The Mystery of Orcival, Émile Gaboriau [fiction novels to read TXT] 📗

the lawn on all-fours, scrutinizing the smallest blades of grass, pulling away the thick tufts to see the earth better, and minutely observing the direction of the broken stems. This done, he said:

“My conclusions are confirmed. The countess was carried across here.”

“Are you sure of it?” asked Plantat.

There was no mistaking the old man’s hesitation this time; he was clearly undecided, and leaned on the other’s judgment for guidance.

“There can be no error, possibly.”

The detective smiled, as he added:

“Only, as two heads are better than one, I will ask you to listen to me, and then, you will tell me what you think.”

M. Lecoq had, in searching about, picked up a little flexible stick, and while he talked, he used it to point out this and that object, like the lecturer at the panorama.

“No,” said he, “Madame de Trémorel did not fly from her murderers. Had she been struck down here, she would have fallen violently; her weight, therefore, would have made the water spirt to some distance, as well as the mud; and we should certainly have found some splashes.”

“But don’t you think that, since morning, the sun⁠—”

“The sun would have absorbed the water; but the stain of dry mud would have remained. I have found nothing of the sort anywhere. You might object, that the water and mud would have spirted right and left; but just look at the tufts of these flags, lilies, and stems of cane⁠—you find a light dust on every one. Do you find the least trace of a drop of water? No. There was then no splash, therefore no violent fall; therefore the countess was not killed here; therefore her body was brought here, and carefully deposited where you found it.”

M. Plantat did not seem to be quite convinced yet.

“But there are the traces of a struggle in the sand,” said he.

His companion made a gesture of protest.

“Monsieur deigns to have his joke; those marks would not deceive a schoolboy.”

“It appears to me, however⁠—”

“There can be no mistake, Monsieur Plantat. Certain it is that the sand has been disturbed and thrown about. But all these trails that lay bare the earth which was covered by the sand, were made by the same foot. Perhaps you don’t believe it. They were made, too, with the end of the foot; that you may see for yourself.”

“Yes, I perceive it.”

“Very well, then; when there has been a struggle on ground like this, there are always two distinct kinds of traces⁠—those of the assailant and those of the victim. The assailant, throwing himself forward, necessarily supports himself on his toes, and imprints the fore part of his feet on the earth. The victim, on the contrary, falling back, and trying to avoid the assault, props himself on his heels, and therefore buries the heels in the soil. If the adversaries are equally strong, the number of imprints of the toes and the heels will be nearly equal, according to the chances of the struggle. But what do we find here?”

M. Plantat interrupted:

“Enough; the most incredulous would now be convinced.” After thinking a moment, he added:

“No, there is no longer any possible doubt of it.”

M. Lecoq thought that his argument deserved a reward, and treated himself to two lozenges at a mouthful.

“I haven’t done yet,” he resumed. “Granted, that the countess could not have been murdered here; let’s add that she was not carried hither, but dragged along. There are only two ways of dragging a body; by the shoulders, and in this case the feet, scraping along the earth, leave two parallel trails; or by the legs⁠—in which case the head, lying on the earth, leaves a single furrow, and that a wide one.”

Plantat nodded assent.

“When I examined the lawn,” pursued M. Lecoq, “I found the parallel trails of the feet, but yet the grass was crushed over a rather wide space. How was that? Because it was the body, not of a man, but of a woman, which was dragged across the lawn⁠—of a woman full-dressed, with heavy petticoats; that, in short, of the countess, and not of the count.”

M. Lecoq paused, in expectation of a question, or a remark.

But the old justice of the peace did not seem to be listening, and appeared to be plunged in the deepest meditation. Night was falling; a light fog hung like smoke over the Seine.

“We must go in,” said M. Plantat, abruptly, “and see how the doctor has got on with his autopsy.”

They slowly approached the house. The judge of instruction awaited them on the steps. He appeared to have a satisfied air.

“I am going to leave you in charge,” said he to M. Plantat, “for if I am to see the procureur, I must go at once. When you sent for him this morning, he was absent.”

M. Plantat bowed.

“I shall be much obliged if you will watch this affair to the end. The doctor will have finished in a few minutes, he says, and will report tomorrow morning. I count on your cooperation to put seals wherever they are necessary, and to select the guard over the château. I shall send an architect to draw up an exact plan of the house and garden. Well, sir,” asked M. Domini, turning to the detective, “have you made any fresh discoveries?”

“I have found some important facts; but I cannot speak decisively till I have seen everything by daylight. If you will permit me, I will postpone making my report till tomorrow afternoon. I think I may say, however, that complicated as this affair is⁠—”

M. Domini did not let him finish.

“I see nothing complicated in the affair at all; everything strikes me as very simple.”

“But,” objected M. Lecoq, “I thought⁠—”

“I sincerely regret,” continued the judge, “that you were so hastily called, when there was really no serious reason for it. The evidences against the arrested men are very conclusive.”

Plantat and Lecoq exchanged a long look, betraying their great surprise.

“What!” exclaimed the former, “have, you discovered any new indications?”

“More than indications, I believe,” responded M. Domini. “Old Bertaud, whom I have again questioned, begins