The Teeth of the Tiger
Maurice Leblanc



THE TEETH OF THE TIGER (1914)

An Adventure Story

BY MAURICE LEBLANC






CONTENTS


CHAPTER

    I. D'ARTAGNAN, PORTHOS...AND MONTE CRISTO
   II. A MAN DEAD
  III. A MAN DOOMED
   IV. THE CLOUDED TURQUOISE
    V. THE IRON CURTAIN
   VI. THE MAN WITH THE EBONY WALKING-STICK
  VII. SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS, VOLUME VIII
 VIII. THE DEVIL'S POST-OFFICE
   IX. LUPIN'S ANGER
    X. GASTON SAUVERAND EXPLAINS
   XI. ROUTED
  XII. "HELP!"
 XIII. THE EXPLOSION
  XIV. THE "HATER"
   XV. THE HEIR TO THE HUNDRED MILLIONS
  XVI. WEBER TAKES HIS REVENGE
 XVII. OPEN SESAME!
XVIII. ARSÈNE I EMPEROR OF MAURETANIA
  XIX. "THE SNARE IS LAID. BEWARE, LUPIN!"
   XX. FLORENCE'S SECRET
  XXI. LUPIN'S LUPINS




CHAPTER ONE

D'ARTAGNAN, PORTHOS...AND MONTE CRISTO


It was half-past four; M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, was not yet
back at the office. His private secretary laid on the desk a bundle of
letters and reports which he had annotated for his chief, rang the bell
and said to the messenger who entered by the main door:

"Monsieur le Préfet has sent for a number of people to see him at five
o'clock. Here are their names. Show them into separate waiting-rooms, so
that they can't communicate with one another, and let me have their cards
when they come."

The messenger went out. The secretary was turning toward the small door
that led to his room, when the main door opened once more and admitted a
man who stopped and leaned swaying over the back of a chair.

"Why, it's you, Vérot!" said the secretary. "But what's happened? What's
the matter?"

Inspector Vérot was a very stout, powerfully built man, with a big neck
and shoulders and a florid complexion. He had obviously been upset by
some violent excitement, for his face, streaked with red veins and
usually so apoplectic, seemed almost pale.

"Oh, nothing, Monsieur le Secrétaire!" he said.

"Yes, yes; you're not looking your usual self. You're gray in the
face...And the way you're perspiring..."

Inspector Vérot wiped his forehead and, pulling himself together, said:

"It's just a little tiredness...I've been overworking myself lately: I
was very keen on clearing up a case which Monsieur Desmalions had put in
my hands. All the same, I have a funny sort of feeling--"

"Will you have a pick-me-up?"

"No, no; I'm more thirsty."

"A glass of water?"

"No, thank you."

"What then?"

"I should like--I should like--"

His voice faltered. He wore a troubled look, as if he had suddenly lost
his power of getting out another word. But he recovered himself with an
effort and asked:

"Isn't Monsieur Desmalions here?"

"No; he won't be back till five, when he has an important meeting."

"Yes...I know...most important. That's what I'm here for. But
I should have liked to see him first. I should so much have liked
to see him!"

The secretary stared at Vérot and said:

"What a state you're in! Is your message so urgent as all that?"

"It's very urgent, indeed. It has to do with a crime that took place a
month ago, to the day. And, above all, it's a matter of preventing two
murders which are the outcome of that other crime and which are to be
committed to-night. Yes, to-night, inevitably, unless we take the
necessary steps."

"Sit down, Vérot, won't you?"

"You see, the whole thing has been planned in such an infernal manner!
You would never have imagined--"

"Still, Vérot, as you know about it beforehand, and as Monsieur le Préfet
is sure to give you full powers--"

"Yes, of course, of course. But, all the same, it's terrible to think
that I might miss him. So I wrote him this letter, telling him all I know
about the business. I thought it safer."

He handed the secretary a large yellow envelope and added:

"And here's a little box as well; I'll leave it on this table. It
contains something that will serve to complete and explain the contents
of the letter."

"But why don't you keep all that by you?"

"I'm afraid to. They're watching me. They're trying to get rid of
me. I shan't be easy in my mind until some one besides myself knows
the secret."

"Have no fear, Vérot. Monsieur le Préfet is bound to be back soon.
Meanwhile, I advise you to go to the infirmary and ask for a pick-me-up."

The inspector seemed undecided what to do. Once more he wiped away the
perspiration that was trickling down his forehead. Then, drawing himself
up, he left the office. When he was gone the secretary slipped the letter
into a big bundle of papers that lay on the Prefect's desk and went out
by the door leading to his own room.

He had hardly closed it behind him when the other door opened once again
and the inspector returned, spluttering:

"Monsieur le Secrétaire...it'd be better if I showed you--"

The unfortunate man was as white as a sheet. His teeth were chattering.
When he saw that the secretary was gone, he tried to walk across to his
private room. But he was seized with an attack of weakness and sank into
a chair, where he remained for some minutes, moaning helplessly:

"What's the matter with me?...Have I been poisoned, too?...Oh, I
don't like this; I don't like the look of this!"

The desk stood within reach of his hand. He took a pencil, drew a
writing-pad toward him and began to scribble a few characters. But he
next stammered:

"Why, no, it's not worth while. The Prefect will be reading my
letter...What on earth's the matter with me. I don't like this at all!"

Suddenly he rose to his feet and called out:

"Monsieur le Secrétaire, we've got...we've got to...It's for
to-night. Nothing can prevent--"

Stiffening himself with an effort of his whole will, he made for the door
of the secretary's room with little short steps, like an automaton. But
he reeled on the way--and had to sit down a second time.

A mad terror shook him from head to foot; and he uttered cries which were
too faint, unfortunately, to be heard. He realized this and looked round
for a bell, for a gong; but he was no longer able to distinguish
anything. A veil of darkness seemed to weigh upon his eyes.

Then he dropped on his knees and crawled to the wall, beating the air
with one hand, like a blind man, until he ended by touching some
woodwork. It was the partition-wall.

He crept along this; but, as ill-luck would have it, his bewildered brain
showed him a false picture of the room, so that, instead of turning to
the left as he should have done, he followed the wall to the right,
behind a screen which concealed a third door.

His fingers touched the handle of this door and he managed to open it. He
gasped, "Help! Help!" and fell at his full length in a sort of cupboard
or closet which the Prefect of Police used as a dressing-room.

"To-night!" he moaned, believing that he was making himself heard and
that he was in the secretary's room. "To-night! The job is fixed for
to-night! You'll see...The mark of the teeth!...It's awful!...Oh,
the pain I'm in!...It's the poison! Save me! Help!"

The voice died away. He repeated several times, as though in a nightmare:

"The teeth! the teeth! They're closing!"

Then his voice grew fainter still; and inarticulate sounds issued from
his pallid lips. His mouth munched the air like the mouth of one of those
old men who seem to be interminably chewing the cud. His head sank lower
and lower on his breast. He heaved two or three sighs; a great shiver
passed through his body; and he moved no more.

And the death-rattle began in his throat, very softly and rhythmically,
broken only by interruptions in which a last instinctive effort appeared
to revive the flickering life of the intelligence, and to rouse fitful
gleams of consciousness in the dimmed eyes.

The Prefect of Police entered his office at ten minutes to five. M.
Desmalions, who had filled his post for the past three years with an
authority that made him generally respected, was a heavily built man of
fifty with a shrewd and intelligent face. His dress, consisting of a gray
jacket-suit, white spats, and a loosely flowing tie, in no way suggested
the public official. His manners were easy, simple, and full of
good-natured frankness.

He touched a bell, and when his secretary entered, asked:

"Are the people whom I sent for here?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and I gave orders that they were to wait in
different rooms."

"Oh, it would not have mattered if they had met! However, perhaps it's
better as it is. I hope that the American Ambassador did not trouble to
come in person?"

"No, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Have you their cards?"

"Yes."

The Prefect of Police took the five visiting cards which his secretary
handed him and read:

"Mr. Archibald Bright, First Secretary United States Embassy; Maître
Lepertuis, Solicitor; Juan Caceres, Attaché to the Peruvian Legation;
Major Comte d'Astrignac, retired."

The fifth card bore merely a name, without address or quality of
any kind--

DON LUIS PERENNA

"That's the one I'm curious to see!" said M. Desmalions. "He interests me
like the very devil! Did you read the report of the Foreign Legion?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and I confess that this gentleman
puzzles me, too."

"He does, eh? Did you ever hear of such pluck? A sort of heroic madman,
something absolutely wonderful! And then there's that nickname of Arsène
Lupin which he earned among his messmates for the way in which he used
to boss them and astound them!...How long is it since the death of
Arsène Lupin?"

"It happened two years before your appointment, Monsieur le Préfet. His
corpse and Mme. Kesselbach's were discovered under the ruins of a little
chalet which was burnt down close to the Luxemburg frontier. It was found
at the inquest that he had strangled that monster, Mrs. Kesselbach, whose
crimes came to light afterward, and that he hanged himself after setting
fire to the chalet."

"It was a fitting end for that--rascal," said M. Desmalions, "and I
confess that I, for my part, much prefer not having him to fight against.
Let's see, where were we? Are the papers of the Mornington inheritance
ready for me?"

"On your desk, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Good. But I was forgetting: is Inspector Vérot here?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet. I expect he's in the infirmary getting
something to pull him together."

"Why, what's the matter with him?"

"He struck me as being in a queer state--rather ill."

"How do you mean?"

The secretary described his interview with Inspector Vérot.

"And you say he left a letter for me?" said M. Desmalions with a worried
air. "Where is it?"

"Among the papers, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Very odd: it's all very odd. Vérot is a first-rate inspector, a very
sober-minded fellow; and he doesn't get frightened easily. You might go
and fetch him. Meanwhile, I'll look through my letters."

The secretary hurried away. When he returned, five minutes later,
he stated, with an air of astonishment, that he had not seen
Inspector Vérot.

"And what's more curious still," he added, "is that the messenger who saw
him leave this room saw him come in again almost at once and did not see
him go out a second time."

"Perhaps he only passed through here to go to you."

"To me, Monsieur le Préfet? I was in my room all the time."

"Then it's incomprehensible."

"Yes...unless we conclude that the messenger's attention was distracted
for a second, as Vérot is neither here nor next door."

"That must be it. I expect he's gone to get some air outside; and he'll
be back at any moment. For that matter, I shan't want him to start with."

The Prefect looked at his watch.

"Ten past five. You might tell the messenger to show those gentlemen
in...Wait, though--"

M. Desmalions hesitated. In turning over the papers he had found Vérot's
letter. It was a large, yellow, business envelope, with "Café du
Pont-Neuf" printed at the top.

The secretary suggested:

"In view of Vérot's absence, Monsieur le Préfet, and of what he said, it
might be as well for you to see what's in the letter first."

M. Desmalions paused to reflect.

"Perhaps you're right."

And, making up his mind, he inserted a paper-knife into the envelope and
cut it open. A cry escaped him.

"Oh, I say, this is a little too much!"

"What is it, Monsieur le Préfet?"

"Why, look here, a blank...sheet of paper! That's all the envelope
contains!"

"Impossible!"

"See for yourself--a plain sheet folded in four, with not a word on it."

"But Vérot told me in so many words that he had said in that letter all
that he knew about the case."

"He told you so, no doubt, but there you are! Upon my word, if I
didn't know Inspector Vérot, I should think he was trying to play a
game with me."

"It's a piece of carelessness, Monsieur le Préfet, at the worst."

"No doubt, a piece of carelessness, but I'm surprised at him. It doesn't
do to be careless when the lives of two people are at stake. For he must
have told you that there is a double murder planned for to-night?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and under particularly alarming conditions;
infernal was the word he used."

M. Desmalions was walking up and down the room, with his hands behind his
back. He stopped at a small table.

"What's this little parcel addressed to me? 'Monsieur le Préfet de
Police--to be opened in case of accident.'"

"Oh, yes," said the secretary, "I was forgetting! That's from Inspector
Vérot, too; something of importance, he said, and serving to complete and
explain the contents of the letter."

"Well," said M. Desmalions, who could not help laughing, "the letter
certainly needs explaining; and, though there's no question of
'accident,' I may as well open the parcel."

As he spoke, he cut the string and discovered, under the paper, a box, a
little cardboard box, which might have come from a druggist, but which
was soiled and spoiled by the use to which it had been put.

He raised the lid. Inside the box were a few layers of cotton wool, which
were also rather dirty, and in between these layers was half a cake of
chocolate.

"What the devil does this mean?" growled the Prefect in surprise.

He took the chocolate, looked at it, and at once perceived what was
peculiar about this cake of chocolate, which was also undoubtedly the
reason why Inspector Vérot had kept it. Above and below, it bore the
prints of teeth, very plainly marked, very plainly separated one from the
other, penetrating to a depth of a tenth of an inch or so into the
chocolate. Each possessed its individual shape and width, and each was
divided from its neighbours by a different interval. The jaws which had
started eating the cake of chocolate had dug into it the mark of four
upper and five lower teeth.

M. Desmalions remained wrapped in thought and, with his head sunk on his
chest, for some minutes resumed his walk up and down the room, muttering:

"This is queer...There's a riddle here to which I should like to know
the answer. That sheet of paper, the marks of those teeth: what does it
all mean?"

But he was not the man to waste much time over a mystery which was bound
to be cleared up presently, as Inspector Vérot must be either at the
police office or somewhere just outside; and he said to his secretary:

"I can't keep those five gentlemen waiting any longer. Please have them
shown in now. If Inspector Vérot arrives while they are here, as he is
sure to do, let me know at once. I want to see him as soon as he comes.
Except for that, see that I'm not disturbed on any pretext, won't you?"

