"Now let us suppose that, under the influence of certain events that we
will examine presently, Monsieur de Tremorel had made up his mind to get
rid of his wife. The crime once resolved upon, it was clear that the
count must have reflected, and sought out the means of committing it
with impunity; he must have weighed the circumstances, and estimated the
perils of his act. Let us admit, also, that the events which led him to
this extremity were such that he feared to be disturbed, and that he
also feared that a search would be made for certain things, even should
his wife die a natural death."
"That is true," said M. Plantat, nodding his head.
"Monsieur de Tremorel, then, determined to kill his wife, brutally, with
a knife, with the idea of so arranging everything, as to make it
believed that he too had been assassinated; and he also decided to
endeavor to thrust suspicion on an innocent person, or at least, an
accomplice infinitely less guilty than he.
"He made up his mind in advance, in adopting this course, to disappear,
fly, conceal himself, change his personality; to suppress, in short,
Count Hector de Tremorel, and make for himself, under another name, a
new position and identity. These hypotheses, easily admitted, suffice to
explain the whole series of otherwise inconsistent circumstances. They
explain to us in the first place, how it was that on the very night of
the murder, there was a large fortune in ready money at Valfeuillu; and
this seems to me decisive. Why, when a man receives sums like this,
which he proposes to keep by him, he conceals the fact as carefully as
possible. Monsieur de Tremorel had not this common prudence. He shows
his bundles of bank-notes freely, handles them, parades them; the
servants see them, almost touch them. He wants everybody to know and
repeat that there is a large sum in the house, easy to take, carry off,
and conceal. And what time of all times, does he choose for this
display? Exactly the moment when he knows, and everyone in the
neighborhood knows, that he is going to pass the night at the chateau,
alone with Madame de Tremorel.
"For he is aware that all his servants are invited, on the evening of
July 8th to the wedding of the former cook. So well aware of it is he,
that he defrays the wedding expenses, and himself names the day. You
will perhaps say that it was by chance that this money was sent to
Valfeuillu on the very night of the crime. At the worst that might be
admitted. But believe me, there was no chance about it, and I will prove
it. We will go to-morrow to the count's banker, and will inquire whether
the count did not ask him, by letter or verbally, to send him these
funds precisely on July 8th. Well, if he says yes, if he shows us such a
letter, or if he declares that the money was called for in person, you
will confess, no doubt, that I have more than a probability in favor of
my theory."
Both his hearers bowed in token of assent.
"So far, then, there is no objection."
"Not the least," said M. Plantat.
"My conjectures have also the advantage of shedding light on Guespin's
position. Honestly, his appearance is against him, and justifies his
arrest. Was he an accomplice or entirely innocent? We certainly cannot
yet decide. But it is a fact that he has fallen into an admirably
well-laid trap. The count, in selecting him for his victim, took all
care that every doubt possible should weigh upon him. I would wager that
Monsieur de Tremorel, who knew this fellow's history, thought that his
antecedents would add probability to the suspicions against him, and
would weigh with a terrible weight in the scales of justice. Perhaps,
too, he said to himself that Guespin would be sure to prove his
innocence in the end, and he only wished to gain time to elude the first
search. It is impossible that we can be deceived. We know that the
countess died of the first blow, as if thunderstruck. She did not
struggle; therefore she could not have torn a piece of cloth off the
assassin's vest. If you admit Guespin's guilt, you admit that he was
idiot enough to put a piece of his vest in his victim's hand; you admit
that he was such a fool as to go and throw this torn and bloody vest
into the Seine, from a bridge, in a place where he might know search
would be made--and all this, without taking the common precaution of
attaching it to a stone to carry it to the bottom. That would be absurd.
"To me, then, this piece of cloth, this smeared vest, indicate at once
Guespin's innocence and the count's guilt."
"But," objected Dr. Gendron, "if Guespin is innocent, why don't he talk?
Why don't he prove an alibi? How was it he had his purse full of money?"
"Observe," resumed the detective, "that I don't say he is innocent; we
are still among the probabilities. Can't you suppose that the count,
perfidious enough to set a trap for his servant, was shrewd enough to
deprive him of every means of proving an alibi?"
"But you yourself deny the count's shrewdness."
"I beg your pardon; please hear me. The count's plan was excellent, and
shows a superior kind of perversity; the execution alone was defective.
This is because the plan was conceived and perfected in safety, while
when the crime had been committed, the murderer, distressed, frightened
at his danger, lost his coolness and only half executed his project. But
there are other suppositions. It might be asked whether, while Madame de
Tremorel was being murdered, Guespin might not have been committing some
other crime elsewhere."
This conjecture seemed so improbable to the doctor that he could not
avoid objecting to it. "Oh!" muttered he.
