardly
have time, before day, to execute his plans for turning suspicion
from him, and assure his safety, by creating an impression that he,
too, has been murdered. And he must fly at once--fly, without that
accursed paper. He summons up his energies, rises, and do you know
what he does? He seizes a pair of scissors and cuts off his long,
carefully cultivated beard."

"Ah!" interrupted M. Plantat, "that's why you examined the portrait
so closely."

M. Lecoq was too intent on following the thread of his deductions
to note the interruption.

"This is one of those vulgar details," pursued he, "whose very
insignificance makes them terrible, when they are attended by
certain circumstances. Now imagine the Count de Tremorel, pale,
covered with his wife's blood, shaving himself before his glass;
rubbing the soap over his face, in that room all topsy-turvy,
while three steps off lies the still warm and palpitating body!
It was an act of terrible courage, believe me, to look at himself
in the glass after a murder--one of which few criminals are
capable. The count's hands, however, trembled so violently that
he could scarcely hold his razor, and his face must have been cut
several times."

"What!" said Dr. Gendron, "do you imagine that the count spared
the time to shave?"

"I am positively sure of it, pos-i-tive-ly. A towel on which I
have found one of those marks which a razor leaves when it is
wiped--and one only--has put me on the track of this fact. I
looked about, and found a box of razors, one of which had recently
been used, for it was still moist; and I have carefully preserved
both the towel and the box. And if these proofs are not enough,
I will send to Paris for two of my men, who will find, somewhere in
the house or the garden, both the count's beard and the cloth with
which he wiped his razor. As to the fact which surprises you,
Doctor, it seems to me very natural; more, it is the necessary
result of the plan he adopted. Monsieur de Tremorel has always worn
his full beard: he cuts it off, and his appearance is so entirely
altered, that if he met anyone in his flight, he would not be
recognized."

The doctor was apparently convinced, for he cried:

"It's clear--it's evident,"

"Once thus disguised, the count hastens to carry out the rest of
his plan, to arrange everything to throw the law off the scent, and
to make it appear that he, as well as his wife, has been murdered.
He hunts up Guespin's vest, tears it out at the pocket, and puts a
piece of it in the countess's hand. Then taking the body in his
arms, crosswise, he goes downstairs. The wounds bleed frightfully
--hence the numerous stains discovered all along his path. Reaching
the foot of the staircase he is obliged to put the countess down,
in order to open the garden-door. This explains the large stain
in the vestibule. The count, having opened the door, returns for
the body and carries it in his arms as far as the edge of the lawn;
there he stops carrying it, and drags it by the shoulders, walking
backward, trying thus to create the impression that his own body
has been dragged across there and thrown into the Seine. But the
wretch forgot two things which betray him to us. He did not reflect
that the countess's skirts, in being dragged along the grass,
pressing it down and breaking it for a considerable space, spoiled
his trick. Nor did he think that her elegant and well-curved feet,
encased in small high-heeled boots, would mould themselves in the
damp earth of the lawn, and thus leave against him a proof clearer
than the day."

M. Plantat rose abruptly.

"Ah," said he, "you said nothing of this before."

"Nor of several other things, either. But I was before ignorant of
some facts which I now know; and as I had reason to suppose that
you were better informed than I, I was not sorry to avenge myself
for a caution which seemed to me mysterious."

"Well, you are avenged," remarked the doctor, smiling.

"On the other side of the lawn," continued M. Lecoq, "the count
again took up the countess's body. But forgetting the effect of
water when it spirts, or--who knows?--disliking to soil himself,
instead of throwing her violently in the river, he put her down
softly, with great precaution. That's not all. He wished it to
appear that there had been a terrible struggle. What does he do?
Stirs up the sand with the end of his foot. And he thinks that
will deceive the police!"

"Yes, yes," muttered Plantat, "exactly so--I saw it."

"Having got rid of the body, the count returns to the house. Time
presses, but he is still anxious to find the paper. He hastens to
take the last measures to assure his safety. He smears his slippers
and handkerchief with blood. He throws his handkerchief and one of
his slippers on the sward, and the other slipper into the river.
His haste explains the incomplete execution of his manoeuvres. He
hurries--and commits blunder after blunder. He does not reflect
that his valet will explain about the empty bottles which he puts
on the table. He thinks he is turning wine into the five glasses
--it is vinegar, which will prove that no one has drunk out of them.
He ascends, puts forward the hands of the clock, but forgets to put
the hands and the striking bell in harmony. He rumples up the bed,
but he does it awkwardly--and it is impossible to reconcile these
three facts, the bed crumpled, the clock showing twenty minutes past
three, and the countess dressed as if it were mid-day. He adds as
much as he can to the disorder of the room. He smears a sheet with
blood; also the bed-curtains and furniture. Then he marks the door
with the imprint of a bloody hand, too distinct and precise not to
be done designedly. Is there so far a circumstance or detail of
the crime, which does not explain the count's guilt?"

