“I reflected on that strange fact,” said the magistrate, “and M. de Gesvres replied that Jean Daval spent a part of his nights in working.”
“The servants say, on the contrary, that he went to bed regularly at a very early hour. But, admitting that he was up, why did he disarrange his bedclothes, to make believe that he had gone to bed? And, if he was in bed, why, when he heard a noise, did he take the trouble to dress himself from head to foot, instead of slipping on anything that came to hand? I went to his room on the first day, while you were at lunch: his slippers were at the foot of the bed. What prevented him from putting them on rather than his heavy nailed boots?”
“So far, I do not see—”
“So far, in fact, you cannot see anything, except anomalies. They appeared much more suspicious to me, however, when I learned that Charpenais the painter, the man who copied the Rubens pictures, had been introduced and recommended to the Comte de Gesvres by Jean Daval himself.”
“Well?”
“Well, from that to the conclusion that Jean Daval and Charpenais were accomplices required but a step. I took that step at the time of our conversation.”
“A little quickly, I think.”
“As a matter of fact, a material proof was wanted. Now I had discovered in Daval’s room, on one of the sheets of the blotting-pad on which he used to write, this address: ‘Monsieur A. L. N., Post-office 45, Paris.’ You will find it there still, traced the reverse way on the blotting-paper. The next day, it was discovered that the telegram sent by the sham flyman from Saint-Nicolas bore the same address: ‘A. L. N., Post-office 45.’ The material proof existed: Jean Daval was in correspondence with the gang which arranged the robbery of the pictures.”
M. Filleul raised no objection.
“Agreed. The complicity is established. And what conclusion do you draw?”
“This, first of all, that it was not the runaway who killed Jean Daval, because Jean Daval was his accomplice.”
“And after that?”
“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I will ask you to remember the first sentence uttered by Monsieur le Comte when he recovered from fainting. The sentence forms part of Mlle. de Gesvres’ evidence and is in the official report: ‘I am not wounded.—Daval?—Is he alive?—The knife?’ And I will ask you to compare it with that part of his story, also in the report, in which Monsieur le Comte describes the assault: ‘The man leaped at me and felled me with a blow on the temple!’ How could M. de Gesvres, who had fainted, know, on waking, that Daval had been stabbed with a knife?”
Isidore Beautrelet did not wait for an answer to his question. It seemed as though he were in a hurry to give the answer himself and to avoid all comment. He continued straightway:
“Therefore it was Jean Daval who brought the three burglars to the drawing room. While he was there with the one whom they call their chief, a noise was heard in the boudoir. Daval opened the door. Recognizing M. de Gesvres, he rushed at him, armed with the knife. M. de Gesvres succeeded in snatching the knife from him, struck him with it and himself fell, on receiving a blow from the man whom the two girls were to see a few minutes after.”
Once again, M. Filleul and the inspector exchanged glances. Ganimard tossed his head in a disconcerted way. The magistrate said:
“Monsieur le Comte, am I to believe that this version is correct?”
M. de Gesvres made no answer.
“Come, Monsieur le Comte, your silence would allow us to suppose—I beg you to speak.”
Replying in a very clear voice, M. de Gesvres said:
“The version is correct in every particular.”
The magistrate gave a start.
“Then I cannot understand why you misled the police. Why conceal an act which you were lawfully entitled to commit in defense of your life?”
“For twenty years,” said M. de Gesvres, “Daval worked by my side. I trusted him. If he betrayed me, as the result of some temptation or other, I was, at least, unwilling, for the sake of the past, that his treachery should become known.”
“You were unwilling, I agree, but you had no right to be.”
“I am not of your opinion, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. As long as no innocent person was accused of the crime, I was absolutely entitled to refrain from accusing the man who was at the same time the culprit and the victim. He is dead. I consider death a sufficient punishment.”
“But now, Monsieur le Comte, now that the truth is known, you can speak.”
“Yes. Here are two rough drafts of letters written by him to his accomplices. I took them from his pocketbook, a few minutes after his death.”
“And the motive of his theft?”
“Go to 18, Rue de la Barre, at Dieppe, which is the address of a certain Mme. Verdier. It was for this woman, whom he got to know two years ago, and to supply her constant need of money that Daval turned thief.”
So everything was cleared up. The tragedy rose out of the darkness and gradually appeared in its true light.
“Let us go on,” said M. Filluel after the count had withdrawn.
“Upon my word,” said Beautrelet, gaily, “I have said almost all that I had to say.”
“But the runaway, the wounded man?”
“As to that, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you know as much as I do. You have followed his tracks in the grass by the cloisters—you have—”
“Yes, yes, I know. But, since then, his friends have removed him and what I want is a clue or two as regards that inn—”
Isidore Beautrelet burst out laughing:
“The inn! The inn does not exist! It’s an invention, a trick to put the police on the wrong scent, an ingenious trick, too, for it seems to have
