as would throw all the detectives in the universe off the scent. But I must forget Monsieur Lecoq in order to become Hector de Tremorel. How would a man reason who was base enough to rob his friend of his wife, and then see her poison her husband before his very eyes? We already know that Tremorel hesitated a good while before deciding to commit this crime. The logic of events, which fools call fatality, urged him on. It is certain that he looked upon the murder in every point of view, studied its results, and tried to find means to escape from justice. All his acts were determined on long beforehand, and neither immediate necessity nor unforeseen circumstances disturbed his mind. The moment he had decided on the crime, he said to himself: ’Grant that Bertha has been murdered; thanks to my precautions, they think that I have been killed too; Laurence, with whom I elope, writes a letter in which she announces her suicide; I have money, what must I do?’ The problem, it seems to me, is fairly put in this way.”
“Perfectly so,” approved M. Plantat.
“Naturally, Tremorel would choose from among all the methods of flight of which he had ever heard, or which he could imagine, that which seemed to him the surest and most prompt. Did he meditate leaving the country? That is more than probable. Only, as he was not quite out of his senses, he saw that it was most difficult, in a foreign country, to put justice off the track. If a man flies from France to escape punishment, he acts absurdly. Fancy a man and woman wandering about a country of whose language they are ignorant; they attract attention at once, are observed, talked about, followed. They do not make a purchase which is not remarked; they cannot make any movement without exciting curiosity. The further they go the greater their danger. If they choose to cross the ocean and go to free America, they must go aboard a vessel; and the moment they do that they may be considered as good as lost. You might bet twenty to one they would find, on landing on the other side, a detective on the pier armed with a warrant to arrest them. I would engage to find a Frenchman in eight days, even in London, unless he spoke pure enough English to pass for a citizen of the United Kingdom. Such were Tremorel’s reflections. He recollected a thousand futile attempts, a hundred surprising adventures, narrated by the papers; and it is certain that he gave up the idea of going abroad.”
“It’s clear,” cried M. Plantat, “perfectly plain and precise. We must look for the fugitives in France.”
“Yes,” replied M. Lecoq. “Now let’s find out where and how people can hide themselves in France. Would it be in the provinces? Evidently not. In Bordeaux, one of our largest cities, people stare at a man who is not a Bordelais. The shopkeepers on the quays say to their neighbors: ‘Eh! do you know that man?’ There are two cities, however, where a man may pass unnoticed—Marseilles and Lyons; but both of these are distant, and to reach them a long journey must be risked—and nothing is so dangerous as the railway since the telegraph was established. One can fly quickly, it’s true; but on entering a railway carriage a man shuts himself in, and until he gets out of it he remains under the thumb of the police. Tremorel knows all this as well as we do. We will put all the large towns, including Lyons and Marseilles, out of the question.”
“In short, it’s impossible to hide in the provinces.”
“Excuse me—there is one means; that is, simply to buy a modest little place at a distance from towns and railways, and to go and reside on it under a false name. But this excellent project is quite above Tremorel’s capacity, and requires preparatory steps which he could not risk, watched as he was by his wife. The field of investigation is thus much narrowed. Putting aside foreign parts, the provinces, the cities, the country, Paris remains. It is in Paris that we must look for Tremorel.”
M. Lecoq spoke with the certainty and positiveness of a mathematical professor; the old justice of the peace listened, as do the professor’s scholars. But he was already accustomed to the detective’s surprising clearness, and was no longer astonished. During the four-and-twenty hours that he had been witnessing M. Lecoq’s calculations and gropings, he had seized the process and almost appropriated it to himself. He found this method of reasoning very simple, and could now explain to himself certain exploits of the police which had hitherto seemed to him miraculous. But M. Lecoq’s “narrow field” of observation appeared still immense.
“Paris is a large place,” observed the old justice.
M. Lecoq smiled loftily.
“Perhaps so; but it is mine. All Paris is under the eye of the police, just as an ant is under that of the naturalist with his microscope. How is it, you may ask, that Paris still holds so many professional rogues? Ah, that is because we are hampered by legal forms. The law compels us to use only polite weapons against those to whom all weapons are serviceable. The courts tie our hands. The rogues are clever, but be sure that our cleverness is much greater than theirs.”
“But,” interrupted M. Plantat, “Tremorel is now outside the law; we have the warrant.”
“What matters it? Does the warrant give me the right to search any house in which I may have reason to suppose he is hiding himself? No. If I should go to the house of one of Hector’s old friends he would kick me out of doors. You must know that in France the police have to contend not only with the rogues, but also with the honest people.”
M. Lecoq always waxed warm on this subject; he felt a strong resentment against the injustice practised on his profession. Fortunately, at the moment when he was most excited, the black ball suddenly caught his eye.
“The devil!” exclaimed he, “I was forgetting Hector.”
M. Plantat, though listening patiently to his companion’s indignant utterances, could not help thinking of the murderer.
“You said that we must look for Tremorel in Paris,” he remarked.
“And I said truly,” responded M. Lecoq in a calmer tone. “I have come to the conclusion that here, perhaps within two streets of us, perhaps in the next house, the fugitives are hid. But let’s go on with our calculation of probabilities. Hector knows Paris too well to hope to conceal himself even for a week in a hotel or lodging-house; he knows these are too sharply watched by the police. He had plenty of time before him, and so arranged to hire apartments in some convenient house.”
“He came to Paris three or four times some weeks ago.”
“Then there’s no longer any doubt about it. He hired some apartments under a false name, paid in advance, and to-day he is comfortably ensconced in his new residence.”
M. Plantat seemed to feel extremely distressed at this.
“I know it only too well, Monsieur Lecoq,” said he, sadly. “You must be right. But is not the wretch thus securely hidden from us? Must we wait till some accident reveals him to us? Can you search one by one all the houses in Paris?”
The detective’s nose wriggled under his gold spectacles, and the justice of the peace, who observed it, and took it for a good sign, felt all his hopes reviving in him.
“I’ve cudgelled my brain in vain—” he began.
“Pardon me,” interrupted M. Lecoq. “Having hired apartments, Tremorel naturally set about furnishing them.”
“Evidently.”
“Of course he would furnish them sumptuously, both because he is fond of luxury and has plenty of money, and because he couldn’t carry a young girl from a luxurious home to a garret. I’d wager that they have as fine a drawing-room as that at Valfeuillu.”
“Alas! How can that help us?”
“Peste! It helps
