"On the other side of the lawn," continued M.Lecoq, "the count again took up the countess's body.But forgetting the effect of water when it spirts, or - who knows? - disliking to soil himself, instead of throwing her violently in the river, he put her down softly, with great precaution.That's not all.He wished it to appear that there had been a terrible struggle.What does he do?
Stirs up the sand with the end of his foot.And he thinks that will deceive the police!""Yes, yes," muttered Plantat, "exactly so - I saw it.""Having got rid of the body, the count returns to the house.Time presses, but he is still anxious to find the paper.He hastens to take the last measures to assure his safety.He smears his slippers and handkerchief with blood.He throws his handkerchief and one of his slippers on the sward, and the other slipper into the river.
His haste explains the incomplete execution of his manoeuvres.He hurries - and commits blunder after blunder.He does not reflect that his valet will explain about the empty bottles which he puts on the table.He thinks he is turning wine into the five glasses - it is vinegar, which will prove that no one has drunk out of them.
He ascends, puts forward the hands of the clock, but forgets to put the hands and the striking bell in harmony.He rumples up the bed, but he does it awkwardly - and it is impossible to reconcile these three facts, the bed crumpled, the clock showing twenty minutes past three, and the countess dressed as if it were mid-day.He adds as much as he can to the disorder of the room.He smears a sheet with blood; also the bed-curtains and furniture.Then he marks the door with the imprint of a bloody hand, too distinct and precise not to be done designedly.Is there so far a circumstance or detail of the crime, which does not explain the count's guilt?""There's the hatchet," answered M.Plantat, "found on the second story, the position of which seemed so strange to you.""I am coming to that.There is one point in this mysterious affair, which, thanks to you, is now clear.We know that Madame de Tremorel, known to her husband, possessed and concealed a paper or a letter, which he wanted, and which she obstinately refused to give up in spite of all his entreaties.You have told us that the anxiety - perhaps the necessity - to have this paper, was a powerful motive of the crime.We will not be rash then in supposing that the importance of this paper was immense - entirely beyond an ordinary affair.It must have been, somehow, very damaging to one or the other.To whom? To both, or only the count? Here I am reduced to conjectures.It is certain that it was a menace - capable of being executed at any moment - suspended over the head of him or them concerned by it.Madame de Tremorel surely regarded this paper either as a security, or as a terrible arm which put her husband at her mercy.It was surely to deliver himself from this perpetual menace that the count killed his wife."The logic was so clear, the last words brought the evidence out so lucidly and forcibly, that his hearers were struck with admiration.
They both cried:
"Very good!"
"Now," resumed M.Lecoq, "from the various elements which have served to form our conviction, we must conclude that the contents of this letter, if it can be found, will clear away our last doubts, will explain the crime, and will render the assassin's precautions wholly useless.The count, therefore, must do everything in the world, must attempt the impossible, not to leave this danger behind him.His preparations for flight ended, Hector, in spite of his deadly peril, of the speeding time, of the coming day, instead of flying recommences with more desperation than ever his useless search.Again he goes through all the furniture, the books, the papers - in vain.Then he determines to search the second story, and armed with his hatchet, goes up to it.He has already attacked a bureau, when he hears a cry in the garden.He runs to the window - what does he see? Philippe and old Bertaud are standing on the river-bank under the willows, near the corpse.Can you imagine his immense terror? Now, there's not a second to lose-he has already delayed too long.The danger is near, terrible.Daylight has come, the crime is discovered, they are coming, he sees himself lost beyond hope.He must fly, fly at once, at the peril of being seen, met, arrested.He throws the hatchet down violently - it cuts the floor.He rushes down, slips the bank-notes in his pocket, seizes Guespin's torn and smeared vest, which he will throw into the river from the bridge, and saves himself by the garden.Forgetting all caution, confused, beside himself, covered with blood, he runs, clears the ditch, and it is he whom old Bertaud sees making for the forest of Mauprevior, where he intends to arrange the disorder of his clothes.For the moment he is safe.But he leaves behind him this letter, which is, believe me, a formidable witness, which will enlighten justice and will betray his guilt and the perfidy of his projects.For he has not found it, but we will find it; it is necessary for us to have it to defeat Monsieur Domini, and to change our doubts into certainty."