"There's the hatchet," answered M. Plantat, "found on the second
story, the position of which seemed so strange to you."

"I am coming to that. There is one point in this mysterious affair,
which, thanks to you, is now clear. We know that Madame de Tremorel,
known to her husband, possessed and concealed a paper or a letter,
which he wanted, and which she obstinately refused to give up in
spite of all his entreaties. You have told us that the anxiety
--perhaps the necessity--to have this paper, was a powerful motive
of the crime. We will not be rash then in supposing that the
importance of this paper was immense--entirely beyond an ordinary
affair. It must have been, somehow, very damaging to one or the
other. To whom? To both, or only the count? Here I am reduced to
conjectures. It is certain that it was a menace--capable of being
executed at any moment--suspended over the head of him or them
concerned by it. Madame de Tremorel surely regarded this paper
either as a security, or as a terrible arm which put her husband
at her mercy. It was surely to deliver himself from this perpetual
menace that the count killed his wife."

The logic was so clear, the last words brought the evidence out so
lucidly and forcibly, that his hearers were struck with admiration.
They both cried:

"Very good!"

"Now," resumed M. Lecoq, "from the various elements which have
served to form our conviction, we must conclude that the contents
of this letter, if it can be found, will clear away our last doubts,
will explain the crime, and will render the assassin's precautions
wholly useless. The count, therefore, must do everything in the
world, must attempt the impossible, not to leave this danger behind
him. His preparations for flight ended, Hector, in spite of his
deadly peril, of the speeding time, of the coming day, instead of
flying recommences with more desperation than ever his useless
search. Again he goes through all the furniture, the books, the
papers--in vain. Then he determines to search the second story,
and armed with his hatchet, goes up to it. He has already attacked
a bureau, when he hears a cry in the garden. He runs to the window
--what does he see? Philippe and old Bertaud are standing on the
river-bank under the willows, near the corpse. Can you imagine his
immense terror? Now, there's not a second to lose--he has already
delayed too long. The danger is near, terrible. Daylight has come,
the crime is discovered, they are coming, he sees himself lost
beyond hope. He must fly, fly at once, at the peril of being seen,
met, arrested. He throws the hatchet down violently--it cuts the
floor. He rushes down, slips the bank-notes in his pocket, seizes
Guespin's torn and smeared vest, which he will throw into the river
from the bridge, and saves himself by the garden. Forgetting all
caution, confused, beside himself, covered with blood, he runs,
clears the ditch, and it is he whom old Bertaud sees making for the
forest of Mauprevoir, where he intends to arrange the disorder of
his clothes. For the moment he is safe. But he leaves behind him
this letter, which is, believe me, a formidable witness, which will
enlighten justice and will betray his guilt and the perfidy of his
projects. For he has not found it, but we will find it; it is
necessary for us to have it to defeat Monsieur Domini, and to change
our doubts into certainty."



XI

A long silence followed the detective's discourse. Perhaps his
hearers were 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
confess to you not only the strength, but the weakness also, of the
theory I have adopted. By this method, which consists of
reconstructing the crime before discovering the criminal, I can be
neither right nor wrong by halves. 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 with this crime, at least
directly; for there isn't a single circumstance which suggests
outside aid. If, on the other hand, I am wrong--"

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

"But I am not wrong. I have still another charge against the count,
of which 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
was left alone a moment with Francois, the valet, I asked him if
he knew exactly the number of the count's shoes; he said yes, and
took me to a closet where the shoes are kept. A pair of boots,
with green Russia leather tops, which Francois was sure the count
had put on the previous morning, was missing. I looked for them
carefully everywhere, but could not find them. Again, the blue
cravat with white stripes which the count wore on the 8th, had also
disappeared."

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

"I think that the facts are sufficiently established to enable us
to go forward. 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 the
garden, with the bound of a cat which pounces on a mouse. The noise
of a fall, a stifled cry, an oath, were heard, and then a stamping as
if a struggle were going on. The doctor and M. Plantat hastened to
the window. Day was breaking, the trees shivered in the fresh wind
of the early morning,--objects were vaguely visible without distinct
forms across the white mist which hangs, on summer nights, over the
valley of the Seine. In the middle of the lawn, at rapid intervals,
they heard the blunt noise of a clinched fist striking a living body,
and saw two men, or rather two phantoms, furiously swinging their
arms. Presently the two shapes formed but one, then they separated,
again to unite; one of the two fell, rose at once, and fell again.

