"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."