        *       *       *       *       *

Two minutes later the messenger showed in Maître Lepertuis, a stout,
red-faced man, with whiskers and spectacles, followed by Archibald
Bright, the Secretary of Embassy, and Caceres, the Peruvian attaché. M.
Desmalions, who knew all three of them, chatted to them until he stepped
forward to receive Major Comte d'Astrignac, the hero of La Chouïa, who
had been forced into premature retirement by his glorious wounds. The
Prefect was complimenting him warmly on his gallant conduct in Morocco
when the door opened once more.

"Don Luis Perenna, I believe?" said the Prefect, offering his hand to a
man of middle height and rather slender build, wearing the military medal
and the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour.

The newcomer's face and expression, his way of holding himself, and his
very youthful movements inclined one to look upon him as a man of forty,
though there were wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and on the
forehead, which perhaps pointed to a few years more. He bowed.

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Is that you, Perenna?" cried Comte d'Astrignae. "So you are still among
the living?"

"Yes, Major, and delighted to see you again."

"Perenna alive! Why, we had lost all sight of you when I left Morocco! We
thought you dead."

"I was a prisoner, that's all."

"A prisoner of the tribesmen; the same thing!"

"Not quite, Major; one can escape from anywhere. The proof stands
before you."

The Prefect of Police, yielding to an irresistible attraction to resist,
spent some seconds in examining that powerful face, with the smiling
glance, the frank and resolute eyes, and the bronzed complexion, which
looked as if it had been baked and baked again by the sun.

Then, motioning to his visitors to take chairs around his desk, M.
Desmalions himself sat down and made a preliminary statement in clear and
deliberate tones:

"The summons, gentlemen, which I addressed to each of you, must have
appeared to you rather peremptory and mysterious. And the manner in which
I propose to open our conversation is not likely to diminish your
surprise. But if you will attach a little credit to my method, you will
soon realize that the whole thing is very simple and very natural. I will
be as brief as I can."

He spread before him the bundle of documents prepared for him by his
secretary and, consulting his notes as he spoke, continued:

"Over fifty years ago, in 1860, three sisters, three orphans, Ermeline,
Elizabeth, and Armande Roussel, aged twenty-two, twenty, and eighteen
respectively, were living at Saint-Etienne with a cousin named Victor,
who was a few years younger. The eldest, Ermeline, was the first to leave
Saint-Etienne. She went to London, where she married an Englishman of the
name Mornington, by whom she had a son, who was christened Cosmo.

"The family was very poor and went through hard times. Ermeline
repeatedly wrote to her sisters to ask for a little assistance. Receiving
no reply, she broke off the correspondence altogether. In 1870 Mr. and
Mrs. Mornington left England for America. Five years later they were
rich. Mr. Mornington died in 1878; but his widow continued to administer
the fortune bequeathed to her and, as she had a genius for business and
speculation, she increased this fortune until it attained a colossal
figure. At her decease, in 1900, she left her son the sum of four hundred
million francs."

The amount seemed to make an impression on the Prefect's hearers. He saw
the major and Don Luis Perenna exchange a glance and asked:

"You knew Cosmo Mornington, did you not?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet," replied Comte d'Astrignac. "He was in Morocco
when Perenna and I were fighting there."

"Just so," said M. Desmalions. "Cosmo Mornington had begun to travel
about the world. He took up the practise of medicine, from what I hear,
and, when occasion offered, treated the sick with great skill and, of
course, without charge. He lived first in Egypt and then in Algiers and
Morocco. Last year he settled down in Paris, where he died four weeks ago
as the result of a most stupid accident."

"A carelessly administered hypodermic injection, was it not, Monsieur le
Préfet?" asked the secretary of the American Embassy. "It was mentioned
in the papers and reported to us at the embassy."

"Yes," said Desmalions. "To assist his recovery from a long attack of
influenza which had kept him in bed all the winter, Mr. Mornington, by
his doctor's orders, used to give himself injections of glycero-phosphate
of soda. He must have omitted the necessary precautions on the last
occasion when he did so, for the wound was poisoned, inflammation set in
with lightning rapidity, and Mr. Mornington was dead in a few hours."

The Prefect of Police turned to the solicitor and asked:

"Have I summed up the facts correctly, Maître Lepertuis?"

"Absolutely, Monsieur le Préfet."

M. Desmalions continued:

"The next morning, Maître Lepertuis called here and, for reasons which
you will understand when you have heard the document read, showed me
Cosmo Mornington's will, which had been placed in his hands."

While the Prefect was looking through the papers, Maître Lepertuis added:

"I may be allowed to say that I saw my client only once before I was
summoned to his death-bed; and that was on the day when he sent for me to
come to his room in the hotel to hand me the will which he had just made.
This was at the beginning of his influenza. In the course of conversation
he told me that he had been making some inquiries with a view to tracing
his mother's family, and that he intended to pursue these inquiries
seriously after his recovery. Circumstances, as it turned out, prevented
his fulfilling his purpose."

Meanwhile, the Prefect of Police had taken from among the documents an
open envelope containing two sheets of paper. He unfolded the larger of
the two and said:

"This is the will. I will ask you to listen attentively while I read it
and also the document attached to it."

The others settled themselves in their chairs; and the Prefect read out:

"The last will and testament of me, Cosmo Mornington, eldest son of
Hubert Mornington and Ermeline Roussel, his wife, a naturalized citizen
of the United States of America. I give and bequeath to my adopted
country three fourths of my estate, to be employed on works of charity in
accordance with the instructions, written in my hand, which Maitre
Lepertuis will be good enough to forward to the Ambassador of the United
States. The remainder of my property, to the value of about one hundred
million francs, consisting of deposits in various Paris and London banks,
a list of which is in the keeping of Maitre Lepertuis, I give and
bequeath, in memory of my dear mother, to her favourite sister Elizabeth
Roussel or her direct heirs; or, in default of Elizabeth and her heirs,
to her second sister Armande Roussel or her direct heirs; or, in default
of both sisters and their heirs, to their cousin Victor Roussel or his
direct heirs.

"In the event of my dying without discovering the surviving members of
the Roussel family, or of the cousin of the three sisters, I request my
friend Don Luis Perenna to make all the necessary investigations. With
this object, I hereby appoint him the executor of my will in so far as
concerns the European portion of my estate, and I beg him to undertake
the conduct of the events that may arise after my death or in consequence
of my death to consider himself my representative and to act in all
things for the benefit of my memory and the accomplishment of my wishes.
In gratitude for this service and in memory of the two occasions on which
he saved my life, I give and bequeath to the said Don Luis Perenna the
sum of one million francs."

The Prefect stopped for a few seconds. Don Luis murmured:

"Poor Cosmo!...I should not have needed that inducement to carry out
his last wishes."

M. Desmalions continued his reading:

"Furthermore, if, within three months of my death, the investigations
made by Don Luis Perenna and by Maître Lepertuis have led to no result;
if no heir and no survivor of the Roussel family have come forward to
receive the bequest, then the whole hundred million francs shall
definitely, all later claims notwithstanding, accrue to my friend Don
Luis Perenna. I know him well enough to feel assured that he will employ
this fortune in a manner which shall accord with the loftiness of his
schemes and the greatness of the plans which he described to me so
enthusiastically in our tent in Morocco."

M. Desmalions stopped once more and raised his eyes to Don Luis, who
remained silent and impassive, though a tear glistened on his lashes.
Comte d'Astrignac said:

"My congratulations, Perenna."

"Let me remind you, Major," he answered, "that this legacy is subject to
a condition. And I swear that, if it depends on me, the survivors of the
Roussel family shall be found."

"I'm sure of it," said the officer. "I know you."

"In any case," asked the Prefect of Police of Don Luis, "you do not
refuse this conditional legacy?"

"Well, no," said Perenna, with a laugh. "There are things which one
can't refuse."

"My question," said the Prefect, "was prompted by the last paragraph of
the will: 'If, for any reason, my friend Perenna should refuse this
legacy, or if he should have died before the date fixed for its payment,
I request the Ambassador of the United States and the Prefect of Police
for the time being to consult as to the means of building and maintaining
in Paris a university confined to students and artists of American
nationality and to devote the money to this purpose. And I hereby
authorize the Prefect of Police in any case to receive a sum of three
hundred thousand francs out of my estate for the benefit of the Paris
Police Fund.'"

M. Desmalions folded the paper and took up another.

"There is a codicil to the will. It consists of a letter which Mr.
Mornington wrote to Maître Lepertuis some time after and which explains
certain points with greater precision:

"I request Maître Lepertuis to open my will on the day after my death, in
the presence of the Prefect of Police, who will be good enough to keep
the matter an entire secret for a month. One month later, to the day, he
will have the kindness to summon to his office Maître Lepertuis, Don Luis
Perenna, and a prominent member of the United States Embassy. Subsequent
to the reading of the will, a cheque for one million francs shall be
handed to my friend and legatee Don Luis Perenna, after a simple
examination of his papers and a simple verification of his identity. I
should wish this verification to be made as regards the personality by
Major Comte d'Astrignac, who was his commanding officer in Morocco, and
who unfortunately had to retire prematurely from the army; and as regards
birth by a member of the Peruvian Legation, as Don Luis Perenna, though
retaining his Spanish nationality, was born in Peru.

"Furthermore, I desire that my will be not communicated to the Roussel
heirs until two days later, at Maitre Lepertuis's office. Finally--and
this is the last expression of my wishes as regards the disposal of my
estate and the method of proceeding with that disposal--the Prefect of
Police will be good enough to summon the persons aforesaid to his office,
for a second time, at a date to be selected by himself, not less than
sixty nor more than ninety days after the first meeting. Then and not
till then will the definite legatee be named and proclaimed according to
his rights, nor shall any be so named and proclaimed unless he be present
at this meeting, at the conclusion of which Don Luis Perenna, who must
also attend it, shall become the definite legatee if, as I have said, no
survivor nor heir of the Roussel sisters or of their cousin Victor have
come forward to claim the bequest."

Replacing both documents in the envelope the Prefect of Police concluded:

"You have now, gentlemen, heard the will of Mr. Cosmo Mornington, which
explains your presence here. A sixth person will join us shortly: one of
my detectives, whom I instructed to make the first inquiries about the
Roussel family and who will give you the result of his investigations.
But, for the moment, we must proceed in accordance with the testator's
directions.

"Don Luis Perenna's papers, which he sent me, at my request, a fortnight
ago, have been examined by myself and are perfectly in order. As regards
his birth, I wrote and begged his Excellency the Peruvian minister to
collect the most precise information."

"The minister entrusted this mission to me," said Señor Caceres, the
Peruvian attaché. "It offered no difficulties. Don Luis Perenna comes of
an old Spanish family which emigrated thirty years ago, but which
retained its estates and property in Europe. I knew Don Luis's father in
America; and he used to speak of his only son with the greatest
affection. It was our legation that informed the son, three years ago, of
his father's death. I produce a copy of the letter sent to Morocco."

"And I have the original letter here, among the documents forwarded by
Don Luis Perenna to the Prefect of Police. Do you, Major, recognize
Private Perenna, who fought under your orders in the Foreign Legion?"

"I recognize him," said Comte d'Astrignac.

"Beyond the possibility of a mistake?"

"Beyond the possibility of a mistake and without the least feeling of
hesitation."

The Prefect of Police, with a laugh, hinted:

"You recognize Private Perenna, whom the men, carried away by a sort of
astounded admiration of his exploits, used to call Arsène Lupin?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet," replied the major sharply, "the one whom the
men called Arsène Lupin, but whom the officers called simply the Hero,
the one who we used to say was as brave as d'Artagnan, as strong as
Porthos..."

"And as mysterious as Monte Cristo," said the Prefect of Police,
laughing. "I have all this in the report which I received from the Fourth
Regiment of the Foreign Legion. It is not necessary to read the whole of
it; but it contains the unprecedented fact that Private Perenna, in the
space of two years' time, received the military medal, received the
Legion of Honour for exceptional services, and was mentioned fourteen
times in dispatches. I will pick out a detail here and there."

"Monsieur le Préfet, I beg of you," protested Don Luis. "These are
trivial matters, of no interest to anybody; and I do not see the
reason..."

"There is every reason, on the contrary," declared M. Desmalions. "You
gentlemen are here not only to hear a will read, but also to authorize
its execution as regards the only one of its clauses that is to be
carried out at once, the payment of a legacy of a million francs. It
is necessary, therefore, that all of you should know what there is to
know of the personality of the legatee. Consequently, I propose to
continue..."

"In that case, Monsieur le Préfet," said Perenna, rising and making for
the door, "you will allow me..."

"Right about turn! Halt!...Eyes front!" commanded Major d'Astrignac in
a jesting tone.

He dragged Don Luis back to the middle of the room and forced him
into a chair.

"Monsieur le Préfet," he said, "I plead for mercy for my old
comrade-in-arms, whose modesty would really be put to too severe a test
if the story of his prowess were read out in front of him. Besides, the
report is here; and we can all of us consult it for ourselves. Without
having seen it, I second every word of praise that it contains; and I
declare that, in the course of my whole military career, I have never met
a soldier who could compare with Private Perenna. And yet I saw plenty of
fine fellows over there, the sort of demons whom you only find in the
Legion and who will get themselves cut to bits for the sheer pleasure of
the thing, for the lark of it, as they say, just to astonish one another.

"But not one of them came anywhere near Perenna. The chap whom we
nicknamed d'Artagnan, Porthos, and de Bussy deserved to be classed with
the most amazing heroes of legend and history. I have seen him perform
feats which I should not care to relate, for fear of being treated as an
impostor; feats so improbable that to-day, in my calmer moments, I wonder
if I am quite sure that I did see them. One day, at Settat, as we were
being pursued--"

"Another word, Major," cried Don Luis, gayly, "and this time I really
will go out! I must say you have a nice way of sparing my modesty!"

"My dear Perenna," replied Comte d'Astrignac, "I always told you that you
had every good quality and only one fault, which was that you were not a
Frenchman."

