"Perhaps you are right," said he, carelessly; "perhaps there is
something underneath." The detective looked at him; he didn't stir. His
face seemed the most undisturbed in the world. There was a long silence,
by which M. Lecoq profited to confide to the portrait of the defunct the
reflections which burdened his brain.
"See here, my dear darling," said he, "this worthy person seems a shrewd
old customer, and I must watch his actions and gestures carefully. He
does not argue with the judge; he's got an idea that he doesn't dare to
tell, and we must find it out. At the very first he guessed me out,
despite these pretty blond locks. As long as he thought he could, by
misleading me, make me follow M. Domini's tack, he followed and aided me
showing me the way. Now that he sees me on the scent, he crosses his
arms and retires. He wants to leave me the honor of the discovery. Why?
He lives here--perhaps he is afraid of making enemies. No. He isn't a
man to fear much of anything. What then? He shrinks from his own
thoughts. He has found something so amazing, that he dares not explain
himself."
A sudden reflection changed the course of M. Lecoq's confidences.
"A thousand imps!" thought he. "Suppose I'm wrong! Suppose this old
fellow is not shrewd at all! Suppose he hasn't discovered anything, and
only obeys the inspirations of chance! I've seen stranger things. I've
known so many of these folks whose eyes seem so very mysterious, and
announce such wonders; after all, I found nothing, and was cheated. But
I intend to sound this old fellow well."
And, assuming his most idiotic manner, he said aloud:
"On reflection, Monsieur, little remains to be done. Two of the
principals are in custody, and when they make up their minds to
talk--they'll do it, sooner or later, if the judge is determined they
shall--we shall know all."
A bucket of ice-water falling on M. Plantat's head could not have
surprised him more, or more disagreeably, than this speech.
"What!" stammered he, with an air of frank amazement, "do you, a man of
experience, who--"
Delighted with the success of his ruse, Lecoq could not keep his
countenance, and Plantat, who perceived that he had been caught in the
snare, laughed heartily. Not a word, however, was exchanged between
these two men, both subtle in the science of life, and equally cunning
in its mysteries. They quite understood each other.
"My worthy old buck," said the detective to himself, "you've got
something in your sack; only it's so big, so monstrous, that you won't
exhibit it, not for a cannon-ball. You wish your hand forced, do you?
Ve-ry well!"
"He's sly," thought M. Plantat. "He knows that I've got an idea; he's
trying to get at it--and I believe he will."
M. Lecoq had restored his lozenge-box to his pocket, as he always did
when he went seriously to work. His amour-propre was enlisted; he played
a part--and he was a rare comedian.
"Now," cried he, "let's to horse. According to the mayor's account, the
instrument with which all these things were broken has been found."
"In the room in the second story," answered M. Plantat, "overlooking the
garden, we found a hatchet on the floor, near a piece of furniture which
had been assailed, but not broken open; I forbade anyone to touch it."
"And you did well. Is it a heavy hatchet?"
"It weighs about two pounds."
"Good. Let's see it."
They ascended to the room in question, and M. Lecoq, forgetting his part
of a haberdasher, and regardless of his clothes, went down flat on his
stomach, alternately scrutinizing the hatchet--which was a heavy,
terrible weapon--and the slippery and well-waxed oaken floor.
"I suppose," observed M. Plantat, "that the assassins brought this
hatchet up here and assailed this cupboard, for the sole purpose of
putting us off our scent, and to complicate the mystery. This weapon,
you see, was by no means necessary for breaking open the cupboard, which
I could smash with my fist. They gave one blow--only one--and quietly
put the hatchet down."
The detective got up and brushed himself.
"I think you are mistaken," said he. "This hatchet wasn't put on the
floor gently; it was thrown with a violence betraying either great
terror or great anger. Look here; do you see these three marks, near
each other, on the floor? When the assassin threw the hatchet, it first
fell on the edge--hence this sharp cut; then it fell over on one side;
and the flat, or hammer end left this mark here, under my finger.
Therefore, it was thrown with such violence that it turned over itself
and that its edge a second time cut in the floor, where you see it now."
"True," answered M. Plantat. The detective's conjectures doubtless
refuted his own theory, for he added, with a perplexed air:
"I don't understand anything about it."