LITMIR.BIZ

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Lecoq did not think of questioning his companion. He knew that he would not answer, for pride’s sake.

      “This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too,” said he. “I thought that these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can’t be so. I see they were surprised and interrupted.”

      Plantat was all ears.

      “True,” pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, “we ought to divide these indications into two classes. There are the traces left on purpose to mislead us—the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are the real traces, undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts. But here I hesitate. Is the trace of the hatchet true or false, good or bad? I thought myself sure of the character of these assassins: but now—” He paused; the wrinkles on his face, the contraction of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.

      “But now?” asked M. Plantat.

      M. Lecoq, at this question, seemed like a man just roused from sleep.

      “I beg your pardon,” said he. “I forgot myself. I’ve a bad habit of reflecting aloud. That’s why I almost always insist on working alone. My uncertainty, hesitation, the vacillation of my suspicions, lose me the credit of being an astute detective—of being an agent for whom there’s no such thing as a mystery.”

      Worthy M. Plantat gave the detective an indulgent smile.

      “I don’t usually open my mouth,” pursued M. Lecoq, “until my mind is satisfied; then I speak in a peremptory tone, and say—this is thus, or this is so. But to-day I am acting without too much restraint, in the company of a man who knows that a problem such as this seems to me to be, is not solved at the first attempt. So I permit my gropings to be seen without shame. You cannot always reach the truth at a bound, but by a series of diverse calculations, by deductions and inductions. Well, just now my logic is at fault.”

      “How so?”

      “Oh, it’s very simple. I thought I understood the rascals, and knew them by heart; and yet I have only recognized imaginary adversaries. Are they fools, or are they mighty sly? That’s what I ask myself. The tricks played with the bed and clock had, I supposed, given me the measure and extent of their intelligence and invention. Making deductions from the known to the unknown, I arrived, by a series of very simple consequences, at the point of foreseeing all that they could have imagined, to throw us off the scent. My point of departure admitted, I had only, in order to reach the truth, to take the contrary of that which appearances indicated. I said to myself:

      “A hatchet has been found in the second story; therefore the assassins carried it there, and designedly forgot it.

      “They left five glasses on the dining-room table; therefore they were more or less than five, but they were not five.

      “There were the remains of a supper on the table; therefore they neither drank nor ate.

      “The countess’s body was on the river-bank; therefore it was placed there deliberately. A piece of cloth was found in the victim’s hand; therefore it was put there by the murderers themselves.

      “Madame de Tremorel’s body is disfigured by many dagger-strokes, and horribly mutilated; therefore she was killed by a single blow—”

      “Bravo, yes, bravo,” cried M. Plantat, visibly charmed.

      “Eh! no, not bravo yet,” returned M. Lecoq. “For here my thread is broken; I have reached a gap. If my deductions were sound, this hatchet would have been very carefully placed on the floor.”

      “Once more, bravo,” added the other, “for this does not at all affect our general theory. It is clear, nay certain, that the assassins intended to act as you say. An unlooked-for event interrupted them.”

      “Perhaps; perhaps that’s true. But I see something else—”

      “What?”

      “Nothing—at least, for the moment. Before all, I must see the dining-room and the garden.”

      They descended at once, and Plantat pointed out the glasses and bottles, which he had put one side. The detective took the glasses, one after another, held them level with his eye, toward the light, and scrutinized the moist places left on them.

      “No one has drank from these glasses,” said he, firmly.

      “What, from neither one of them?”

      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:

      “Francois!”

      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 chateau, 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”—Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois 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

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