"And I always answered, Major, that I was French on my mother's side and
a Frenchman in heart and temperament. There are things which only a
Frenchman can do."

The two men again gripped each other's hands affectionately.

"Come," said the Prefect, "we'll say no more of your feats of prowess,
Monsieur, nor of this report. I will mention one thing, however, which is
that, after two years, you fell into an ambush of forty Berbers, that you
were captured, and that you did not rejoin the Legion until last month."

"Just so, Monsieur le Préfet, in time to receive my discharge, as my five
years' service was up."

"But how did Mr. Cosmo Mornington come to mention you in his will, when,
at the time when he was making it, you had disappeared from view for
eighteen months?"

"Cosmo and I used to correspond."

"What!"

"Yes; and I had informed him of my approaching escape and my return
to Paris."

"But how did you manage it? Where were you? And how did you find the
means?..."

Don Luis smiled without answering.

"Monte Cristo, this time," said M. Desmalions. "The mysterious
Monte Cristo."

"Monte Cristo, if you like, Monsieur le Préfet. In point of fact, the
mystery of my captivity and escape is a rather strange one. It may be
interesting to throw some light upon it one of these days. Meanwhile, I
must ask for a little credit."

A silence ensued. M. Desmalions once more inspected this curious
individual; and he could not refrain from saying, as though in obedience
to an association of ideas for which he himself was unable to account:

"One word more, and one only. What were your comrades' reasons for giving
you that rather odd nickname of Arsène Lupin? Was it just an allusion to
your pluck, to your physical strength?"

"There was something besides, Monsieur le Préfet: the discovery of a very
curious theft, of which certain details, apparently incapable of
explanation, had enabled me to name the perpetrator."

"So you have a gift for that sort of thing?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, a certain knack which I had the opportunity of
employing in Africa on more than one occasion. Hence my nickname of
Arsène Lupin. It was soon after the death of the man himself, you know,
and he was much spoken of at the time."

"Was it a serious theft?"

"It was rather; and it happened to be committed upon Cosmo Mornington,
who was then living in the Province of Oran. That was really what started
our relations."

There was a fresh silence; and Don Luis added:

"Poor Cosmo! That incident gave him an unshakable confidence in my little
detective talents. He was always saying, 'Perenna, if I die murdered'--he
had a fixed notion in his head that he would meet with a violent
death--'if I die murdered, swear that you will pursue the culprit,'"

"His presentiment was not justified," said the Prefect of Police. "Cosmo
Mornington was not murdered."

"That's where you make a mistake, Monsieur le Préfet," said Don Luis.

M. Desmalions gave a start.

"What! What's that? Cosmo Mornington--?"

"I say that Cosmo Mornington did not die, as you think, of a carelessly
administered injection, but that he died, as he feared he would, by
foul play."

"But, Monsieur, your assertion is based on no evidence whatever!"

"It is based on fact, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Were you there? Do you know anything?"

"I was not there. A month ago I was still with the colours. I even admit
that, when I arrived in Paris, not having seen the newspapers regularly,
I did not know of Cosmo's death. In fact, I learned it from you just now,
Monsieur le Préfet."

"In that case, Monsieur, you cannot know more about it than I do, and you
must accept the verdict of the doctor."

"I am sorry, but his verdict fails to satisfy me."

"But look here, Monsieur, what prompts you to make the accusation? Have
you any evidence?"

"Yes."

"What evidence?"

"Your own words, Monsieur le Préfet."

"My own words? What do you mean?"

"I will tell you, Monsieur le Préfet. You began by saying that Cosmo
Mornington had taken up medicine and practised it with great skill;
next, you said that he had given himself an injection which,
carelessly administered, set up inflammation and caused his death
within a few hours."

"Yes."

"Well, Monsieur le Préfet, I maintain that a man who practises medicine
with great skill and who is accustomed to treating sick people, as Cosmo
Mornington was, is incapable of giving himself a hypodermic injection
without first taking every necessary antiseptic precaution. I have seen
Cosmo at work, and I know how he set about things."

"Well?"

"Well, the doctor just wrote a certificate as any doctor will when there
is no sort of clue to arouse his suspicions."

"So your opinion is--"

"Maître Lepertuis," asked Perenna, turning to the solicitor, "did you
notice nothing unusual when you were summoned to Mr. Mornington's
death-bed?"

"No, nothing. Mr. Mornington was in a state of coma."

"It's a strange thing in itself," observed Don Luis, "that an injection,
however badly administered, should produce such rapid results. Were there
no signs of suffering?"

"No...or rather, yes...Yes, I remember the face showed brown patches
which I did not see on the occasion of my first visit."

"Brown patches? That confirms my supposition Cosmo Mornington was
poisoned."

"But how?" exclaimed the Prefect.

"By some substance introduced into one of the phials of
glycero-phosphate, or into the syringe which the sick man employed."

"But the doctor?" M. Desmalions objected.

"Maître Lepertuis," Perenna continued, "did you call the doctor's
attention to those brown patches?"

"Yes, but he attached no importance to them."

"Was it his ordinary medical adviser?"

"No, his ordinary medical adviser, Doctor Pujol, who happens to be a
friend of mine and who had recommended me to him as a solicitor, was ill.
The doctor whom I saw at his death-bed must have been a local
practitioner."

"I have his name and address here," said the Prefect of Police, who had
turned up the certificate. "Doctor Bellavoine, 14 Rue d'Astorg."

"Have you a medical directory, Monsieur le Préfet?"

M. Desmalions opened a directory and turned over the pages. Presently
he declared:

"There is no Doctor Bellavoine; and there is no doctor living at 14 Rue
d'Astorg."




CHAPTER TWO

A MAN DEAD


The declaration was followed by a silence of some length. The Secretary
of the American Embassy and the Peruvian attaché had followed the
conversation with eager interest. Major d'Astrignac nodded his head with
an air of approval. To his mind, Perenna could not be mistaken.

The Prefect of Police confessed:

"Certainly, certainly...we have a number of circumstances here...that
are fairly ambiguous...Those brown patches; that doctor...It's a case
that wants looking into." And, questioning Don Luis Perenna as though in
spite of himself, he asked, "No doubt, in your opinion, there is a
possible connection between the murder...and Mr. Mornington's will?"

"That, Monsieur le Préfet, I cannot tell. If there is, we should have to
suppose that the contents of the will were known. Do you think they can
have leaked out, Maître Lepertuis?"

"I don't think so, for Mr. Mornington seemed to behave with great
caution."

"And there's no question, is there, of any indiscretion committed in
your office?"

"By whom? No one handled the will except myself; and I alone have the
key of the safe in which I put away documents of that importance
every evening."

"The safe has not been broken into? There has been no burglary at
your office?"

"No."

"You saw Cosmo Mornington in the morning?"

"Yes, on a Friday morning."

"What did you do with the will until the evening, until you locked it
away up your safe?"

"I probably put it in the drawer of my desk."

"And the drawer was not forced?"

Maître Lepertuis seemed taken aback and made no reply.

"Well?" asked Perenna.

"Well, yes, I remember...there was something that day...that
same Friday."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. When I came in from lunch I noticed that the drawer was not locked,
although I had locked it beyond the least doubt. At the time I attached
comparatively little importance to the incident. To-day, I understand, I
understand--"

Thus, little by little, were all the suppositions conceived by Don Luis
verified: suppositions resting, it is true, upon just one or two clues,
but yet containing an amount of intuition, of divination, that was really
surprising in a man who had been present at none of the events between
which he traced the connection so skilfully.

"We will lose no time, Monsieur," said the Prefect of Police, "in
checking your statements, which you will confess to be a little
venturesome, by the more positive evidence of one of my detectives who
has the case in charge...and who ought to be here by now."

"Does his evidence bear upon Cosmo Mornington's heirs?" asked the
solicitor.

"Upon the heirs principally, because two days ago he telephoned to me
that he had collected all the particulars, and also upon the very points
which--But wait: I remember that he spoke to my secretary of a murder
committed a month ago to-day...Now it's a month to-day since Mr. Cosmo
Mornington--"

M. Desmalions pressed hard on a bell. His private secretary at
once appeared.

"Inspector Vérot?" asked the Prefect sharply.

"He's not back yet."

"Have him fetched! Have him brought here! He must be found at all costs
and without delay."

He turned to Don Luis Perenna.

"Inspector Vérot was here an hour ago, feeling rather unwell, very much
excited, it seems, and declaring that he was being watched and followed.
He said he wanted to make a most important statement to me about the
Mornington case and to warn the police of two murders which are to be
committed to-night...and which would be a consequence of the murder of
Cosmo Mornington."

"And he was unwell, you say?"

"Yes, ill at ease and even very queer and imagining things. By way of
being prudent, he left a detailed report on the case for me. Well, the
report is simply a blank sheet of letter-paper.

"Here is the paper and the envelope in which I found it, and here is a
cardboard box which he also left behind him. It contains a cake of
chocolate with the marks of teeth on it."

"May I look at the two things you have mentioned, Monsieur le Préfet?"

"Yes, but they won't tell you anything."

"Perhaps so--"

Don Luis examined at length the cardboard box and the yellow envelope,
on which were printed the words, "Café du Pont-Neuf." The others awaited
his words as though they were bound to shed an unexpected light. He
merely said:

"The handwriting is not the same on the envelope and the box. The writing
on the envelope is less plain, a little shaky, obviously imitated."

"Which proves--?"

"Which proves, Monsieur le Préfet, that this yellow envelope does not
come from your detective. I presume that, after writing his report at a
table in the Café du Pont-Neuf and closing it, he had a moment of
inattention during which somebody substituted for his envelope another
with the same address, but containing a blank sheet of paper."

"That's a supposition!" said the Prefect.

"Perhaps; but what is certain, Monsieur le Préfet, is that your
inspector's presentiments are well-grounded, that he is being closely
watched, that the discoveries about the Mornington inheritance which he
has succeeded in making are interfering with criminal designs, and that
he is in terrible danger."

"Come, come!"

"He must be rescued, Monsieur le Préfet. Ever since the commencement of
this meeting I have felt persuaded that we are up against an attempt
which has already begun. I hope that it is not too late and that your
inspector has not been the first victim."

"My dear sir," exclaimed the Prefect of Police, "you declare all this
with a conviction which rouses my admiration, but which is not enough to
establish the fact that your fears are justified. Inspector Vérot's
return will be the best proof."

"Inspector Vérot will not return."

"But why not?"

"Because he has returned already. The messenger saw him return."

"The messenger was dreaming. If you have no proof but that man's
evidence--"

"I have another proof, Monsieur le Préfet, which Inspector Vérot himself
has left of his presence here: these few, almost illegible letters which
he scribbled on this memorandum pad, which your secretary did not see him
write and which have just caught my eye. Look at them. Are they not a
proof, a definite proof that he came back?"

The Prefect did not conceal his perturbation. The others all seemed
impressed. The secretary's return but increased their apprehensions:
nobody had seen Inspector Vérot.

"Monsieur le Préfet," said Don Luis, "I earnestly beg you to have the
office messenger in."

And, as soon as the messenger was there, he asked him, without even
waiting for M. Desmalions to speak:

"Are you sure that Inspector Vérot entered this room a second time?"

"Absolutely sure."

"And that he did not go out again?"

"Absolutely sure."

"And your attention was not distracted for a moment?"

"Not for a moment."

"There, Monsieur, you see!" cried the Prefect. "If Inspector Vérot were
here, we should know it."

"He is here, Monsieur le Préfet."

"What!"

"Excuse my obstinacy, Monsieur le Préfet, but I say that, when some one
enters a room and does not go out again, he is still in that room."

"Hiding?" said M. Desmalions, who was growing more and more irritated.

"No, but fainting, ill--dead, perhaps."

"But where, hang it all?"

"Behind that screen."

"There's nothing behind that screen, nothing but a door."

"And that door--?"

"Leads to a dressing-room."

"Well, Monsieur le Préfet, Inspector Vérot, tottering, losing his head,
imagining himself to be going from your office to your secretary's room,
fell into your dressing-room."

M. Desmalions ran to the door, but, at the moment of opening it, shrank
back. Was it apprehension, the wish to withdraw himself from the
influence of that astonishing man, who gave his orders with such
authority and who seemed to command events themselves?

Don Luis stood waiting imperturbably, in a deferential attitude.

"I cannot believe--" said M. Desmalions.

"Monsieur le Préfet, I would remind you that Inspector Vérot's
revelations may save the lives of two persons who are doomed to die
to-night. Every minute lost is irreparable."

M. Desmalions shrugged his shoulders. But that man mastered him with the
power of his conviction; and the Prefect opened the door.

He did not make a movement, did not utter a cry. He simply muttered:

"Oh, is it possible!--"

By the pale gleam of light that entered through a ground-glass window
they saw the body of a man lying on the floor.

"The inspector! Inspector Vérot!" gasped the office messenger,
running forward.

He and the secretary raised the body and placed it in an armchair in the
Prefect's office.

Inspector Vérot was still alive, but so little alive that they could
scarcely hear the beating of his heart. A drop of saliva trickled from
the corner of his mouth. His eyes were devoid of all expression. However,
certain muscles of the face kept moving, perhaps with the effort of a
will that seemed to linger almost beyond life.

Don Luis muttered:

"Look, Monsieur le Préfet--the brown patches!"

The same dread unnerved all. They began to ring bells and open doors and
call for help.

"Send for the doctor!" ordered M. Desmalions. "Tell them to bring a
doctor, the first that comes--and a priest. We can't let the poor man--"

Don Luis raised his arm to demand silence.

"There is nothing more to be done," he said. "We shall do better to
make the most of these last moments. Have I your permission, Monsieur
le Préfet?"

He bent over the dying man, laid the swaying head against the back of the
chair, and, in a very gentle voice, whispered:

"Vérot, it's Monsieur le Préfet speaking to you. We should like a few
particulars about what is to take place to-night. Do you hear me, Vérot?
If you hear me, close your eyelids."