"Don't forget," replied Lecoq, "that the field of conjectures has no
bounds. Imagine whatever complication of events you may, I am ready to
maintain that such a complication has occurred or will present itself.
Lieuben, a German lunatic, bet that he would succeed in turning up a
pack of cards in the order stated in the written agreement. He turned
and turned ten hours per day for twenty years. He had repeated the
operation 4,246,028 times, when he succeeded."
M. Lecoq was about to proceed with another illustration, when M. Plantat
interrupted him by a gesture.
"I admit your hypotheses; I think they are more than probable--they are
true."
M. Lecoq, as he spoke, paced up and down between the window and the
book-shelves, stopping at emphatic words, like a general who dictates to
his aides the plan of the morrow's battle. To his auditors, he seemed a
new man, with serious features, an eye bright with intelligence, his
sentences clear and concise--the Lecoq, in short, which the magistrates
who have employed his talents, would recognize.
"Now," he resumed, "hear me. It is ten o'clock at night. No noise
without, the road deserted, the village lights extinguished, the chateau
servants away at Paris. The count and countess are alone at Valfeuillu.
"They have gone to their bedroom.
"The countess has seated herself at the table where tea has been served.
The count, as he talks with her, paces up and down the chamber.
"Madame de Tremorel has no ill presentiment; her husband, the past few
days, has been more amiable, more attentive than ever. She mistrusts
nothing, and so the count can approach her from behind, without her
thinking of turning her head.
"When she hears him coming up softly, she imagines that he is going to
surprise her with a kiss. He, meanwhile, armed with a long dagger,
stands beside his wife. He knows where to strike that the wound may be
mortal. He chooses the place at a glance; takes aim; strikes a terrible
blow--so terrible that the handle of the dagger imprints itself on both
sides of the wound. The countess falls without a sound, bruising her
forehead on the edge of the table, which is overturned. Is not the
position of the terrible wound below the left shoulder thus explained--a
wound almost vertical, its direction being from right to left?"
The doctor made a motion of assent.
"And who, besides a woman's lover or her husband is admitted to her
chamber, or can approach her when she is seated without her turning
round?"
"That's clear," muttered M. Plantat.
"The countess is now dead," pursued M. Lecoq. "The assassin's first
emotion is one of triumph. He is at last rid of her who was his wife,
whom he hated enough to murder her, and to change his happy, splendid,
envied existence for a frightful life, henceforth without country,
friend, or refuge, proscribed by all nations, tracked by all the police,
punishable by the laws of all the world! His second thought is of this
letter or paper, this object of small size which he knows to be in his
wife's keeping, which he has demanded a hundred times, which she would
not give up to him, and which he must have."
"Add," interrupted M. Plantat, "that this paper was one of the motives
of the crime."
"The count thinks he knows where it is. He imagines that he can put his
hand on it at once. He is mistaken. He looks into all the drawers and
bureaus used by his wife--and finds nothing. He searches every corner,
he lifts up the shelves, overturns everything in the chamber--nothing.
An idea strikes him. Is this letter under the mantel-shelf? By a turn of
the arm he lifts it--down the clock tumbles and stops. It is not yet
half-past ten."
"Yes," murmured the doctor, "the clock betrays that."
"The count finds nothing under the mantel-shelf except the dust, which
has retained traces of his fingers. Then he begins to be anxious. Where
can this paper be, for which he has risked his life? He grows angry. How
search the locked drawers? The keys are on the carpet--I found them
among the debris of the tea service--but he does not see them. He must
have some implement with which to break open everything. He goes
downstairs for a hatchet. The drunkenness of blood and vengeance is
dissipated on the staircase; his terrors begin. All the dark corners are
peopled, now, with those spectres which form the cortege of assassins;
he is frightened, and hurries on. He soon goes up again, armed with a
large hatchet--that found on the second story--and makes the pieces of
wood fly about him. He goes about like a maniac, rips up the furniture
at hazard; but he pursues a desperate search, the traces of which I have
followed, among the debris. Nothing, always nothing! Everything in the
room is topsy-turvy; he goes into his cabinet and continues the
destruction; the hatchet rises and falls without rest. He breaks his own
bureau, since he may find something concealed there of which he is
ignorant. This bureau belonged to the first husband--to Sauvresy. He
takes out all the books in the library, one by one, shakes them
furiously, and throws them about the floor. The infernal paper is
undiscoverable. His distress is now too great for him to pursue the
search with the least method. His wandering reason no longer guides him.
He staggers, without calculation, from one thing to another, fumbling a
dozen times in the same drawer, while he completely forgets others just
by him. Then he thinks that this paper may have been hid in the stuffing
of a chair. He seizes a sword, and to be certain, he slashes up the
drawing-room chairs and sofas and those in the other rooms."
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."