The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Graeme Davis

  “I think so, too,” said M. Plantat.

  “The true criminal, Count Hector,” resumed the detective, “lost his presence of mind at the last moment, and thus lost all the advantages which his previous caution had gained. Don’t let us forget that he is an able man, perfidious enough to mature the most infamous stratagems, and unscrupulous enough to execute them. He knows that justice must have its victims, one for every crime; he does not forget that the police, as long as it has not the criminal, is always on the search with eye and ear open; and he has thrown us Guespin as a huntsman, closely pressed, throws his glove to the bear that is close upon him. Perhaps he thought that the innocent man would not be in danger of his life; at all events he hoped to gain time by this ruse; while the bear is smelling and turning over the glove, the huntsman gains ground, escapes and reaches his place of refuge; that was what Tremorel proposed to do.”

  The Corbeil policeman was now undoubtedly Lecoq’s most enthusiastic listener. Goulard literally drank in his chief’s words. He had never heard any of his colleagues express themselves with such fervor and authority; he had had no idea of such eloquence, and he stood erect, as if some of the admiration which he saw in all the faces were reflected back on him. He grew in his own esteem as he thought that he was a soldier in an army commanded by such generals. He had no longer any opinion excepting that of his superior. It was not so easy to persuade, subjugate, and convince the judge.

  “But,” objected the latter, “you saw Guespin’s countenance?”

  “Ah, what matters the countenance—what does that prove? Don’t we know if you and I were arrested to-morrow on a terrible charge, what our bearing would be?”

  M. Domini gave a significant start; this hypothesis scarcely pleased him.

  “And yet you and I are familiar with the machinery of justice. When I arrested Lanscot, the poor servant in the Rue Marignan, his first words were: ‘Come on, my account is good.’ The morning that Papa Tabaret and I took the Viscount de Commarin as he was getting out of bed, on the accusation of having murdered the widow Lerouge, he cried: ‘I am lost.’ Yet neither of them was guilty; but both of them, the viscount and the valet, equal before the terror of a possible mistake of justice, and running over in their thoughts the charges which would be brought against them, had a moment of overwhelming discouragement.”

  “But such discouragement does not last two days,” said M. Domini.

  M. Lecoq did not answer this; he went on, growing more animated as he proceeded.

  “You and I have seen enough prisoners to know how deceitful appearances are, and how little they are to be trusted. It would be foolish to base a theory upon a prisoner’s bearing. He who talked about ‘the cry of innocence’ was an idiot, just as the man was who prated about the ‘pale stupor’ of guilt. Neither crime nor virtue have, unhappily, any especial countenance. The Simon girl, who was accused of having killed her father, absolutely refused to answer any questions for twenty-two days; on the twenty-third, the murderer was caught. As to the Sylvain affair—”

  M. Domini rapped lightly on his desk to check the detective. As a man, the judge held too obstinately to his opinions; as a magistrate he was equally obstinate, but was at the same time ready to make any sacrifice of his self-esteem if the voice of duty prompted it. M. Lecoq’s arguments had not shaken his convictions, but they imposed on him the duty of informing himself at once, and to either conquer the detective or avow himself conquered.

  “You seem to be pleading,” said he to M. Lecoq. “There is no need of that here. We are not counsel and judge; the same honorable intentions animate us both. Each, in his sphere, is searching after the truth. You think you see it shining where I only discern clouds; and you may be mistaken as well as I.”

  Then by an act of heroism, he condescended to add:

  “What do you think I ought to do?”

  The judge was at least rewarded for the effort he made by approving glances from M. Plantat and the doctor. But M. Lecoq did not hasten to respond; he had many weighty reasons to advance; that, he saw, was not what was necessary. He ought to present the facts, there and at once, and produce one of those proofs which can be touched with the finger. How should he do it? His active mind searched eagerly for such a proof.

  “Well?” insisted M. Domini.

  “Ah,” cried the detective. “Why can’t I ask Guespin two or three questions?”