The eyelids were lowered. But was it not merely chance? Don Luis went on:

"You have found the heirs of the Roussel sisters, that much we know; and
it is two of those heirs who are threatened with death. The double murder
is to be committed to-night. But what we do not know is the name of those
heirs, who are doubtless not called Roussel. You must tell us the name.

"Listen to me: you wrote on a memorandum pad three letters which seem to
form the syllable Fau...Am I right? Is this the first syllable of a
name? Which is the next letter after those three? Close your eyes when I
mention the right letter. Is it 'b?' Is it 'c?'"

But there was now not a flicker in the inspector's pallid face. The head
dropped heavily on the chest. Vérot gave two or three sighs, his frame
shook with one great shiver, and he moved no more.

He was dead.

The tragic scene had been enacted so swiftly that the men who were
its shuddering spectators remained for a moment confounded. The
solicitor made the sign of the cross and went down on his knees. The
Prefect murmured:

"Poor Vérot!...He was a good man, who thought only of the service, of
his duty. Instead of going and getting himself seen to--and who knows?
Perhaps he might have been saved--he came back here in the hope of
communicating his secret. Poor Vérot!--"

"Was he married? Are there any children?" asked Don Luis.

"He leaves a wife and three children," replied the Prefect.

"I will look after them," said Don Luis simply.

Then, when they brought a doctor and when M. Desmalions gave orders for
the corpse to be carried to another room, Don Luis took the doctor
aside and said:

"There is no doubt that Inspector Vérot was poisoned. Look at his
wrist: you will see the mark of a puncture with a ring of inflammation
round it."

"Then he was pricked in that place?"

"Yes, with a pin or the point of a pen; and not as violently as they may
have wished, because death did not ensue until some hours later."

The messengers removed the corpse; and soon there was no one left in the
office except the five people whom the Prefect had originally sent for.
The American Secretary of Embassy and the Peruvian attaché, considering
their continued presence unnecessary, went away, after warmly
complimenting Don Luis Perenna on his powers of penetration.

Next came the turn of Major d'Astrignac, who shook his former subordinate
by the hand with obvious affection. And Maître Lepertais and Perenna,
having fixed an appointment for the payment of the legacy, were
themselves on the point of leaving, when M. Desmalions entered briskly.

"Ah, so you're still here, Don Luis Perenna! I'm glad of that. I have an
idea: those three letters which you say you made out on the
writing-table, are you sure they form the syllable Fau?"

"I think so, Monsieur le Préfet. See for yourself: are not these an 'F,'
an 'A' and a 'U?' And observe that the 'F' is a capital, which made me
suspect that the letters are the first syllable of a proper name."

"Just so, just so," said M. Desmalions. "Well, curiously enough, that
syllable happens to be--But wait, we'll verify our facts--"

M. Desmalions searched hurriedly among the letters which his secretary
had handed him on his arrival and which lay on a corner of the table.

"Ah, here we are!" he exclaimed, glancing at the signature of one of the
letters. "Here we are! It's as I thought: 'Fauville.'...The first
syllable is the same...Look, 'Fauville,' just like that, without
Christian name or initials. The letter must have been written in a
feverish moment: there is no date nor address...The writing is shaky--"

And M. Desmalions read out:

"MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET:

"A great danger is hanging over my head and over the head of my son.
Death is approaching apace. I shall have to-night, or to-morrow morning
at the latest, the proofs of the abominable plot that threatens us. I ask
leave to bring them to you in the course of the morning. I am in need of
protection and I call for your assistance.

"Permit me to be, etc. FAUVILLE."

"No other designation?" asked Perenna. "No letter-heading?"

"None. But there is no mistake. Inspector Vérot's declarations agree too
evidently with this despairing appeal. It is clearly M. Fauville and his
son who are to be murdered to-night. And the terrible thing is that, as
this name of Fauville is a very common one, it is impossible for our
inquiries to succeed in time."

"What, Monsieur le Préfet? Surely, by straining every nerve--"

"Certainly, we will strain every nerve; and I shall set all my men to
work. But observe that we have not the slightest clue."

"Oh, it would be awful!" cried Don Luis. "Those two creatures doomed to
death; and we unable to save them! Monsieur le Préfet, I ask you to
authorize me--"

He had not finished speaking when the Prefect's private secretary entered
with a visiting-card in his hand.

"Monsieur le Préfet, this caller was so persistent...I hesitated--"

M. Desmalions took the card and uttered an exclamation of mingled
surprise and joy.

"Look, Monsieur," he said to Perenna.

And he handed him the card.

 _Hippolyte Fauville,
   Civil Engineer.
14 bis Boulevard Suchet._

"Come," said M. Desmalions, "chance is favouring us. If this M. Fauville
is one of the Roussel heirs, our task becomes very much easier."

"In any case, Monsieur le Préfet," the solicitor interposed, "I must
remind you that one of the clauses of the will stipulates that it shall
not be read until forty-eight hours have elapsed. M. Fauville, therefore,
must not be informed--"

The door was pushed open and a man hustled the messenger aside and
rushed in.

"Inspector...Inspector Vérot?" he spluttered. "He's dead, isn't he? I
was told--"

"Yes, Monsieur, he is dead."

"Too late! I'm too late!" he stammered.

And he sank into a chair, clasping his hands and sobbing:

"Oh, the scoundrels! the scoundrels!"

He was a pale, hollow-cheeked, sickly looking man of about fifty.
His head was bald, above a forehead lined with deep wrinkles. A
nervous twitching affected his chin and the lobes of his ears. Tears
stood in his eyes.

The Prefect asked:

"Whom do you mean, Monsieur? Inspector Vérot's murderers? Are you able to
name them, to assist our inquiry?"

Hippolyte Fauville shook his head.

"No, no, it would be useless, for the moment...My proofs would not be
sufficient...No, really not."

He had already risen from his chair and stood apologizing:

"Monsieur le Préfet, I have disturbed you unnecessarily, but I wanted to
know...I was hoping that Inspector Vérot might have escaped...His
evidence, joined to mine, would have been invaluable. But perhaps he was
able to tell you?"

"No, he spoke of this evening--of to-night--"

Hippolyte Fauville started.

"This evening! Then the time has come!...But no, it's impossible, they
can't do anything to me yet...They are not ready--"

"Inspector Vérot declared, however, that the double murder would be
committed to-night."

"No, Monsieur le Préfet, he was wrong there...I know all about
it...To-morrow evening at the earliest...and we will catch them in a
trap...Oh, the scoundrels!"

Don Luis went up to him and asked:

"Your mother's name was Ermeline Roussel, was it not?"

"Yes, Ermeline Roussel. She is dead now."

"And she was from Saint-Etienne?"

"Yes. But why these questions?"

"Monsieur le Préfet will tell you to-morrow. One word more." He opened
the cardboard box left by Inspector Vérot. "Does this cake of chocolate
mean anything to you? These marks?"

"Oh, how awful!" said the civil engineer, in a hoarse tone. "Where did
the inspector find it?"

He dropped into his chair again, but only for a moment; then, drawing
himself up, he hurried toward the door with a jerky step.

"I'm going, Monsieur le Préfet, I'm going. To-morrow morning I'll show
you...I shall have all the proofs...And the police will protect
me...I am ill, I know, but I want to live! I have the right to
live...and my son, too...And we will live...Oh, the scoundrels!--"

And he ran, stumbling out, like a drunken man.

M. Desmalions rose hastily.

"I shall have inquiries made about that man's circumstances...I shall
have his house watched. I've telephoned to the detective office already.
I'm expecting some one in whom I have every confidence."

Don Luis said:

"Monsieur le Préfet, I beg you, with an earnestness which you will
understand, to authorize me to pursue the investigation. Cosmo
Mornington's will makes it my duty and, allow me to say, gives me the
right to do so. M. Fauville's enemies have given proofs of extraordinary
cleverness and daring. I want to have the honour of being at the post of
danger to-night, at M. Fauville's house, near his person."

The Prefect hesitated. He was bound to reflect how greatly to Don Luis
Perenna's interest it was that none of the Mornington heirs should be
discovered, or at least be able to come between him and the millions
of the inheritance. Was it safe to attribute to a noble sentiment of
gratitude, to a lofty conception of friendship and duty, that strange
longing to protect Hippolyte Fauville against the death that
threatened him?

For some seconds M. Desmalions watched that resolute face, those
intelligent eyes, at once innocent and satirical, grave and smiling, eyes
through which you could certainly not penetrate their owner's baffling
individuality, but which nevertheless looked at you with an expression of
absolute frankness and sincerity. Then he called his secretary:

"Has any one come from the detective office?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet; Sergeant Mazeroux is here."

"Please have him shown in."

And, turning to Perenna:

"Sergeant Mazeroux is one of our smartest detectives. I used to employ
him together with that poor Vérot when I wanted any one more than
ordinarily active and sharp. He will be of great use to you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sergeant Mazeroux entered. He was a short, lean, wiry man, whose drooping
moustache, heavy eyelids, watery eyes and long, lank hair gave him a most
doleful appearance.

"Mazeroux," said the Prefect, "you will have heard, by this time, of your
comrade Vérot's death and of the horrible circumstances attending it. We
must now avenge him and prevent further crimes. This gentleman, who knows
the case from end to end, will explain all that is necessary. You will
work with him and report to me to-morrow morning."

This meant giving a free hand to Don Luis Perenna and relying on his
power of initiative and his perspicacity. Don Luis bowed:

"I thank you, Monsieur le Préfet. I hope that you will have no reason to
regret the trust which you are good enough to place in me."

And, taking leave of M. Desmalions and Maître Lepertuis, he went out with
Sergeant Mazeroux.

As soon as they were outside, he told Mazeroux what he knew. The
detective seemed much impressed by his companion's professional gifts and
quite ready to be guided by his views.

They decided first to go to the Café du Pont-Neuf. Here they learned that
Inspector Vérot, who was a regular customer of the place, had written a
long letter there that morning. And the waiter remembered that a man at
the next table, who had entered the café at almost the same time as the
inspector, had also asked for writing-paper and called twice for yellow
envelopes.

"That's it," said Mazeroux to Don Luis. "As you suspected, one letter has
been substituted for the other."

The description given by the waiter was pretty explicit: a tall man, with
a slight stoop, wearing a reddish-brown beard cut into a point, a
tortoise-shell eyeglass with a black silk ribbon, and an ebony
walking-stick with a handle shaped like a swan's head.

"That's something for the police to go upon," said Mazeroux.

They were leaving the café when Don Luis stopped his companion.

"One moment."

"What's the matter?"

"We've been followed."

"Followed? What next? And by whom, pray?"

"No one that matters. I know who it is and I may as well settle his
business and have done with it. Wait for me. I shall be back; and I'll
show you some fun. You shall see one of the 'nuts,' I promise you."

He returned in a minute with a tall, thin man with his face set in
whiskers. He introduced him:

"M. Mazeroux, a friend of mine, Señor Caceres, an attaché at the Peruvian
Legation. Señor Caceres took part in the interview at the Prefect's just
now. It was he who, on the Peruvian Minister's instructions, collected
the documents bearing upon my identity." And he added gayly: "So you were
looking for me, dear Señor Caceres. Indeed, I expected, when we left the
police office--"

The Peruvian attaché made a sign and pointed to Sergeant Mazeroux.
Perenna replied:

"Oh, pray don't mind M. Mazeroux! You can speak before him; he is the
soul of discretion. Besides, he knows all about the business."

The attaché was silent. Perenna made him sit down in front of him.

"Speak without beating about the bush, dear Señor Caceres. It's a subject
that calls for plain dealing; and I don't mind a blunt word or two. It
saves such a lot of time! Come on. You want money, I suppose? Or, rather,
more money. How much?"

The Peruvian had a final hesitation, gave a glance at Don Luis's
companion, and then, suddenly making up his mind, said in a dull voice:

"Fifty thousand francs!"

"Oh, by Jove, by Jove!" cried Don Luis. "You're greedy, you know! What do
you say, M. Mazeroux? Fifty thousand francs is a lot of money. Especially
as--Look here, my dear Caceres, let's go over the ground again.

"Three years ago I had the honour of making your acquaintance in Algeria,
when you were touring the country. At the same time, I understood the
sort of man you were; and I asked you if you could manage, in three
years, with my name of Perenna, to fix me up a Spanish-Peruvian identity,
furnished with unquestionable papers and respectable ancestors. You said,
'Yes,' We settled the price: twenty thousand francs. Last week, when the
Prefect of Police asked me for my papers, I came to see you and learned
that you had just been instructed to make inquiries into my antecedents.

"Everything was ready, as it happened. With the papers of a deceased
Peruvian nobleman, of the name of Pereira, properly revised, you had
faked me up a first-rate civic status. We arranged what you were to say
before the Prefect of Police; and I paid up the twenty thousand. We were
quits. What more do you want?"

The Pervian attaché did not betray the least embarrassment. He put his
two elbows on the table and said, very calmly:

"Monsieur, when treating with you, three years ago, I thought I was
dealing with a gentleman who, hiding himself under the uniform of the
Foreign Legion, wished to recover the means to live respectably
afterward. To-day, I have to do with the universal legatee of Cosmo
Mornington, with a man who, to-morrow, under a false name, will receive
the sum of one million francs and, in a few months, perhaps, the sum of a
hundred millions. That's quite a different thing."

The argument seemed to strike Don Luis. Nevertheless, he objected:

"And, if I refuse--?"

"If you refuse, I shall inform the solicitor and the Prefect of Police
that I made an error in my inquiry and that there is some mistake about
Don Luis Perenna. In consequence of which you will receive nothing at all
and very likely find yourself in jail."

"With you, my worthy sir."

"Me?"

"Of course: on a charge of forgery and tampering with registers. For you
don't imagine that I should take it lying down."