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

The shadow of the detective, which was upright, bent over, and the
conflict was recommenced. The shadow stretched on the ground
defended itself with the dangerous strength of despair; his body
formed a large brown spot in the middle of the lawn, and his legs,
kicking furiously, convulsively stretched and contracted. Then
there was a moment when the lookers-on could not make out which was
the detective. They rose again and 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's
mocking tones were heard:

"There he is! I've persuaded him to pay his respects to us--light
me up a 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 rudely pushed open.

"I beg to present to you," said M. Lecoq, "Master Robelot,
bone-setter of 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
adversary had thrown him down by the famous knee-stroke which is
the last resort of the worst prowlers about the Parisian barriers.
But it was not so much Robelot's presence which surprised M. Plantat
and his friend. Their stupor was caused by the detective's
appearance; who, with his wrist of steel--as rigid as handcuffs
--held the doctor's ex-assistant, and pushed him forward. The voice
was certainly Lecoq's; there was his costume, his big-knotted
cravat, his yellow-haired watch-chain--still it was no longer Lecoq.
He was blond, with highly cultivated whiskers, when he jumped out
the window; he returned, brown, with a smooth face. The man who
had jumped out was a middle-aged person, with an expressive face
which was in turn idiotic and intelligent; the man who returned by
the door was a fine young fellow of thirty-five, with a beaming eye
and a sensitive lip; a splendid head of curly black hair, brought
out vividly the 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
head the Creator gave me, and which is really my own." He gave a
careless gesture, half angry, half good-humored. "I am the true
Lecoq; and to tell the truth, only three persons besides yourselves
really know him--two trusted friends, and one who is infinitely
less so--she of whom I spoke a while ago."

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

"What can a fellow do? All is not rose color in my trade. We run
such dangers, in protecting society, as should entitle us to the
esteem, if not the affection of our fellow-men: Why, I am condemned
to death, at this moment, by seven of the most dangerous criminals
in France. I have caught 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 me here, and whether to-morrow,
at the turning of some obscure road, I shall 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
should fall to-morrow, they would take up my body, carry it to my
house, and that would be the end." The detective's tone had become
bitter, the irritation of his voice betrayed his rancor. "My
precautions happily are taken. While I am performing my duties, I
suspect everything, and when I am on my guard I fear no one. But
there are days when one is tired of being on his guard, and would
like to be able to turn a street corner without looking for a dagger.
On such days I again become myself; I take off my false beard, throw
down my mask, and my real self emerges from the hundred disguises
which I assume in turn. I have been a detective fifteen years, and
no one at the prefecture knows either my true face or the 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 up here, and tell us what you were about in the garden?"

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

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

M. Plantat insisted on examining the wound, and was not satisfied
until the 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
the idea 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 his former 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?"

"I don't know."

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

"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
terrible look; the detective continued:

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

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

"Oh, come now," cried M. Lecoq, shrugging his shoulders, "don't
repeat such nonsense. You, a man that buys large estates for cash,
steal flower-pots! Tell that to somebody else. You've been turned
over to-night, my boy, like an old glove. You've let out in spite
of yourself a secret that tormented you furiously, and you came
here to get it back again. You thought that perhaps Monsieur Plantat
had not told it to anybody, 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 Monsieur
Domini; we'll give him this rascal, and if he isn't satisfied, he's
difficult 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
closed with a double door; no openings, no windows, nothing."

"Just the place."

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

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

"As for a light," said M. Lecoq, "you may dispense with it. You'll
be playing 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 at the 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
less does not matter much. Besides, it does not always serve a man
to save his life." He was pensive a moment, then added: "You will
thank me after awhile, 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 the
resources of such a man as you were. You got here this morning
without information, without details, and by the mere scrutiny of
the scene of the 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 he whom 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
the Count de Tremorel is of course abundantly clear to me. But what
motives urged him? How was he led to this terrible impulse to kill
his wife, and make it appear that he, too, had been murdered?"

"Might we not conclude," remarked the doctor, "that, disgusted with
Madame 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
tired of them and love others. They quit their wives, live with
the new loves--that's all. That happens every day, and neither
the law nor public 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. de
Tremorel had a hundred thousand crowns, the remains of a colossal
fortune saved by his friend Sauvresy; and his wife by the marriage
contract made over a half million to him. A man can live in ease
anywhere on eight hundred thousand francs. Besides, the count was
master of all the funds of the estate. He could sell, buy, realize,
borrow, deposit, and draw funds at will."