  The judge frowned; the suggestion seemed to him rather presumptuous. It is formally laid down that the questioning of the accused should be done in secret, and by the judge alone, aided by his clerk. On the other hand it is decided, that after he has once been interrogated he may be confronted with witnesses. There are, besides, exceptions in favor of the members of the police force. M. Domini reflected whether there were any precedents to apply to the case.

  “I don’t know,” he answered at last, “to what point the law permits me to consent to what you ask. However, as I am convinced the interests of truth outweigh all rules, I shall take it on myself to let you question Guespin.”

  He rang; a bailiff appeared.

  “Has Guespin been carried back to prison?”

  “Not yet, Monsieur.”

  “So much the better; have him brought in here.”

  M. Lecoq was beside himself with joy; he had not hoped to achieve such a victory over one so determined as M. Domini.

  “He will speak now,” said he, so full of confidence that his eyes shone, and he forgot the portrait of the dear defunct, “for I have three means of unloosening his tongue, one of which is sure to succeed. But before he comes I should like to know one thing. Do you know whether Tremorel saw Jenny after Sauvresy’s death?”

  “Jenny?” asked M. Plantat, a little surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly he did.”

  “Several times?”

  “Pretty often. After the scene at the Belle Image¶ the poor girl plunged into terrible dissipation. Whether she was smitten with remorse, or understood that it was her conduct which had killed Sauvresy, or suspected the crime, I don’t know. She began, however, to drink furiously, falling lower and lower every week—”

  “And the count really consented to see her again?”

  “He was forced to do so; she tormented him, and he was afraid of her. When she had spent all her money she sent to him for more, and he gave it. Once he refused; and that very evening she went to him the worse for wine, and he had the greatest difficulty in the world to send her away again. In short, she knew what his relations with Madame Sauvresy had been, and she threatened him; it was a regular black-mailing operation. He told me all about the trouble she gave him, and added that he would not be able to get rid of her without shutting her up, which he could not bring himself to do.”

  “How long ago was their last interview?”

  “Why,” answered the doctor, “not three weeks ago, when I had a consultation at Melun, I saw the count and this demoiselle at a hotel window; when he saw me he suddenly drew back.”

  “Then,” said the detective, “there is no longer any doubt—”

  He stopped. Guespin came in between two gendarmes.

  The unhappy gardener had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours. His eyes were haggard, his dry lips were bordered with foam.

  “Let us see,” said the judge. “Have you changed your mind about speaking?”

  The prisoner did not answer.

  “Have you decided to tell us about yourself?”

  Guespin’s rage made him tremble from head to foot, and his eyes became fiery.

  “Speak!” said he hoarsely. “Why should I?”

  He added with the gesture of a desperate man who abandons himself, renounces all struggling and all hope:

  “What have I done to you, my God, that you torture me this way? What do you want me to say? That I did this crime—is that what you want? Well, then—yes—it was I. Now you are satisfied. Now cut my head off, and do it quick—for I don’t want to suffer any longer.�
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  A mournful silence welcomed Guespin’s declaration. What, he confessed it!

  M. Domini had at least the good taste not to exult; he kept still, and yet this avowal surprised him beyond all expression.

  M. Lecoq alone, although surprised, was not absolutely put out of countenance. He approached Guespin and tapping him on the shoulder, said in a paternal tone:

  “Come, comrade, what you are telling us is absurd. Do you think the judge has any secret grudge against you? No, eh? Do you suppose I am interested to have you guillotined? Not at all. A crime has been committed, and we are trying to find the assassin. If you are innocent, help us to find the man who isn’t: What were you doing from Wednesday evening till Thursday morning?”

  But Guespin persisted in his ferocious and stupid obstinacy.

  “I’ve said what I have to say,” said he.

  M. Lecoq changed his tone to one of severity, stepping back to watch the effect he was about to produce upon Guespin.

  “You haven’t any right to hold your tongue. And even if you do, you fool, the police know everything. Your master sent you on an errand, didn’t he, on Wednesday night; what did he give you? A one-thousand-franc note?”