The attaché did not reply. His nose, which was a very big one, seemed to
lengthen out still farther between his two long whiskers.

Don Luis began to laugh.

"Come, Señor Caceres, don't pull such a face! No one's going to hurt you.
Only don't think that you can corner me. Better men than you have tried
and have broken their backs in the process. And, upon my word, you don't
cut much of a figure when you're doing your best to diddle your
fellowmen.

"You look a bit of a mug, in fact, Caceres: a bit of a mug is what you
look. So it's understood, what? We lay down our arms. No more base
designs against our excellent friend Perenna. Capital, Señor Caceres,
capital. And now I'll be magnanimous and prove to you that the decent man
of us two is--the one whom any one would have thought!"

He produced a check-book on the Crédit Lyonnais.

"Here, my dear chap. Here's twenty thousand francs as a present from
Cosmo Mornington's legatee. Put it in your pocket and look pleasant. Say
thank you to the kind gentleman, and make yourself scarce without turning
your head any more than if you were one of old man Lot's daughters. Off
you go: hoosh!"

This was said in such a manner that the attaché obeyed Don Luis Perenna's
injunctions to the letter. He smiled as he pocketed the check, said thank
you twice over, and made off without turning his head.

"The low hound!" muttered Don Luis. "What do you say to that, Sergeant?"

Sergeant Mazeroux was looking at him in stupefaction, with his eyes
starting from his head.

"Well, but, Monsieur--"

"What, Sergeant?"

"Well, but, Monsieur, who are you?"

"Who am I?"

"Yes."

"Didn't they tell you? A Peruvian nobleman, or a Spanish nobleman, I
don't know which. In short, Don Luis Perenna."

"Bunkum! I've just heard--"

"Don Luis Perenna, late of the Foreign Legion."

"Enough of that, Monsieur--"

"Medaled and decorated with a stripe on every seam."

"Once more, Monsieur, enough of that; and come along with me to
the Prefect."

"But, let me finish, hang it! I was saying, late private in the Foreign
Legion...Late hero...Late prisoner of the Sureté...Late Russian
prince...Late chief of the detective service...Late--"

"But you're mad!" snarled the sergeant. "What's all this story?"

"It's a true story, Sergeant, and quite genuine. You ask me who I am; and
I'm telling you categorically. Must I go farther back? I have still more
titles to offer you: marquis, baron, duke, archduke, grand-duke,
petty-duke, superduke--the whole 'Almanach de Gotha,' by Jingo! If any
one told me that I had been a king, by all that's holy, I shouldn't dare
swear to the contrary!"

Sergeant Mazeroux put out his own hands, accustomed to rough work, seized
the seemingly frail wrists of the man addressing him and said:

"No nonsense, now. I don't know whom I've got hold of, but I shan't let
you go. You can say what you have to say at the Prefect's."

"Don't speak so loud, Alexandre."

The two frail wrists were released with unparalleled ease; the sergeant's
powerful hands were caught and rendered useless; and Don Luis grinned:

"Don't you know me, you idiot?"

Sergeant Mazeroux did not utter a word. His eyes started still farther
from his head. He tried to understand and remained absolutely dumfounded.

The sound of that voice, that way of jesting, that schoolboy playfulness
allied with that audacity, the quizzing expression of those eyes, and
lastly that Christian name of Alexandre, which was not his name at all
and which only one person used to give him, years ago. Was it possible?

"The chief!" he stammered. "The chief!"

"Why not?"

"No, no, because--"

"Because what?"

"Because you're dead."

"Well, what about it? D'you think it interferes with my living,
being dead?"

And, as the other seemed more and more perplexed, he laid his hand on his
shoulder and said:

"Who put you into the police office?"

"The Chief Detective, M. Lenormand."

"And who was M. Lenormand?"

"The chief."

"You mean Arsène Lupin, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, Alexandre, don't you know that it was much more difficult for
Arsène Lupin to be Chief Detective--and a masterly Chief Detective he
was--than to be Don Luis Perenna, to be decorated in the Foreign Legion,
to be a hero, and even to be alive after he was dead?"

Sergeant Mazeroux examined his companion in silence. Then his lacklustre
eyes brightened, his drab features turned scarlet and, suddenly striking
the table with his fist, he growled, in an angry voice:

"All right, very well! But I warn you that you mustn't reckon on me. No,
not that! I'm in the detective service; and in the detective service I
remain. Nothing doing. I've tasted honesty and I mean to eat no other
bread. No, no, no, no! No more humbug!"

Perenna shrugged his shoulders:

"Alexandre, you're an ass. Upon my word, the bread of honesty hasn't
enlarged your intelligence. Who talked of starting again?"

"But--"

"But what?"

"All your maneuvers, Chief."

"My maneuvers! Do you think I have anything to say to this business?"

"Look here, Chief--"

"Why, I'm out of it altogether, my lad! Two hours ago I knew no more
about it than you do. It's Providence that chucked this legacy at me,
without so much as shouting, 'Heads!' And it's in obedience to the
decrees of--"

"Then--?"

"It's my mission in life to avenge Cosmo Mornington, to find his natural
heirs, to protect them and to divide among them the hundred millions
that belong to them. That's all. Don't you call that the mission of an
honest man?"

"Yes, but--"

"Yes, but, if I don't fulfil it as an honest man: is that what you mean?"

"Chief--"

"Well, my lad, if you notice the least thing in my conduct that
dissatisfies you, if you discover a speck of black on Don Luis Perenna's
conscience, examined under the magnifying glass, don't hesitate: collar
me with both hands. I authorize you to do it. I order you to do it. Is
that enough for you?"

"It's not enough for it to be enough for me, Chief."

"What are you talking about?"

"There are the others."

"Explain yourself."

"Suppose you're nabbed?"

"How?"

"You can be betrayed."

"By whom?"

"Your old mates."

"Gone away. I've sent them out of France."

"Where to?"

"That's my secret. I left you at the police office, in case I should
require your services; and you see that I was right."

"But suppose the police discover your real identity?"

"Well?"

"They'll arrest you."

"Impossible!"

"Why?"

"They can't arrest me."

"For what reason?"

"You've said it yourself, fat-head: a first-class, tremendous,
indisputable reason."

"What do you mean?"

"_I'm dead_!"

Mazeroux seemed staggered. The argument struck him fully. He at once
perceived it, with all its common sense and all its absurdity. And
suddenly he burst into a roar of laughter which bent him in two and
convulsed his doleful features in the oddest fashion:

"Oh, Chief, just the same as always!...Lord, how funny!...Will I come
along? I should think I would! As often as you like! You're dead and
buried and put out of sight!...Oh, what a joke, what a joke!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Hippolyte Fauville, civil engineer, lived on the Boulevard Suchet, near
the fortifications, in a fair-sized private house having on its left a
small garden in which he had built a large room that served as his study.
The garden was thus reduced to a few trees and to a strip of grass along
the railings, which were covered with ivy and contained a gate that
opened on the Boulevard Suchet.

Don Luis Perenna went with Mazeroux to the commissary's office at Passy,
where Mazeroux, on Perenna's instructions, gave his name and asked to
have M. Fauville's house watched during the night by two policemen who
were to arrest any suspicious person trying to obtain admission. The
commissary agreed to the request.

Don Luis and Mazeroux next dined in the neighbourhood. At nine o'clock
they reached the front door of the house.

"Alexandre," said Perenna.

"Yes, Chief?"

"You're not afraid?"

"No, Chief. Why should I be?"

"Why? Because, in defending M. Fauville and his son, we are attacking
people who have a great interest in doing away with them and because
those people seem pretty wide-awake. Your life, my life: a breath, a
trifle. You're not afraid?"

"Chief," replied Mazeroux, "I can't say if I shall ever know what it
means to be afraid. But there's one case in which I certainly shall
never know."

"What case is that, old chap?"

"As long as I'm by your side, Chief."

And firmly he rang the bell.




CHAPTER THREE

A MAN DOOMED


The door was opened by a manservant. Mazeroux sent in his card.

Hippolyte received the two visitors in his study. The table, on which
stood a movable telephone, was littered with books, pamphlets, and
papers. There were two tall desks, with diagrams and drawings, and some
glass cases containing reduced models, in ivory and steel, of apparatus
constructed or invented by the engineer.

A large sofa stood against the wall. In one corner was a winding
staircase that led to a circular gallery. An electric chandelier hung
from the ceiling.

Mazeroux, after stating his quality and introducing his friend Perenna
as also sent by the Prefect of Police, at once expounded the object of
their visit.

M. Desmalions, he said, was feeling anxious on the score of very serious
indications which he had just received and, without waiting for the next
day's interview, begged M. Fauville to take all the precautions which his
detectives might advise.

Fauville at first displayed a certain ill humour.

"My precautions are taken, gentlemen, and well taken. And, on the other
hand, I am afraid that your interference may do harm."

"In what way?"

"By arousing the attention of my enemies and preventing me, for that
reason, from collecting proofs which I need in order to confound them."

"Can you explain--?"

"No, I cannot...To-morrow, to-morrow morning--not before."

"And if it's too late?" Don Luis interjected.

"Too late? To-morrow?"

"Inspector Vérot told M. Desmalions's secretary that the two murders
would take place to-night. He said it was fatal and irrevocable."

"To-night?" cried Fauville angrily. "I tell you no! Not to-night.
I'm sure of that. There are things which I know, aren't there, which
you do not?"

"Yes," retorted Don Luis, "but there may also be things which Inspector
Vérot knew and which you don't know. He had perhaps learned more of your
enemies' secrets than you did. The proof is that he was suspected, that a
man carrying an ebony walking-stick was seen watching his movements,
that, lastly, he was killed."

Hippolyte Fauville's self-assurance decreased. Perenna took advantage of
this to insist; and he insisted to such good purpose that Fauville,
though without withdrawing from his reserve, ended by yielding before a
will that was stronger than his own.

"Well, but you surely don't intend to spend the night in here?"

"We do indeed."

"Why, it's ridiculous! It's sheer waste of time! After all, looking at
things from the worst--And what do you want besides?"

"Who lives in the house?"

"Who? My wife, to begin with. She has the first floor."

"Mme. Fauville is not threatened?"

"No, not at all. It's I who am threatened with death; I and my son
Edmond. That is why, for the past week, instead of sleeping in my regular
bedroom, I have locked myself up in this room. I have given my work as a
pretext; a quantity of writing which keeps me up very late and for which
I need my son's assistance."

"Does he sleep here, then?"

"He sleeps above us, in a little room which I have had arranged for him.
The only access to it is by this inner staircase."

"Is he there now?"

"Yes, he's asleep."

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

"But the fact that you have changed your room shows that you feared some
one would attack you. Whom had you in mind? An enemy living in the house?
One of your servants? Or people from the outside? In that case, how could
they get in? The whole question lies in that."

"To-morrow, to-morrow," replied Fauville, obstinately. "I will explain
everything to-morrow--"

"Why not to-night?" Perenna persisted.

"Because I want proofs, I tell you; because the mere fact of my talking
may have terrible consequences--and I am frightened; yes, I'm
frightened--"

He was trembling, in fact, and looked so wretched and terrified that Don
Luis insisted no longer.

"Very well," he said, "I will only ask your permission, for my comrade
and myself, to spend the night where we can hear you if you call."

"As you please, Monsieur. Perhaps, after all, that will be best."

At that moment one of the servants knocked and came in to say that his
mistress wished to see the master before she went out. Madame Fauville
entered almost immediately. She bowed pleasantly as Perenna and Mazeroux
rose from their chairs.

She was a woman between thirty and thirty-five, a woman of a bright and
smiling beauty, which she owed to her blue eyes, to her wavy hair, to all
the charm of her rather vapid but amiable and very pretty face. She wore
a long, figured-silk cloak over an evening dress that showed her fine
shoulders.

Her husband said, in surprise

"Are you going out to-night?"

"You forget," she said. "The Auverards offered me a seat in their box at
the opera; and you yourself asked me to look in at Mme. d'Ersingen's
party afterward--"

"So I did, so I did," he said. "It escaped my memory; I am working so
hard."

She finished buttoning her gloves and asked:

"Won't you come and fetch me at Mme. d'Ersingen's?"

"What for?"

"They would like it."

"But I shouldn't. Besides, I don't feel well enough."

"Then I'll make your apologies for you."

"Yes, do."

She drew her cloak around her with a graceful gesture, and stood for a
few moments, without moving, as though seeking a word of farewell.
Then she said:

"Edmond's not here! I thought he was working with you?"

"He was feeling tired."

"Is he asleep?"

"Yes."

"I wanted to kiss him good-night."

"No, you would only wake him. And here's your car; so go, dear. Amuse
yourself."

"Oh, amuse myself!" she said. "There's not much amusement about the opera
and an evening party."

"Still, it's better than keeping one's room."

There was some little constraint. It was obviously one of those
ill-assorted households in which the husband, suffering in health and not
caring for the pleasures of society, stays at home, while the wife seeks
the enjoyments to which her age and habits entitle her.

As he said nothing more, she bent over and kissed him on the forehead.
Then, once more bowing to the two visitors, she went out. A moment later
they heard the sound of the motor driving away.

Hippolyte Fauville at once rose and rang the bell. Then he said:

"No one here has any idea of the danger hanging over me. I have confided
in nobody, not even in Silvestre, my own man, though he has been in my
service for years and is honesty itself."

The manservant entered.

"I am going to bed, Silvestre," said M. Fauville. "Get everything ready."

Silvestre opened the upper part of the great sofa, which made a
comfortable bed, and laid the sheets and blankets. Next, at his master's
orders, he brought a jug of water, a glass, a plate of biscuits, and a
dish of fruit.

M. Fauville ate a couple of biscuits and then cut a dessert-apple. It was
not ripe. He took two others, felt them, and, not thinking them good, put
them back as well. Then he peeled a pear and ate it.

