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

of little consequence, it seems to me,” said he.

“I beg you to excuse me I don’t agree with you,” returned M. Lecoq. “This matter may be a very grave one. What is the most serious evidence against Guespin? The money found in his pocket. Let us suppose for a moment that night before last, at ten o’clock, he changed a one-thousand-franc note in Paris. Could the obtaining of that note have been the motive of the crime at Valfeuillu? No, for up to that hour the crime had not been committed. Where could it have come from? That is no concern of mine, at present. But if my theory is correct, justice will be forced to agree that the several hundred francs found in Guespin’s possession can and must be the change for the note.”

“That is only a theory,” urged M. Domini in an irritated tone.

“That is true; but one which may turn out a certainty. It remains for me to ask this man how Guespin carried away the articles which he bought? Did he simply slip them into his pocket, or did he have them done up in a bundle, and if so, how?”

The detective spoke in a sharp, hard, freezing tone, with a bitter raillery in it, frightening his Corbeil colleague out of his assurance.

“I don’t know,” stammered the latter. “They didn’t tell me⁠—I thought⁠—”

M. Lecoq raised his hands as if to call the heavens to witness: in his heart, he was charmed with this fine occasion to revenge himself for M. Domini’s disdain. He could not, dared not say anything to the judge; but he had the right to banter the agent and visit his wrath upon him.

“Ah so, my lad,” said he, “what did you go to Paris for? To show Guespin’s picture and detail the crime to the people at Vulcan’s Forges? They ought to be very grateful to you; but Madame Petit, Monsieur Plantat’s housekeeper, would have done as much.”

At this stroke the man began to get angry; he frowned, and in his bluffest tone, began:

“Look here now, you⁠—”

“Ta, ta, ta,” interrupted M. Lecoq. “Let me alone, and know who is talking to you. I am Monsieur Lecoq.”

The effect of the famous detective’s name on his antagonist was magical. He naturally laid down his arms and surrendered, straightway becoming respectful and obsequious. It almost flattered him to be roughly handled by such a celebrity. He muttered, in an abashed and admiring tone:

“What, is it possible? You, Monsieur Lecoq!”

“Yes, it is I, young man; but console yourself; I bear no grudge against you. You don’t know your trade, but you have done me a service and you have brought us a convincing proof of Guespin’s innocence.”

M. Domini looked on at this scene with secret chagrin. His recruit went over to the enemy, yielding without a struggle to a confessed superiority. M. Lecoq’s presumption, in speaking of a prisoner’s innocence whose guilt seemed to the judge indisputable, exasperated him.

“And what is this tremendous proof, if you please?” asked he.

“It is simple and striking,” answered M. Lecoq, putting on his most frivolous air as his conclusions narrowed the field of probabilities.

“You doubtless recollect that when we were at Valfeuillu we found the hands of the clock in the bedroom stopped at twenty minutes past three. Distrusting foul play, I put the striking apparatus in motion⁠—do you recall it? What happened? The clock struck eleven. That convinced us that the crime was committed before that hour. But don’t you see that if Guespin was at the Vulcan’s Forges at ten he could not have got back to Valfeuillu before midnight? Therefore it was not⁠—he who did the deed.”

The detective, as he came to this conclusion, pulled out the inevitable box and helped himself to a lozenge, at the same time bestowing upon the judge a smile which said:

“Get out of that, if you can.”

The judge’s whole theory tumbled to pieces if M. Lecoq’s deductions were right; but he could not admit that he had been so much deceived; he could not renounce an opinion formed by deliberate reflection.

“I don’t pretend that Guespin is the only criminal,” said he. “He could only have been an accomplice; and that he was.”

“An accomplice? No, Judge, he was a victim. Ah, Trémorel is a great rascal! Don’t you see now why he put forward the hands? At first I didn’t perceive the object of advancing the time five hours; now it is clear. In order to implicate Guespin the crime must appear to have been committed after midnight, and⁠—”

He suddenly checked himself and stopped with open mouth and fixed eyes as a new idea crossed his mind. The judge, who was bending over his papers trying to find something to sustain his position, did not perceive this.

“But then,” said the latter, “how do you explain Guespin’s refusal to speak and to give an account of where he spent the night?”

M. Lecoq had now recovered from his emotion, and Dr. Gendron and M. Plantat, who were watching him with the deepest attention, saw a triumphant light in his eyes. Doubtless he had just found a solution of the problem which had been put to him.

“I understand,” replied he, “and can explain Guespin’s obstinate silence. I should be perfectly amazed if he decided to speak just now.”

M. Domini misconstrued the meaning of this; he thought he saw in it a covert intention to banter him.

“He has had a night to reflect upon it,” he answered. “Is not twelve hours enough to mature a system of defence?”

The detective shook his head doubtfully.

“It is certain that he does not need it,” said he. “Our prisoner doesn’t trouble himself about a system of defence, that I’ll swear to.”

“He keeps quiet, because he hasn’t been able to get up a plausible story.”

“No, no; believe me, he isn’t trying to get up one. In my opinion, Guespin is a victim; that is, I suspect Trémorel of having set an infamous trap for him, into which he has fallen, and in which he sees himself so completely caught that he thinks it useless