he simply went to an upholsterer.”
“Some fashionable upholsterer—”
“No, he would have risked being recognized. It is clear that he assumed a false name, the same in which he had hired his rooms. He chose some shrewd and humble upholsterer, ordered his goods, made sure that they would be delivered on a certain day, and paid for them.”
M. Plantat could not repress a joyful exclamation; he began to see M. Lecoq’s drift.
“This merchant,” pursued the latter, “must have retained his rich customer in his memory, this customer who did not beat him down, and paid cash. If he saw him again, he would recognize him.”
“What an idea!” cried M. Plantat, delighted. “Let’s get photographs and portraits of Tremorel as quick as we can—let’s send a man to Orcival for them.”
M. Lecoq smiled shrewdly and proceeded:
“Keep yourself easy; I have done what was necessary. I slipped three of the count’s cartes-de-visite in my pocket yesterday during the inquest. This morning I took down, out of the directory, the names of all the upholsterers in Paris, and made three lists of them. At this moment three of my men, each with a list and a photograph, are going from upholsterer to upholsterer showing them the picture and asking them if they recognize it as the portrait of one of their customers. If one of them answers ‘yes,’ we’ve got our man.”
“And we will get him!” cried the old man, pale with emotion.
“Not yet; don’t shout victory too soon. It is possible that Hector was prudent enough not to go to the upholsterer’s himself. In this case we are beaten in that direction. But no, he was not so sly as that—”
M. Lecoq checked himself. Janouille, for the third time, opened the door, and said, in a deep bass voice:
“Breakfast is ready.”
Janouille was a remarkable cook; M. Plantat had ample experience of the fact when he began upon her dishes. But he was not hungry, and could not force himself to eat; he could not think of anything but a plan which he had to propose to his host, and he had that oppressive feeling which is experienced when one is about to do something which has been decided on with hesitation and regret. The detective, who, like all men of great activity, was a great eater, vainly essayed to entertain his guest, and filled his glass with the choicest Chateau Margaux; the old man sat silent and sad, and only responded by monosyllables. He tried to speak out and to struggle against the hesitation he felt. He did not think, when he came, that he should have this reluctance; he had said to himself that he would go in and explain himself. Did he fear to be ridiculed? No. His passion was above the fear of sarcasm or irony. And what did he risk? Nothing. Had not M. Lecoq already divined the secret thoughts he dared not impart to him, and read his heart from the first? He was reflecting thus when the door-bell rang. Janouille went to the door, and speedily returned with the announcement that Goulard begged to speak with M. Lecoq, and asked if she should admit him.
“Certainly.”
The chains clanked and the locks scraped, and presently Goulard made his appearance. He had donned his best clothes, with spotless linen, and a very high collar. He was respectful, and stood as stiffly as a well-drilled grenadier before his sergeant.
“What the deuce brought you here?” said M. Lecoq, sternly. “And who dared to give you my address?”
“Monsieur,” said Goulard, visibly intimidated by his reception, “please excuse me; I was sent by Doctor Gendron with this letter for Monsieur Plantat.”
“Oh,” cried M. Plantat, “I asked the doctor, last evening, to let me know the result of the autopsy, and not knowing where I should put up, took the liberty of giving your address.”
M. Lecoq took the letter and handed it to his guest. “Read it, read it,” said the latter. “There is nothing in it to conceal.”
“All right; but come into the other room. Janouille, give this man some breakfast. Make yourself at home, Goulard, and empty a bottle to my health.”
When the door of the other room was closed, M. Lecoq broke the seal of the letter, and read:
“My dear Plantat:
“You asked me for a word, so I scratch off a line or two which I shall send to our sorcerer’s—”
“Oh, ho,” cried M. Lecoq. “Monsieur Gendron is too good, too flattering, really!”
No matter, the compliment touched his heart. He resumed the letter:
“At three this morning we exhumed poor Sauvresy’s body. I certainly deplore the frightful circumstances of this worthy man’s death as much as anyone; but on the other hand, I cannot help rejoicing at this excellent opportunity to test the efficacy of my sensitive paper—”
“Confound these men of science,” cried the indignant Plantat. “They are all alike!”
“Why so? I can very well comprehend the doctor’s involuntary sensations. Am I not ravished when I encounter a fine crime?”
And without waiting for his guest’s reply, he continued reading the letter:
“The experiments promised to be all the more conclusive as aconitine is one of those drugs which conceal themselves most obstinately from analysis. I proceed thus: After heating the suspected substances in twice their weight of alcohol, I drop the liquid gently into a vase with edges a little elevated, at the bottom of which is a piece of paper on which I have placed my tests. If my paper retains its color, there is no poison; if it changes, the poison is there. In this case my paper was of a light yellow color, and if we were not mistaken, it ought either to become covered with brown spots, or completely brown. I explained this experiment beforehand to the judge of instruction and the experts who were assisting me. Ah, my friend, what a success I had! When the first drops of alcohol fell, the paper at once became a dark brown; your suspicions are thus proved to be quite correct. The substances which I submitted to the test were liberally saturated with aconitine. I never obtained more decisive results in my laboratory. I expect that my conclusions will be disputed in court; but I have means of verifying them, so that I shall surely confound all the chemists who oppose me. I think, my dear friend, that you will not be indifferent to the satisfaction I feel—”
M. Plantat lost patience.
“This is unheard-of!” cried he. “Incredible! Would you say, now, that this poison which he found in Sauvresy’s body was stolen from his own laboratory? Why, that body is nothing more to him than ‘suspected matter!’ And he already imagines himself discussing the merits of his sensitive paper in court!”
“He has reason to look for antagonists in court.”
“And meanwhile he makes his experiments, and analyzes with the coolest blood in the world; he continues his abominable cooking, boiling and filtering, and preparing his arguments—!”
M. Lecoq did not share in his friend’s indignation; he was not sorry at the prospect of a bitter struggle in court, and he imagined a great scientific duel, like that between Orfila and Raspail, the provincial and Parisian chemists.
“If Tremorel has the face to deny his part in Sauvresy’s murder,” said he, “we shall have a superb trial of it.”
This