"You can leave the fruit dish," he said to his man. "I shall be glad of
it, if I am hungry during the night...Oh, I was forgetting! These two
gentlemen are staying. Don't mention it to anybody. And, in the morning,
don't come until I ring."

The man placed the fruit dish on the table before retiring. Perenna, who
was noticing everything, and who was afterward to remember every smallest
detail of that evening, which his memory recorded with a sort of
mechanical faithfulness, counted three pears and four apples in the dish.

Meanwhile, Fauville went up the winding staircase, and, going along the
gallery, reached the room where his son lay in bed.

"He's fast asleep," he said to Perenna, who had joined him.

The bedroom was a small one. The air was admitted by a special system of
ventilation, for the dormer window was hermetically closed by a wooden
shutter tightly nailed down.

"I took the precaution last year," Hippolyte Fauville explained. "I used
to make my electrical experiments in this room and was afraid of being
spied upon, so I closed the aperture opening on the roof."

And he added in a low voice:

"They have been prowling around me for a long time."

The two men went downstairs again.

Fauville looked at his watch.

"A quarter past ten: bedtime, I am exceedingly tired, and you will
excuse me--"

It was arranged that Perenna and Mazeroux should make themselves
comfortable in a couple of easy chairs which they carried into the
passage between the study and the entrance hall. But, before bidding them
good-night, Hippolyte Fauville, who, although greatly excited, had
appeared until then to retain his self-control, was seized with a sudden
attack of weakness. He uttered a faint cry. Don Luis turned round and saw
the sweat pouring like gleaming water down his face and neck, while he
shook with fever and anguish.

"What's the matter?" asked Perenna.

"I'm frightened! I'm frightened!" he said.

"This is madness!" cried Don Luis. "Aren't we here, the two of us? We can
easily spend the night with you, if you prefer, by your bedside."

Fauville replied by shaking Perenna violently by the shoulder, and, with
distorted features, stammering:

"If there were ten of you--if there were twenty of you with me, you need
not think that it would spoil their schemes! They can do anything they
please, do you hear, anything! They have already killed Inspector
Vérot--they will kill me--and they will kill my son. Oh, the blackguards!
My God, take pity on me! The awful terror of it! The pain I suffer!"

He had fallen on his knees and was striking his breast and repeating:

"O God, have pity on me! I can't die! I can't let my son die! Have pity
on me, I beseech Thee!"

He sprang to his feet and led Perenna to a glass-fronted case, which
he rolled back on its brass castors, revealing a small safe built
into the wall.

"You will find my whole story here, written up day by day for the past
three years. If anything should happen to me, revenge will be easy."

He hurriedly turned the letters of the padlock and, with a key which he
took from his pocket, opened the safe.

It was three fourths empty; but on one of the shelves, between some piles
of papers, was a diary bound in drab cloth, with a rubber band round it.
He took the diary, and, emphasizing his words, said:

"There, look, it's all in here. With this, the hideous business can
be reconstructed...There are my suspicions first and then my
certainties...Everything, everything...how to trap them and how
to do for them...You'll remember, won't you? A diary bound in drab
cloth...I'm putting it back in the safe."

Gradually his calmness returned. He pushed back the glass case, tidied a
few papers, switched on the electric lamp above his bed, put out the
lights in the middle of the ceiling, and asked Don Luis and Mazeroux to
leave him.

Don Luis, who was walking round the room and examining the iron shutters
of the two windows, noticed a door opposite the entrance door and asked
the engineer about it.

"I use it for my regular clients," said Fauville, "and sometimes I go out
that way."

"Does it open on the garden?"

"Yes."

"Is it properly closed?"

"You can see for yourself; it's locked and bolted with a safety bolt.
Both keys are on my bunch; so is the key of the garden gate."

He placed the bunch of keys on the table with his pocket-book and, after
first winding it, his watch.

Don Luis, without troubling to ask permission, took the keys and
unfastened the lock and the bolt. A flight of three steps brought him to
the garden. He followed the length of the narrow border. Through the ivy
he saw and heard the two policemen pacing up and down the boulevard. He
tried the lock of the gate. It was fastened.

"Everything's all right," he said when he returned, "and you can be easy.
Good-night."

"Good-night," said the engineer, seeing Perenna and Mazeroux out.

Between his study and the passage were two doors, one of which was padded
and covered with oilcloth. On the other side, the passage was separated
from the hall by a heavy curtain.

"You can go to sleep," said Perenna to his companion. "I'll sit up."

"But surely, Chief, you don't think that anything's going to happen!"

"I don't think so, seeing the precautions which we've taken. But,
knowing Inspector Vérot as you did, do you think he was the man to
imagine things?"

"No, Chief."

"Well, you know what he prophesied. That means that he had his reasons
for doing so. And therefore I shall keep my eyes open."

"We'll take it in turns, Chief; wake me when it's my time to watch."

Seated motionlessly, side by side, they exchanged an occasional remark.
Soon after, Mazeroux fell asleep. Don Luis remained in his chair without
moving, his ears pricked up. Everything was quiet in the house. Outside,
from time to time, the sound of a motor car or of a cab rolled by. He
could also hear the late trains on the Auteuil line.

He rose several times and went up to the door. Not a sound. Hippolyte
Fauville was evidently asleep.

"Capital!" said Perenna to himself. "The boulevard is watched. No one can
enter the room except by this way. So there is nothing to fear."

At two o'clock in the morning a car stopped outside the house, and one of
the manservants, who must have been waiting in the kitchen, hastened to
the front door. Perenna switched off the light in the passage, and,
drawing the curtain slightly aside, saw Mme. Fauville enter, followed by
Silvestre.

She went up. The lights on the staircase were put out. For half an hour
or so there was a sound overhead of voices and of chairs moving. Then all
was silence.

And, amid this silence, Perenna felt an unspeakable anguish arise within
him, he could not tell why. But it was so violent, the impression became
so acute, that he muttered:

"I shall go and see if he's asleep. I don't expect that he has bolted
the doors."

He had only to push both doors to open them; and, with his electric
lantern in his hand, he went up to the bed. Hippolyte Fauville was
sleeping with his face turned to the wall.

Perenna gave a smile of relief. He returned to the passage and,
shaking Mazeroux:

"Your turn, Alexandre."

"No news, Chief?"

"No, none; he's asleep."

"How do you know?"

"I've had a look at him."

"That's funny; I never heard you. It's true, though, I've slept
like a pig."

He followed Perenna into the study, and Perenna said:

"Sit down and don't wake him. I shall take forty winks."

He had one more turn at sentry duty. But, even while dozing, he remained
conscious of all that happened around him. A clock struck the hours with
a low chime; and each time Perenna counted the strokes. Then came the
life outside awakening, the rattle of the milk-carts, the whistle of the
early suburban trains.

People began to stir inside the house. The daylight trickled in
through the crannies of the shutters, and the room gradually became
filled with light.

"Let's go away," said Sergeant Mazeroux. "It would be better for him not
to find us here."

"Hold your tongue!" said Don Luis, with an imperious gesture.

"Why?"

"You'll wake him up."

"But you can see I'm not waking him," said Mazeroux, without
lowering his tone.

"That's true, that's true," whispered Don Luis, astonished that the sound
of that voice had not disturbed the sleeper.

And he felt himself overcome with the same anguish that had seized upon
him in the middle of the night, a more clearly defined anguish, although
he would not, although he dared not, try to realize the reason of it.

"What's the matter with you, Chief? You're looking like nothing on earth.
What is it?"

"Nothing--nothing. I'm frightened--"

Mazeroux shuddered.

"Frightened of what? You say that just as he did last night."

"Yes...yes...and for the same reason."

"But--?"

"Don't you understand? Don't you understand that I'm wondering--?"

"No; what?"

"If he's not dead!"

"But you're mad, Chief!"

"No...I don't know...Only, only...I have an impression of death--"

Lantern in hand, he stood as one paralyzed, opposite the bed; and he
who was afraid of nothing in the world had not the courage to throw the
light on Hippolyte Fauville's face. A terrifying silence rose and
filled the room.

"Oh, Chief, he's not moving!"

"I know...I know...and I now see that he has not moved once during
the night. And that's what frightens me."

He had to make a real effort in order to step forward. He was now almost
touching the bed.

The engineer did not appear to breathe.

This time, Perenna resolutely took hold of his hand.

It was icy cold.

Don Luis at once recovered all his self-possession.

"The window! Open the window!" he cried.

And, when the light flooded the room, he saw the face of Hippolyte
Fauville all swollen, stained with brown patches.

"Oh," he said, under his breath, "he's dead!"

"Dash it all! Dash it all!" spluttered the detective sergeant.

For two or three minutes they stood petrified, stupefied, staggered at
the sight of this most astonishing and mysterious phenomenon. Then a
sudden idea made Perenna start. He flew up the winding staircase, rushed
along the gallery, and darted into the attic.

Edmond, Hippolyte Fauville's son, lay stiff and stark on his bed, with a
cadaverous face, dead, too.

"Dash it all! Dash it all!" repeated Mazeroux.

Never, perhaps, in the course of his adventurous career, had Perenna
experienced such a knockdown blow. It gave him a feeling of extreme
lassitude, depriving him of all power of speech or movement. Father and
son were dead! They had been killed during that night! A few hours
earlier, though the house was watched and every outlet hermetically
closed, both had been poisoned by an infernal puncture, even as Inspector
Vérot was poisoned, even as Cosmo Mornington was poisoned.

"Dash it all!" said Mazeroux once more. "It was not worth troubling about
the poor devils and performing such miracles to save them!"

The exclamation conveyed a reproach. Perenna grasped it and admitted:

"You are right, Mazeroux; I was not equal to the job."

"Nor I, Chief."

"You...you have only been in this business since yesterday evening--"

"Well, so have you, Chief!"

"Yes, I know, since yesterday evening, whereas the others have been
working at it for weeks and weeks. But, all the same, these two are dead;
and I was there, I, Lupin, was there! The thing has been done under my
eyes; and I saw nothing! I saw nothing! How is it possible?"

He uncovered the poor boy's shoulders, showing the mark of a puncture at
the top of the arm.

"The same mark--the same mark obviously that we shall find on the
father...The lad does not seem to have suffered, either...Poor little
chap! He did not look very strong...Never mind, it's a nice face; what
a terrible blow for his mother when she learns!"

The detective sergeant wept with anger and pity, while he kept on
mumbling:

"Dash it all!...Dash it all!"

"We shall avenge them, eh, Mazeroux?"

"Rather, Chief! Twice over!"

"Once will do, Mazeroux. But it shall be done with a will."

"That I swear it shall!"

"You're right; let's swear. Let us swear that this dead pair shall be
avenged. Let us swear not to lay down our arms until the murderers of
Hippolyte Fauville and his son are punished as they deserve."

"I swear it as I hope to be saved, Chief."

"Good!" said Perenna. "And now to work. You go and telephone at once to
the police office. I am sure that M. Desmalions will approve of your
informing him without delay. He takes an immense interest in the case."

"And if the servants come? If Mme. Fauville--?"

"No one will come till we open the doors; and we shan't open them except
to the Prefect of Police. It will be for him, afterward, to tell Mme.
Fauville that she is a widow and that she has no son. Go! Hurry!"

"One moment, Chief; we are forgetting something that will help us
enormously."

"What's that?"

"The little drab-cloth diary in the safe, in which M. Fauville describes
the plot against him."

"Why, of course!" said Perenna. "You're right...especially as he
omitted to mix up the letters of the lock last night, and the key is on
the bunch which he left lying on the table."

They ran down the stairs.

"Leave this to me," said Mazeroux. "It's more regular that you shouldn't
touch the safe."

He took the bunch, moved the glass case, and inserted the key with a
feverish emotion which Don Luis felt even more acutely than he did. They
were at last about to know the details of the mysterious story. The dead
man himself would betray the secret of his murderers.

"Lord, what a time you take!" growled Don Luis.

Mazeroux plunged both hands into the crowd of papers that encumbered the
iron shelf.

"Well, Mazeroux, hand it over."

"What?"

"The diary."

"I can't Chief."

"What's that?"

"It's gone."

Don Luis stifled an oath. The drab-cloth diary, which the engineer had
placed in the safe before their eyes, had disappeared.

Mazeroux shook his head.

"Dash it all! So they knew about that diary!"

"Of course they did; and they knew plenty of other things besides.
We've not seen the end of it with those fellows. There's no time to
lose. Ring up!"

Mazeroux did so and soon received the answer that M. Desmalions was
coming to the telephone. He waited.

In a few minutes Perenna, who had been walking up and down, examining
different objects in the room, came and sat down beside Mazeroux. He
seemed thoughtful. He reflected for some time. But then, his eyes falling
on the fruit dish, he muttered:

"Hullo! There are only three apples instead of four. Then he ate
the fourth."

"Yes," said Mazeroux, "he must have eaten it."

"That's funny," replied Perenna, "for he didn't think them ripe."

He was silent once more, sat leaning his elbows on the table, visibly
preoccupied; then, raising his head, he let fall these words:

"The murder was committed before we entered the room, at half-past
twelve exactly."

"How do you know, Chief?"

"M. Fauville's murderer or murderers, in touching the things on the
table, knocked down the watch which M. Fauville had placed there.
They put it back; but the fall had stopped it. And it stopped at
half-past twelve."

"Then, Chief, when we settled ourselves here, at two in the morning, it
was a corpse that was lying beside us and another over our heads?"

"Yes."

"But how did those devils get in?"

"Through this door, which opens on the garden, and through the gate that
opens on the Boulevard Suchet."

"Then they had keys to the locks and bolts?"

"False keys, yes."

"But the policemen watching the house outside?"

"They are still watching it, as that sort watch a house, walking from
point to point without thinking that people can slip into a garden
while they have their backs turned. That's what took place in coming
and going."

Sergeant Mazeroux seemed flabbergasted. The criminals' daring, their
skill, the precision of their acts bewildered him.

