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

M. Lecoq took him by the hand, and pressing it significantly, said:

“Count on me, Monsieur.”

At this moment Dr. Gendron appeared at the door.

“Courtois is better,” said he. “He weeps like a child; but he will come out of it.”

“Heaven be praised!” cried the old justice of the peace. “Now, since you’ve come, let us hurry off to Corbeil; Monsieur Domini, who is waiting for us this morning, must be mad with impatience.”

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 courthouse, 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 Trémorel, 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. Tomorrow 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 Trémorel 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 Trémorel 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 Trémorel 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