Plantat’s face remained placid, but his eyes shone.
“Perhaps you are right,” said he, carelessly; “perhaps there is something underneath.” The detective looked at him; he didn’t stir. His face seemed the most undisturbed in the world. There was a long silence, by which M. Lecoq profited to confide to the portrait of the defunct the reflections which burdened his brain.
“See here, my dear darling,” said he, “this worthy person seems a shrewd old customer, and I must watch his actions and gestures carefully. He does not argue with the judge; he’s got an idea that he doesn’t dare to tell, and we must find it out. At the very first he guessed me out, despite these pretty blond locks. As long as he thought he could, by misleading me, make me follow M. Domini’s tack, he followed and aided me showing me the way. Now that he sees me on the scent, he crosses his arms and retires. He wants to leave me the honor of the discovery. Why? He lives here—perhaps he is afraid of making enemies. No. He isn’t a man to fear much of anything. What then? He shrinks from his own thoughts. He has found something so amazing, that he dares not explain himself.”
A sudden reflection changed the course of M. Lecoq’s confidences.
“A thousand imps!” thought he. “Suppose I’m wrong! Suppose this old fellow is not shrewd at all! Suppose he hasn’t discovered anything, and only obeys the inspirations of chance! I’ve seen stranger things. I’ve known so many of these folks whose eyes seem so very mysterious, and announce such wonders; after all, I found nothing, and was cheated. But I intend to sound this old fellow well.”
And, assuming his most idiotic manner, he said aloud:
“On reflection, Monsieur, little remains to be done. Two of the principals are in custody, and when they make up their minds to talk—they’ll do it, sooner or later, if the judge is determined they shall—we shall know all.”
A bucket of ice-water falling on M. Plantat’s head could not have surprised him more, or more disagreeably, than this speech.
“What!” stammered he, with an air of frank amazement, “do you, a man of experience, who—”
Delighted with the success of his ruse, Lecoq could not keep his countenance, and Plantat, who perceived that he had been caught in the snare, laughed heartily. Not a word, however, was exchanged between these two men, both subtle in the science of life, and equally cunning in its mysteries. They quite understood each other.
“My worthy old buck,” said the detective to himself, “you’ve got something in your sack; only it’s so big, so monstrous, that you won’t exhibit it, not for a cannon-ball. You wish your hand forced, do you? Ve-ry well!”
“He’s sly,” thought M. Plantat. “He knows that I’ve got an idea; he’s trying to get at it—and I believe he will.”
M. Lecoq had restored his lozenge-box to his pocket, as he always did when he went seriously to work. His amour-propre was enlisted; he played a part—and he was a rare comedian.
“Now,” cried he, “let’s to horse. According to the mayor’s account, the instrument with which all these things were broken has been found.”
“In the room in the second story,” answered M. Plantat, “overlooking the garden, we found a hatchet on the floor, near a piece of furniture which had been assailed, but not broken open; I forbade anyone to touch it.”
“And you did well. Is it a heavy hatchet?”
“It weighs about two pounds.”
“Good. Let’s see it.”
They ascended to the room in question, and M. Lecoq, forgetting his part of a haberdasher, and regardless of his clothes, went down flat on his stomach, alternately scrutinizing the hatchet—which was a heavy, terrible weapon—and the slippery and well-waxed oaken floor.
“I suppose,” observed M. Plantat, “that the assassins brought this hatchet up here and assailed this cupboard, for the sole purpose of putting us off our scent, and to complicate the mystery. This weapon, you see, was by no means necessary for breaking open the cupboard, which I could smash with my fist. They gave one blow —only one—and quietly put the hatchet down.”
The detective got up and brushed himself.
“I think you are mistaken,” said he. “This hatchet wasn’t put on the floor gently; it was thrown with a violence betraying either great terror or great anger. Look here; do you see these three marks, near each other, on the floor? When the assassin threw the hatchet, it first fell on the edge—hence this sharp cut; then it fell over on one side; and the flat, or hammer end left this mark here, under my finger. Therefore, it was thrown with such violence that it turned over itself and that its edge a second time cut in the floor, where you see it now.”
“True,” answered M. Plantat. The detective’s conjectures doubtless refuted his own theory, for he added, with a perplexed air:
“I don’t understand anything about it.”
M. Lecoq went on:
“Were the windows open this morning as they are now?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! The wretches heard some noise or other in the garden, and they went and looked out. What did they see? I can’t tell. But I do know that what they saw terrified them, that they threw down the hatchet furiously, and made off. Look at the position of these cuts—they are slanting of course—and you will see that the hatchet was thrown by a man who was standing, not by the cupboard, but close by the open window.”
Plantat in his turn knelt down, and looked long and carefully. The detective was right. He got up confused, and after meditating a moment, said:
“This perplexes me a little; however—”
He stopped, motionless, in a revery, with one of his hands on his forehead.
“All might yet be explained,” he muttered, mentally searching for a solution of the mystery, “and in that case the time indicated by the clock would be true.”
M. 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,