"They're deuced clever," he said.

"Deuced clever, Mazeroux, as you say; and I foresee a tremendous battle.
By Jupiter, with what a vim they set to work!"

The telephone bell rang. Don Luis left Mazeroux to his conversation with
the Prefect, and, taking the bunch of keys, easily unfastened the lock
and the bolt of the door and went out into the garden, in the hope of
there finding some trace that should facilitate his quest.

As on the day before, he saw, through the ivy, two policemen walking
between one lamp-post and the next. They did not see him. Moreover,
anything that might happen inside the house appeared to be to them a
matter of total indifference.

"That's my great mistake," said Perenna to himself. "It doesn't do to
entrust a job to people who do not suspect its importance."

His investigations led to the discovery of some traces of footsteps on
the gravel, traces not sufficiently plain to enable him to distinguish
the shape of the shoes that had left them, yet distinct enough to confirm
his supposition. The scoundrels had been that way.

Suddenly he gave a movement of delight. Against the border of the path,
among the leaves of a little clump of rhododendrons, he saw something
red, the shape of which at once struck him. He stooped. It was an
apple, the fourth apple, the one whose absence from the fruit dish he
had noticed.

"Excellent!" he said. "Hippolyte Fauville did not eat it. One of them
must have carried it away--a fit of appetite, a sudden hunger--and it
must have rolled from his hand without his having time to look for it and
pick it up."

He took up the fruit and examined it.

"What!" he exclaimed, with a start. "Can it be possible?"

He stood dumfounded, a prey to real excitement, refusing to admit the
inadmissible thing which nevertheless presented itself to his eyes
with the direct evidence of actuality. Some one had bitten into the
apple; into the apple which was too sour to eat. And the teeth had
left their mark!

"Is it possible?" repeated Don Luis. "Is it possible that one of them
can have been guilty of such an imprudence! The apple must have
fallen without his knowing...or he must have been unable to find it
in the dark."

He could not get over his surprise. He cast about for plausible
explanations. But the fact was there before him. Two rows of teeth,
cutting through the thin red peel, had left their regular, semicircular
bite clearly in the pulp of the fruit. They were clearly marked on the
top, while the lower row had melted into a single curved line.

"The teeth of the tiger!" murmured Perenna, who could not remove his eyes
from that double imprint. "The teeth of the tiger! The teeth that had
already left their mark on Inspector Vérot's piece of chocolate! What a
coincidence! It can hardly be fortuitous. Must we not take it as certain
that the same person bit into this apple and into that cake of chocolate
which Inspector Vérot brought to the police office as an incontestable
piece of evidence?"

He hesitated a second. Should he keep this evidence for himself, for the
personal inquiry which he meant to conduct? Or should he surrender it to
the investigations of the police? But the touch of the object filled him
with such repugnance, with such a sense of physical discomfort, that he
flung away the apple and sent it rolling under the leaves of the shrubs.

And he repeated to himself:

"The teeth of the tiger! The teeth of the wild beast!"

He locked the garden door behind him, bolted it, put back the keys on the
table and said to Mazeroux:

"Have you spoken to the Chief of Police?"

"Yes."

"Is he coming?"

"Yes."

"Didn't he order you to telephone for the commissary of police?"

"No."

"That means that he wants to see everything by himself. So much the
better. But the detective office? The public prosecutor?"

"He's told them."

"What's the matter with you, Alexandre? I have to drag your answers out
of you. Well, what is it? You're looking at me very queerly. What's up?"

"Nothing."

"That's all right. I expect this business has turned your head. And no
wonder...The Prefect won't enjoy himself, either,...especially as he
put his faith in me a bit light-heartedly and will be called upon to give
an explanation of my presence here. By the way, it's much better that you
should take upon yourself the responsibility for all that we have done.
Don't you agree? Besides, it'll do you all the good in the world.

"Put yourself forward, flatly; suppress me as much as you can; and, above
all--I don't suppose that you will have any objection to this little
detail--don't be such a fool as to say that you went to sleep for a
single second, last night, in the passage. First of all, you'd only be
blamed for it. And then...well, that's understood, eh? So we have only
to say good-bye.

"If the Prefect wants me, as I expect he will, telephone to my address,
Place du Palais-Bourbon. I shall be there. Good-bye. It is not necessary
for me to assist at the inquiry; my presence would be out of place.
Good-bye, old chap."

He turned toward the door of the passage.

"Half a moment!" cried Mazeroux.

"Half a moment?...What do you mean?"

The detective sergeant had flung himself between him and the door and was
blocking his way.

"Yes, half a moment...I am not of your opinion. It's far better that
you should wait until the Prefect comes."

"But I don't care a hang about your opinion!"

"May be; but you shan't pass."

"What! Why, Alexandre, you must be ill!"

"Look here, Chief," said Mazeroux feebly. "What can it matter to you?
It's only natural that the Prefect should wish to speak to you."

"Ah, it's the Prefect who wishes, is it?...Well, my lad, you can tell
him that I am not at his orders, that I am at nobody's orders, and that,
if the President of the Republic, if Napoleon I himself were to bar my
way...Besides, rats! Enough said. Get out of the road!"

"You shall not pass!" declared Mazeroux, in a resolute tone,
extending his arms.

"Well, I like that!"

"You shall not pass."

"Alexandre, just count ten."

"A hundred, if you like, but you shall not..."

"Oh, blow your catchwords! Get out of this."

He seized Mazeroux by both shoulders, made him spin round on his
heels and, with a push, sent him floundering over the sofa. Then he
opened the door.

"Halt, or I fire!"

It was Mazeroux, who had scrambled to his feet and now stood with his
revolver in his hand and a determined expression on his face.

Don Luis stopped in amazement. The threat was absolutely indifferent to
him, and the barrel of that revolver aimed at him left him as cold as
could be. But by what prodigy did Mazeroux, his former accomplice, his
ardent disciple, his devoted servant, by what prodigy did Mazeroux dare
to act as he was doing?

Perenna went up to him and pressed gently on the detective's
outstretched arm.

"Prefect's orders?" he asked.

"Yes," muttered the sergeant, uncomfortably.

"Orders to keep me here until he comes?"

"Yes."

"And if I betrayed an intention of leaving, to prevent me?"

"Yes."

"By every means?"

"Yes."

"Even by putting a bullet through my skin?"

"Yes."

Perenna reflected; and then, in a serious voice:

"Would you have fired, Mazeroux?"

The sergeant lowered his head and said faintly:

"Yes, Chief."

Perenna looked at him without anger, with a glance of affectionate
sympathy; and it was an absorbing sight for him to see his former
companion dominated by such a sense of discipline and duty. Nothing was
able to prevail against that sense, not even the fierce admiration, the
almost animal attachment which Mazeroux retained for his master.

"I'm not angry, Mazeroux. In fact, I approve. Only you must tell me the
reason why the Prefect of Police--"

The detective did not reply, but his eyes wore an expression of such
sadness that Don Luis started, suddenly understanding.

"No," he cried, "no!...It's absurd...he can't have thought
that!...And you, Mazeroux, do you believe me guilty?"

"Oh, I, Chief, am as sure of you as I am of myself!...You don't take
life!...But, all the same, there are things...coincidences--"

"Things...coincidences..." repeated Don Luis slowly.

He remained pensive; and, in a low voice, he said:

"Yes, after all, there's truth in what you say...Yes, it all fits
in...Why didn't I think of it?...My relations with Cosmo Mornington,
my arrival in Paris in time for the reading of the will, my insisting on
spending the night here, the fact that the death of the two Fauvilles
undoubtedly gives me the millions...And then...and then...why, he's
absolutely right, your Prefect of Police!...All the more so as...Well,
there, I'm a goner!"

"Come, come, Chief!"

"A dead-goner, old chap; you just get that into your head. Not as Arsène
Lupin, ex-burglar, ex-convict, ex-anything you please--I'm unattackable
on that ground--but as Don Luis Perenna, respectable man, residuary
legatee, and the rest of it. And it's too stupid! For, after all, who
will find the murderers of Cosmo, Vérot, and the two Fauvilles, if they
go clapping me into jail?"

"Come, come, Chief--"

"Shut up!...Listen!"

A motor car was stopping on the boulevard, followed by another. It
was evidently the Prefect and the magistrates from the public
prosecutor's office.

Don Luis took Mazeroux by the arm.

"There's only one way out of it, Alexandre! Don't say you went to sleep."

"I must, Chief."

"You silly ass!" growled Don Luis. "How is it possible to be such an ass!
It's enough to disgust one with honesty. What am I to do, then?"

"Discover the culprit, Chief."

"What!...What are you talking about?"

Mazeroux, in his turn, took him by the arm and, clutching him with a sort
of despair, said, in a voice choked with tears:

"Discover the culprit, Chief. If not, you're done for...that's
certain...the Prefect told me so...The police want a
culprit...they want him this evening...One has got to be
found...It's up to you to find him."

"What you have, Alexandre, is a merry wit."

"It's child's play for you, Chief. You have only to set your mind to it."

"But there's not the least clue, you ass!"

"You'll find one...you must...I entreat you, hand them over to
somebody...It would be more than I could bear if you were arrested.
You, the chief, accused of murder! No, no...I entreat you, discover the
criminal and hand him over...You have the whole day to do it in...and
Lupin has done greater things than that!"

He was stammering, weeping, wringing his hands, grimacing with every
feature of his comic face. And it was really touching, this grief, this
dismay at the approach of the danger that threatened his master.

M. Desmalions's voice was heard in the hall, through the curtain that
closed the passage. A third motor car stopped on the boulevard, and a
fourth, both doubtless laden with policemen.

The house was surrounded, besieged.

Perenna was silent.

Beside him, anxious-faced, Mazeroux seemed to be imploring him.

A few seconds elapsed.

Then Perenna declared, deliberately:

"Looking at things all round, Alexandre, I admit that you have seen the
position clearly and that your fears are fully justified. If I do not
manage to hand over the murderer or murderers of Hippolyte Fauville and
his son to the police in a few hours from now, it is I, Don Luis Perenna,
who will be lodged in durance vile on the evening of this Thursday, the
first of April."




CHAPTER FOUR

THE CLOUDED TURQUOISE


It was about nine o'clock in the morning when the Prefect of Police
entered the study in which the incomprehensible tragedy of that double
murder had been enacted.

He did not even bow to Don Luis; and the magistrates who accompanied him
might have thought that Don Luis was merely an assistant of Sergeant
Mazeroux, if the chief detective had not made it his business to tell
them, in a few words, the part played by the stranger.

M. Desmalions briefly examined the two corpses and received a rapid
explanation from Mazeroux. Then, returning to the hall, he went up to a
drawing-room on the first floor, where Mme. Fauville, who had been
informed of his visit, joined him almost at once.

Perenna, who had not stirred from the passage, slipped into the hall
himself. The servants of the house, who by this time had heard of the
murder, were crossing it in every direction. He went down the few stairs
leading to a ground-floor landing, on which the front door opened.

There were two men there, of whom one said:

"You can't pass."

"But--"

"You can't pass: those are our orders."

"Your orders? Who gave them?"

"The Prefect himself."

"No luck," said Perenna, laughing. "I have been up all night and I am
starving. Is there no way of getting something to eat?"

The two policemen exchanged glances and one of them beckoned to Silvestre
and spoke to him. Silvestre went toward the dining-room, and returned
with a horseshoe roll.

"Good," thought Don Luis, after thanking him. "This settles it. I'm
nabbed. That's what I wanted to know. But M. Desmalions is deficient in
logic. For, if it's Arsène Lupin whom he means to detain here, all these
worthy plain-clothesmen are hardly enough; and, if it's Don Luis Perenna,
they are superfluous, because the flight of Master Perenna would deprive
Master Perenna of every chance of seeing the colour of my poor Cosmo's
shekels. Having said which, I will take a chair."

He resumed his seat in the passage and awaited events.

Through the open door of the study he saw the magistrates pursuing
their investigations. The divisional surgeon made a first examination
of the two bodies and at once recognized the same symptoms of poisoning
which he himself had perceived, the evening before, on the corpse of
Inspector Vérot.

Next, the detectives took up the bodies and carried them to the adjoining
bedrooms which the father and son formerly occupied on the second floor
of the house.

The Prefect of Police then came downstairs; and Don Luis heard him say to
the magistrates:

"Poor woman! She refused to understand...When at last she understood,
she fell to the ground in a dead faint. Only think, her husband and her
son at one blow!...Poor thing!"

From that moment Perenna heard and saw nothing. The door was shut. The
Prefect must afterward have given some order through the outside, through
the communication with the front door offered by the garden, for the two
detectives came and took up their positions in the hall, at the entrance
to the passage, on the right and left of the dividing curtain.

"One thing's certain," thought Don Luis. "My shares are not booming. What
a state Alexandre must be in! Oh, what a state!"

At twelve o'clock Silvestre brought him some food on a tray.

And the long and painful wait began anew.

In the study and in the house, the inquiry, which had been adjourned for
lunch, was resumed. Perenna heard footsteps and the sound of voices on
every side. At last, feeling tired and bored, he leaned back in his chair
and fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was four o'clock when Sergeant Mazeroux came and woke him. As he led
him to the study, Mazeroux whispered:

"Well, have you discovered him?"

"Whom?"

"The murderer."

"Of course!" said Perenna. "It's as easy as shelling peas!"

"That's a good thing!" said Mazeroux, greatly relieved and failing to see
the joke. "But for that, as you saw for yourself, you would have been
done for."

Don Luis entered. In the room were the public prosecutor, the examining
magistrate, the chief detective, the local commissary of police, two
inspectors, and three constables in uniform.

Outside, on the Boulevard Suchet, shouts were raised; and, when the
commissary and his three policemen went out, by the Prefect's orders, to
listen to the crowd, the hoarse voice of a newsboy was heard shouting:

"The double murder on the Boulevard Suchet! Full particulars of the death
of Inspector Vérot! The police at a loss!--"

Then, when the door was closed, all was silent.