  The prisoner looked at M. Lecoq in speechless amazement.

  “No,” he stammered. “It was a five-hundred-franc note.”

  The detective, like all great artists in a critical scene, was really moved. His surprising genius for investigation had just inspired him with a bold stroke, which, if it succeeded, would assure him the victory.

  “Now,” said he, “tell me the woman’s name.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You are only a fool then. She is short, isn’t she, quite pretty, brown and pale, with very large eyes?”

  “You know her, then?” said Guespin, in a voice trembling with emotion.

  “Yes, comrade, and if you want to know her name, to put in your prayers, she is called—Jenny.”

  Men who are really able in some specialty, whatever it may be, never uselessly abuse their superiority; their satisfaction at seeing it recognized is sufficient reward. M. Lecoq softly enjoyed his triumph, while his hearers wondered at his perspicacity. A rapid chain of reasoning had shown him not only Tremorel’s thoughts, but also the means he had employed to accomplish his purpose.

  Guespin’s astonishment soon changed to anger. He asked himself how this man could have been informed of things which he had every reason to believe were secret. Lecoq continued:

  “Since I have told you the woman’s name, tell me now, how and why the count gave you a five-hundred-franc note.”

  “It was just as I was going out. The count had no change, and did not want to send me to Orcival for it. I was to bring back the rest.”

  “And why didn’t you rejoin your companions at the wedding in the Batignolles?”#

  No answer.

  “What was the errand which you were to do for the count?”

  Guespin hesitated. His eyes wandered from one to another of those present, and he seemed to discover an ironical expression on all the faces. It occurred to him that they were making sport of him, and had set a snare into which he had fallen. A great despair took possession of him.

  “Ah,” cried he, addressing M. Lecoq, “you have deceived me. You have been lying so as to find out the truth. I have been such a fool as to answer you, and you are going to turn it all against me.”

  “What? Are you going to talk nonsense again?”

  “No, but I see just how it is, and you won’t catch me again! Now I’d rather die than say a word.”

  The detective tried to reassure him; but he added:

  “Besides, I’m as sly as you; I’ve told you nothing but lies.”

  This sudden whim surprised no one. Some prisoners entrench themselves behind a system of defense, and nothing can divert them from it; others vary with each new question, denying what they have just affirmed, and constantly inventing some new absurdity which anon they reject again. M. Lecoq tried in vain to draw Guespin from his silence; M. Domini made the same attempt, and also failed; to all questions he only answered, “I don’t know.”

  At last the detective waxed impatient.

  “See here,” said he to Guespin, “I took you for a young man of sense, and you are only an ass. Do you imagine that we don’t know anything? Listen: On the night of Madame Denis’s wedding, you were getting ready to go off with your comrades, and had just borrowed twenty francs from the valet, when the count called you. He made you promise absolute secrecy (a promise which, to do you justice, you kept); he told you to leave the other servants at the station and go to Vulcan’s Forges, where you were to buy for him a hammer, a file, a chisel, and a dirk; these you were to carry to a certain woman. Then he gave you this famous five-hundred-franc note, telling you to bring him back the change when you returned next day. Isn’t that so?”

  An affirmative response glistened in the prisoner’s eyes; still, he answered, “I don’t recollect it.”

  “Now,” pursued M. Lecoq, “I’m going to tell you what happened afterwards. You drank something and got tipsy, and in short spent a part of the change of the note. That explains your fright when you were seized yesterday morning, before anybody said a word to you. You thought you were being arrested for spending that money. Then, when you learned that the count had been murdered during the night, recollecting that on the evening before you had bought all kinds of instruments of theft and murder, and that you didn’t know either the address or the name of the woman to whom you gave up the package, convinced that if you explained the source of the money found in your pocket, you would not be believed—then, instead of thinking of the means to prove your innocence, you became afraid, and thought you would save yourself by holding your tongue.”

