The Mystery of Orcival by Émile Gaboriau (fiction book recommendations .TXT) 📕

The detective fixed a penetrating look upon his companion, and in a measured tone, said:

“From neither one.”

M. Plantat only answered by a movement of the lips, as if to say, “You are going too far.”

The other smiled, opened the door, and called:

“François!”

The valet hastened to obey the call. His face was suffused with tears; he actually bewailed the loss of his master.

“Hear what I’ve got to say, my lad,” said M. Lecoq, with true detective-like familiarity. “And be sure and answer me exactly, frankly, and briefly.”

“I will, sir.”

“Was it customary here at the château, to bring up the wine before it was wanted?”

“No, sir; before each meal, I myself went down to the cellar for it.”

“Then no full bottles were ever kept in the dining-room?”

“Never.”

“But some of the wine might sometimes remain in draught?”

“No; the count permitted me to carry the dessert wine to the servants’ table.”

“And where were the empty bottles put?”

“I put them in this corner cupboard, and when they amounted to a certain number, I carried them down cellar.”

“When did you last do so?”

“Oh”⁠—François reflected⁠—“at least five or six days ago.”

“Good. Now, what liqueurs did the count drink?”

“The count scarcely ever drank liqueurs. If, by chance, he took a notion to have a small glass of eau-de-vie, he got it from the liqueur closet, there, over the stove.”

“There were no decanters of rum or cognac in any of the cupboards?”

“No.”

“Thanks; you may retire.”

As François was going out, M. Lecoq called him back.

“While we are about it, look in the bottom of the closet, and see if you find the right number of empty bottles.”

The valet obeyed, and looked into the closet.

“There isn’t one there.”

“Just so,” returned M. Lecoq. “This time, show us your heels for good.”

As soon as François had shut the door, M. Lecoq turned to Plantat and asked:

“What do you think now?”

“You were perfectly right.”

The detective then smelt successively each glass and bottle.

“Good again! Another proof in aid of my guess.”

“What more?”

“It was not wine that was at the bottom of these glasses. Among all the empty bottles put away in the bottom of that closet, there was one⁠—here it is⁠—which contained vinegar; and it was from this bottle that they turned what they thought to be wine into the glasses.”

Seizing a glass, he put it to M. Plantat’s nose, adding:

“See for yourself.”

There was no disputing it; the vinegar was good, its odor of the strongest; the villains, in their haste, had left behind them an incontestable proof of their intention to mislead the officers of justice. While they were capable of shrewd inventions, they did not have the art to perform them well. All their oversights could, however, be accounted for by their sudden haste, caused by the occurrence of an unlooked-for incident. “The floors of a house where a crime has just been committed,” said a famous detective, “burn the feet.” M. Lecoq seemed exasperated, like a true artist, before the gross, pretentious, and ridiculous work of some green and bungling scholar.

“These are a parcel of vulgar ruffians, truly! able ones, certainly; but they don’t know their trade yet, the wretches.”

M. Lecoq, indignant, ate three or four lozenges at a mouthful.

“Come, now,” said Plantat, in a paternally severe tone. “Don’t let’s get angry. The people have failed in address, no doubt; but reflect that they could not, in their calculations, take account of the craft of a man like you.”

M. Lecoq, who had the vanity which all actors possess, was flattered by the compliment, and but poorly dissimulated an expression of pleasure.

“We must be indulgent; come now,” pursued Plantat. “Besides,” he paused a moment to give more weight to what he was going to say, “besides, you haven’t seen everything yet.”

No one could tell when M. Lecoq was playing a comedy. He did not always know, himself. This great artist, devoted to his art, practised the feigning of all the emotions of the human soul, just as he accustomed himself to wearing all sorts of costumes. He was very indignant against the assassins, and gesticulated about in great excitement; but he never ceased to watch Plantat slyly, and the last words of the latter made him prick up his ears.

“Let’s see the rest, then,” said he.

As he followed his worthy comrade to the garden, he renewed his confidences to the dear defunct.

“Confound this old bundle of mystery! We can’t take this obstinate fellow by surprise, that’s clear. He’ll give us the word of the riddle when we have guessed it; not before. He is as strong as we, my darling; he only needs a little practice. But look you⁠—if he has found something which has escaped us, he must have previous information, that we don’t know of.”

Nothing had been disturbed in the garden.

“See here, Monsieur Lecoq,” said the old justice of the peace, as he followed a winding pathway which led to the river. “It was here that one of the count’s slippers was found; below there, a little to the right of these geraniums, his silk handkerchief was picked up.”

They reached the riverbank, and lifted, with great care, the planks which had been placed there to preserve the footprints.

“We suppose,” said M. Plantat, “that the countess, in her flight, succeeded in getting to this spot; and that here they caught up with her and gave her a finishing blow.”

Was this really Plantat’s opinion, or did he only report the morning’s theory? M. Lecoq could not tell.

“According to my calculations,” he said, “the countess could not have fled, but was brought here already dead, or logic is not logic. However, let us examine this spot carefully.”

He knelt down and studied the sand on the path, the stagnant water, and the reeds and water-plants. Then going along a little distance, he threw a stone, approaching again to see the effect produced on the mud. He next returned to the house, and came back again under the willows, crossing the lawn, where were still clearly visible traces of a heavy burden having been dragged over it. Without the least respect for his pantaloons, he crossed