"Mazeroux was quite right," thought Don Luis. "It's I or the other one:
that's clear. Unless the words that will be spoken and the facts that
will come to light in the course of this examination supply me with some
clue that will enable me to give them the name of that mysterious X,
they'll surrender me this evening for the people to batten on. Attention,
Lupin, old chap, the great game is about to commence!"

He felt that thrill of delight which always ran through him at the
approach of the great struggles. This one, indeed, might be numbered
among the most terrible that he had yet sustained.

He knew the Prefect's reputation, his experience, his tenacity, and the
keen pleasure which he took in conducting important inquiries and in
personally pushing them to a conclusion before placing them in the
magistrate's hands; and he also knew all the professional qualities of
the chief detective, and all the subtlety, all the penetrating logic
possessed by the examining magistrate.

The Prefect of Police himself directed the attack. He did so in a
straightforward fashion, without beating about the bush, and in a rather
harsh voice, which had lost its former tone of sympathy for Don Luis. His
attitude also was more formal and lacked that geniality which had struck
Don Luis on the previous day.

"Monsieur," he said, "circumstances having brought about that, as the
residuary legatee and representative of Mr. Cosmo Mornington, you spent
the night on this ground floor while a double murder was being committed
here, we wish to receive your detailed evidence as to the different
incidents that occurred last night."

"In other words, Monsieur le Préfet," said Perenna, replying directly to
the attack, "in other words, circumstances having brought about that you
authorized me to spend the night here, you would like to know if my
evidence corresponds at all points with that of Sergeant Mazeroux?"

"Yes."

"Meaning that the part played by myself strikes you as suspicious?"

M. Desmalions hesitated. His eyes met Don Luis's eyes; and he was visibly
impressed by the other's frank glance. Nevertheless he replied, plainly
and bluntly:

"It is not for you to ask me questions, Monsieur."

Don Luis bowed.

"I am at your orders, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Please tell us what you know."

Don Luis thereupon gave a minute account of events, after which M.
Desmalions reflected for a few moments and said:

"There is one point on which we want to be informed. When you entered
this room at half-past two this morning and sat down beside M. Fauville,
was there nothing to tell you that he was dead?"

"Nothing, Monsieur le Préfet. Otherwise, Sergeant Mazeroux and I would
have given the alarm."

"Was the garden door shut?"

"It must have been, as we had to unlock it at seven o'clock."

"With what?"

"With the key on the bunch."

"But how could the murderers, coming from the outside, have opened it?"

"With false keys."

"Have you a proof which allows you to suppose that it was opened with
false keys?"

"No, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Therefore, until we have proofs to the contrary, we are bound to believe
that it was not opened from the outside, and that the criminal was inside
the house."

"But, Monsieur le Préfet, there was no one here but Sergeant Mazeroux
and myself!"

There was a silence, a pause whose meaning admitted of no doubt.
M. Desmalions's next words gave it an even more precise value.

"You did not sleep during the night?"

"Yes, toward the end."

"You did not sleep before, while you were in the passage?"

"No."

"And Sergeant Mazeroux?"

Don Luis remained undecided for a moment; but how could he hope that the
honest and scrupulous Mazeroux had disobeyed the dictates of his
conscience?

He replied:

"Sergeant Mazeroux went to sleep in his chair and did not wake until Mme.
Fauville returned, two hours later."

There was a fresh silence, which evidently meant:

"So, during the two hours when Sergeant Mazeroux was asleep, it was
physically possible for you to open the door and kill the two Fauvilles."

The examination was taking the course which Perenna had foreseen; and
the circle was drawing closer and closer around him. His adversary was
conducting the contest with a logic and vigour which he admired
without reserve.

"By Jove!" he thought. "How difficult it is to defend one's self when one
is innocent. There's my right wing and my left wing driven in. Will my
centre be able to stand the assault?"

M. Desmalions, after a whispered colloquy with the examining magistrate,
resumed his questions in these terms:

"Yesterday evening, when M. Fauville opened his safe in your presence and
the sergeant's, what was in the safe?"

"A heap of papers, on one of the shelves; and, among those papers, the
diary in drab cloth which has since disappeared."

"You did not touch those papers?"

"Neither the papers nor the safe, Monsieur le Préfet. Sergeant Mazeroux
must have told you that he made me stand aside, to insure the regularity
of the inquiry."

"So you never came into the slightest contact with the safe?"

"Not the slightest."

M. Desmalions looked at the examining magistrate and nodded his head. Had
Perenna been able to doubt that a trap was being laid for him, a glance
at Mazeroux would have told him all about it. Mazeroux was ashen gray.

Meanwhile, M. Desmalions continued:

"You have taken part in inquiries, Monsieur, in police inquiries.
Therefore, in putting my next question to you, I consider that I am
addressing it to a tried detective."

"I will answer your question, Monsieur le Préfet, to the best of
my ability."

"Here it is, then: Supposing that there were at this moment in the safe
an object of some kind, a jewel, let us say, a diamond out of a tie pin,
and that this diamond had come from a tie pin which belonged to somebody
whom we knew, somebody who had spent the night in this house, what would
you think of the coincidence?"

"There we are," said Perenna to himself. "There's the trap. It's clear
that they've found something in the safe, and next, that they imagine
that this something belongs to me. Good! But, in that case, we must
presume, as I have not touched the safe, that the thing was taken from me
and put in the safe to compromise me. But I did not have a finger in this
pie until yesterday; and it is impossible that, during last night, when I
saw nobody, any one can have had time to prepare and contrive such a
determined plot against me. So--"

The Prefect of Police interrupted this silent monologue by repeating:

"What would be your opinion?"

"There would be an undeniable connection between that person's presence
in the house and the two crimes that had been committed."

"Consequently, we should have the right at least to suspect the person?"

"Yes."

"That is your view?"

"Decidedly."

M. Desmalions produced a piece of tissue paper from his pocket and took
from it a little blue stone, which he displayed.

"Here is a turquoise which we found in the safe. It belongs, without a
shadow of a doubt, to the ring which you are wearing on your finger."

Don Luis was seized with a fit of rage. He half grated, through his
clenched teeth:

"Oh, the rascals! How clever they are! But no, I can't believe--"

He looked at his ring, which was formed of a large, clouded, dead
turquoise, surrounded by a circle of small, irregular turquoises, also of
a very pale blue. One of these was missing; and the one which M.
Desmalions had in his hand fitted the place exactly.

"What do you say?" asked M. Desmalions.

"I say that this turquoise belongs to my ring, which was given me by
Cosmo Mornington on the first occasion that I saved his life."

"So we are agreed?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, we are agreed."

Don Luis Perenna began to walk across the room, reflecting. The movement
which the two detectives made toward the two doors told him that his
arrest was provided for. A word from M. Desmalions, and Sergeant Mazeroux
would be forced to take his chief by the collar.

Don Luis once more gave a glance toward his former accomplice. Mazeroux
made a gesture of entreaty, as though to say:

"Well, what are you waiting for? Why don't you give up the criminal?
Quick, it's time!"

Don Luis smiled.

"What's the matter?" asked the Prefect, in a tone that now entirely
lacked the sort of involuntary politeness which he had shown since the
commencement of the examination.

"The matter? The matter?--"

Perenna seized a chair by the back, spun it round and sat down upon it,
with the simple remark:

"Let's talk!"

And this was said in such a way and the movement executed with so much
decision that the Prefect muttered, as though wavering:

"I don't quite see--"

"You soon will, Monsieur le Préfet."

And, speaking in a slow voice, laying stress on every syllable that he
uttered, he began:

"Monsieur le Préfet, the position is as clear as daylight. Yesterday
evening you gave me an authorization which involves your responsibility
most gravely. The result is that what you now want, at all costs and
without delay, is a culprit. And that culprit is to be myself. By way of
incriminating evidence, you have the fact of my presence here, the fact
the door was locked on the inside, the fact that Sergeant Mazeroux was
asleep while the crime was committed, and the fact of the discovery of
the turquoise in the safe. All this is crushing, I admit. Added to it,"
he continued, "we have the terrible presumption that I had every interest
in the removal of M. Fauville and his son, inasmuch as, if there is no
heir of Cosmo Mornington's in existence, I come into a hundred million
francs. Exactly. There is therefore nothing for me to do, Monsieur le
Préfet, but to go with you to the lockup or else--"

"Or else what?"

"Or else hand over to you the criminal, the real criminal."

The Prefect of Police smiled and took out his watch.

"I'm waiting," he said.

"It will take me just an hour, Monsieur le Préfet, and no more, if you
give me every latitude. And the search of the truth, it seems to me, is
worth a little patience."

"I'm waiting," repeated M. Desmalions.

"Sergeant Mazeroux, please tell Silvestre, the manservant, that Monsieur
le Préfet wishes to see him."

Upon a sign from M. Desmalions, Mazeroux went out.

Don Luis explained his motive.

"Monsieur le Préfet, whereas the discovery of the turquoise constitutes
in your eyes an extremely serious proof against me, to me it is a
revelation of the highest importance. I will tell you why. That turquoise
must have fallen from my ring last evening and rolled on the carpet.

"Now there are only four persons," he continued, "who can have noticed
this fall when it happened, picked up the turquoise and, in order to
compromise the new adversary that I was, slipped it into the safe. The
first of those four persons is one of your detectives, Sergeant Mazeroux,
of whom we will not speak. The second is dead: I refer to M. Fauville. We
will not speak of him. The third is Silvestre, the manservant. I should
like to say a few words to him. I shall not take long."

Silvestre's examination, in fact, was soon over. He was able to prove
that, pending the return of Mme. Fauville, for whom he had to open the
door, he had not left the kitchen, where he was playing at cards with the
lady's maid and another manservant.

"Very well," said Perenna. "One word more. You must have read in this
morning's papers of the death of Inspector Vérot and seen his portrait."

"Yes."

"Do you know Inspector Vérot?"

"No."

"Still, it is probable that he came here yesterday, during the day."

"I can't say," replied the servant. "M. Fauville used to receive many
visitors through the garden and let them in himself."

"You have no more evidence to give?"

"No."

"Please tell Mme. Fauville that Monsieur le Préfet would be very much
obliged if he could have a word with her."

Silvestre left the room.

The examining magistrate and the public prosecutor had drawn nearer in
astonishment.

The Prefect exclaimed:

"What, Monsieur! You don't mean to pretend that Mme. Fauville is
mixed up--"

"Monsieur le Préfet, Mme. Fauville is the fourth person who may have seen
the turquoise drop out of my ring."

"And what then? Have we the right, in the absence of any real proof,
to suppose that a woman can kill her husband, that a mother can
poison her son?"

"I am supposing nothing, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Then--?"

Don Luis made no reply. M. Desmalions did not conceal his irritation.
However, he said:

"Very well; but I order you most positively to remain silent. What
questions am I to put to Mme. Fauville?"

"One only, Monsieur le Préfet: ask Mme. Fauville if she knows any one,
apart from her husband, who is descended from the sisters Roussel."

"Why that question?"

"Because, if that descendant exists, it is not I who will inherit the
millions, but he; and then it will be he and not I who would be
interested in the removal of M. Fauville and his son."

"Of course, of course," muttered M. Desmalions. "But even so, this
new trail--"

Mme. Fauville entered as he was speaking. Her face remained charming and
pretty in spite of the tears that had reddened her eyelids and impaired
the freshness of her cheeks. But her eyes expressed the scare of terror;
and the obsession of the tragedy imparted to all her attractive
personality, to her gait and to her movements, something feverish and
spasmodic that was painful to look upon.

"Pray sit down, Madame," said the Prefect, speaking with the height
of deference, "and forgive me for inflicting any additional emotion
upon you. But time is precious; and we must do everything to make
sure that the two victims whose loss you are mourning shall be
avenged without delay."

Tears were still streaming from her beautiful eyes; and, with a sob, she
stammered:

"If the police need me, Monsieur le Préfet--"

"Yes, it is a question of obtaining a few particulars. Your husband's
mother is dead, is she not?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet."

"Am I correct in saying that she came from Saint-Etienne and that her
maiden name was Roussel?"

"Yes."

"Elizabeth Roussel?"

"Yes."

"Had your husband any brothers or sisters?"

"No."

"Therefore there is no descendant of Elizabeth Roussel living?"

"No."

"Very well. But Elizabeth Roussel had two sisters, did she not?"

"Yes."

"Ermeline Roussel, the elder, went abroad and was not heard of again. The
other, the younger--"

"The other was called Armande Roussel. She was my mother."

"Eh? What do you say?"

"I said my mother's maiden name was Armande Roussel, and I married my
cousin, the son of Elizabeth Roussel."

The statement had the effect of a thunderclap. So, upon the death of
Hippolyte Fauville and his son Edmond, the direct descendants of the
eldest sister, Cosmo Mornington's inheritance passed to the other
branch, that of Armande Roussel; and this branch was represented so far
by Mme. Fauville!

The Prefect of Police and the examining magistrate exchanged glances
and both instinctively turned toward Don Luis Perenna, who did not
move a muscle.

"Have you no brother or sister, Madame?" asked the Prefect.

"No, Monsieur le Préfet, I am the only one."

The only one! In other words, now that her husband and son were dead,
Cosmo Mornington's millions reverted absolutely and undeniably to her, to
her alone.

Meanwhile, a hideous idea weighed like a nightmare upon the magistrates
and they could not rid themselves of it: the woman sitting before them
was the mother of Edmond Fauville. M. Desmalions had his eyes on Don Luis
Perenna, who wrote a few words on a card and handed it to the Prefect.

M. Desmalions, who was gradually resuming toward Don Luis his courteous
attitude of the day before, read it, reflected a moment, and put this
question to Mme. Fauville:

"What was your son Edmond's age?"

"Seventeen."

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