his breast.
“What do you wish?” sternly asked M. Courtois. “By what right have you come in here?—Who are you?”
The man drew himself up.
“I am Monsieur Lecoq,” he replied, with a gracious smile. “Monsieur Lecoq of the detective force, sent by the prefect of police in reply to a telegram, for this affair.”
This declaration clearly surprised all present, even the judge of instruction.
In France, each profession has its special externals, as it were, insignia, which betray it at first view. Each profession has its conventional type, and when public opinion has adopted a type, it does not admit it possible that the type should be departed from. What is a doctor? A grave man, all in black, with a white cravat. A gentleman with a capacious stomach, adorned with heavy gold seals, can only be a banker. Everybody knows that the artist is a merry liver, with a peaked hat, a velvet vest, and enormous ruffles. By virtue of this rule, the detective of the prefecture ought to have an eye full of mystery, something suspicious about him, a negligence of dress, and imitation jewelry. The most obtuse shopkeeper is sure that he can scent a detective at twenty paces a big man with mustaches, and a shining felt hat, his throat imprisoned by a collar of hair, dressed in a black, threadbare surtout, carefully buttoned up on account of the entire absence of linen. Such is the type. But, according to this, M. Lecoq, as he entered the dining-room at Valfeuillu, had by no means the air of a detective. True, M. Lecoq can assume whatever air he pleases. His friends declare that he has a physiognomy peculiar to himself, which he resumes when he enters his own house, and which he retains by his own fireside, with his slippers on; but the fact is not well proved. What is certain, is that his mobile face lends itself to strange metamorphoses; that he moulds his features according to his will, as the sculptor moulds clay for modelling. He changes everything, even his look.
“So,” said the judge of instruction, “the prefect has sent you to me, in case certain investigations become necessary.”
“Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service.”
M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of that vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with bad pomade, encircled a pallid face. His big eyes seemed congealed within their red border, an open smile rested on his thick lips, which, in parting, discovered a range of long yellow teeth. His face, otherwise, expressed nothing in particular. It was a nearly equal mixture of timidity, self-sufficiency, and contentment. It was quite impossible to concede the least intelligence to the possessor of such a phiz. One involuntarily looked for a goitre. The retail haberdashers, who, having cheated for thirty years in their threads and needles, retire with large incomes, should have such heads as this. His apparel was as dull as his person. His coat resembled all coats, his trousers all trousers. A hair chain, the same color as his whiskers, was attached to a large silver watch, which bulged out his left waistcoat pocket. While speaking, he fumbled with a confection-box made of transparent horn, full of little square lozenges, and adorned by a portrait of a very homely, well-dressed woman—“the defunct,” no doubt. As the conversation proceeded, according as he was satisfied or disturbed, M. Lecoq munched a lozenge, or directed glances toward the portrait which were quite a poem in themselves.
Having examined the man a long time, the judge of instruction shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” said M. Domini, finally, “now that you are here, we will explain to you what has occurred.”
“Oh, that’s quite useless,” responded Lecoq, with a satisfied air, “perfectly useless, sir.”
“Nevertheless, it is necessary that you should know—”
“What? that which monsieur the judge knows?” interrupted the detective, “for that I already know. Let us agree there has been a murder, with theft as its motive; and start from that point. The countess’s body has been found—not so that of the count. What else? Bertaud, an acknowledged rogue, is arrested; he merits a little punishment, doubtless. Guespin came back drunk; ah, there are sad charges against this Guespin! His past is deplorable; it is not known where he passed the night, he refuses to answer, he brings no alibi—this is indeed grave!”
M. Plantat gazed at the detective with visible pleasure.
“Who has told you about these things?” asked M. Domini.
“Well—everybody has told me a little.”
“But where?”
“Here: I’ve already been here two hours, and even heard the mayor’s speech.”
And, satisfied with the effect he had produced, M. Lecoq munched a lozenge.
“You were not aware, then,” resumed the judge, “that I was waiting for you?”
“Pardon me,” said the detective; “I hope you will be kind enough to hear me. You see, it is indispensable to study the ground; one must look about, establish his batteries. I am anxious to catch the general rumor—public opinion, as they say, so as to distrust it.”
“All this,” answered M. Domini, severely, “does not justify your delay.”
M. Lecoq glanced tenderly at the portrait.
“Monsieur the judge,” said he, “has only to inquire at the prefecture, and he will learn that I know my profession. The great thing requisite, in order to make an effective search, is to remain unknown. The police are not popular. Now, if they knew who I was, and why I was here, I might go out, but nobody would tell me anything; I might ask questions—they’d serve me a hundred lies; they would distrust me, and hold their tongues.”
“Quite true—quite true,” murmured Plantat, coming to the support of the detective.
M. Lecoq went on:
“So that when I was told that I was going into the country, I put on my country face and clothes. I arrive here and everybody, on seeing me, says to himself, ’Here’s a curious bumpkin, but not a bad fellow.’ Then I slip about, listen, talk, make the rest talk! I ask this question and that, and am answered frankly; I inform myself, gather hints, no one troubles himself about me. These Orcival folks are positively charming; why, I’ve already made several friends, and am invited to dine this very evening.”
M. Domini did not like the police, and scarcely concealed it. He rather submitted to their co-operation than accepted it, solely because he could not do without them. While listening to M. Lecoq, he could not but approve of what he said; yet he looked at him with an eye by no means friendly.
“Since you know so much about the matter,” observed he, dryly, “we will proceed to examine the scene of the crime.”
“I am quite at Monsieur the judge’s orders,” returned the detective, laconically. As everyone was getting up, he took the opportunity to offer M. Plantat his lozenge-box.
“Monsieur perhaps uses them?”
Chapter VI
M. Lecoq was the first to reach the staircase, and the spots of blood at once caught his eye.
“Oh,” cried he, at each spot he saw, “oh, oh, the wretches!”