  The prisoner’s countenance visibly changed; his nerves relaxed; his tight lips fell apart; his mind opened itself to hope. But he still resisted.

  “Do with me as you like,” said he.

  “Eh! What should we do with such a fool as you?” cried M. Lecoq angrily. “I begin to think you are a rascal too. A decent fellow would see that we wanted to get him out of a scrape, and he’d tell us the truth. You are prolonging your imprisonment by your own will. You’d better learn that the greatest shrewdness consists in telling the truth. A last time, will you answer?”

  Guespin shook his head; no.

  “Go back to prison, then; since it pleases you,” concluded the detective. He looked at the judge for his approval, and added:

  “Gendarmes, remove the prisoner.”

  The judge’s last doubt was dissipated like the mist before the sun. He was, to tell the truth, a little uneasy at having treated the detective so rudely; and he tried to repair it as much as he could.

  “You are an able man, Monsieur Lecoq,” said he. “Without speaking of your clear-sightedness, which is so prompt as to seem almost like second sight, your examination just now was a master-piece of its kind. Receive my congratulations, to say nothing of the reward which I propose to recommend in your favor to your chiefs.”

  The detective at these compliments cast down his eyes with the abashed air of a virgin. He looked tenderly at the dear defunct’s portrait, and doubtless said to it:

  “At last, darling, we have defeated him—this austere judge who so heartily detests the force of which we are the brightest ornament, makes his apologies; he recognizes and applauds our services.”

  He answered aloud:

  “I can only accept half of your eulogies, Monsieur; permit me to offer the other half to my friend Monsieur Plantat.”

  M. Plantat tried to protest.

  “Oh,” said he, “only for some bits of information! You would have ferreted out the truth without me all the same.”

  The judge arose and graciously, but not without effort, extended his hand to M. Lecoq, who respectfully pressed it.

  “You have spared me,” said the judge, “a great remorse. Guespin’s innocence would surely sooner or la
ter have been recognized; but the idea of having imprisoned an innocent man and harassed him with my interrogatories, would have disturbed my sleep and tormented my conscience for a long time.”

  “God knows this poor Guespin is not an interesting youth,” returned the detective. “I should be disposed to press him hard were I not certain that he’s half a fool.”

  M. Domini gave a start.

  “I shall discharge him this very day,” said he, “this very hour.”

  “It will be an act of charity,” said M. Lecoq; “but confound his obstinacy; it was so easy for him to simplify my task. I might be able, by the aid of chance, to collect the principal facts—the errand, and a woman being mixed up in the affair; but as I’m no magician, I couldn’t guess all the details. How is Jenny mixed up in this affair? Is she an accomplice, or has she only been made to play an ignorant part in it? Where did she meet Guespin and whither did she lead him? It is clear that she made the poor fellow tipsy so as to prevent his going to the Batignolles. Tremorel must have told her some false story—but what?”

  “I don’t think Tremorel troubled his head about so small a matter,” said M. Plantat. “He gave Guespin and Jenny some task, without explaining it at all.”

  M. Lecoq reflected a moment.

  “Perhaps you are right. But Jenny must have had special orders to prevent Guespin from putting in an alibi.”

  “But,” said M. Domini, “Jenny will explain it all to us.”

  “That is what I rely on; and I hope that within forty-eight hours I shall have found her and brought her safely to Corbeil.”

  He rose at these words, took his cane and hat, and turning to the judge, said:

  “Before retiring—”

  “Yes, I know,” interrupted M. Domini, “you want a warrant to arrest Hector de Tremorel.”

  “I do, as you are now of my opinion that he is still alive.”

  “I am sure of it.”

  M. Domini opened his portfolio and wrote off a warrant as follows:

  “By the law: “We, judge of instruction of the first tribunal, etc., considering articles 91 and 94 of the code of criminal instruction, command and ordain to all the agents of the police to arrest, in conformity with the law, one Hector de Tremorel, etc.”