The Teeth of the Tiger

by Maurice Leblanc

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE IRON CURTAIN

  It is sometimes an ungrateful task to tell the story of Arsene Lupin'slife, for the reason that each of his adventures is partly known to thepublic, having at the time formed the subject of much eager comment,whereas his biographer is obliged, if he would throw light upon what isnot known, to begin at the beginning and to relate in full detail allthat which is already public property.

  It is because of this necessity that I am compelled to speak once more ofthe extreme excitement which the news of that shocking series of crimescreated in France, in Europe and throughout the civilized world. Thepublic heard of four murders practically all at once, for the particularsof Cosmo Mornington's will were published two days later.

  There was no doubt that the same person had killed Cosmo Mornington,Inspector Verot, Fauville the engineer, and his son Edmond. The sameperson had made the identical sinister bite, leaving against himself orherself, with a heedlessness that seemed to show the avenging hand offate, a most impressive and incriminating proof, a proof which madepeople shudder as they would have shuddered at the awful reality: themarks of his or her teeth, the teeth of the tiger!

  And, in the midst of all this bloodshed, at the most tragic momentof the dismal tragedy, behold the strangest of figures emerging fromthe darkness!

  An heroic adventurer, endowed with astounding intelligence and insight,had in a few hours partly unravelled the tangled skeins of the plot,divined the murder of Cosmo Mornington, proclaimed the murder ofInspector Verot, taken the conduct of the investigation into his ownhands, delivered to justice the inhuman creature whose beautiful whiteteeth fitted the marks as precious stones fit their settings, received acheque for a million francs on the day after these exploits and, finally,found himself the probable heir to an immense fortune.

  And here was Arsene Lupin coming to life again!

  For the public made no mistake about that, and, with wonderful intuition,proclaimed aloud that Don Luis Perenna was Arsene Lupin, before a closeexamination of the facts had more or less confirmed the supposition.

  "But he's dead!" objected the doubters.

  To which the others replied:

  "Yes, Dolores Kesselbach's corpse was recovered under the still smokingruins of a little chalet near the Luxemburg frontier and, with it, thecorpse of a man whom the police identified as Arsene Lupin. Buteverything goes to show that the whole scene was contrived by Lupin, who,for reasons of his own, wanted to be thought dead. And everything showsthat the police accepted and legalized the theory of his death onlybecause they wished to be rid of their everlasting adversary.

  "As a proof, we have the confidences made by Valenglay, who was PrimeMinister at the time and whom the chances of politics have just replacedat the head of the government. And there is the mysterious incident onthe island of Capri when the German Emperor, just as he was about to beburied under a landslip, was saved by a hermit who, according to theGerman version, was none other than Arsene Lupin."

  To this came a fresh objection:

  "Very well; but read the newspapers of the time: ten minutesafterward, the hermit flung himself into the sea from Tiberius' Leap."And the answer:

  "Yes, but the body was never found. And, as it happens, we know that asteamer picked up a man who was making signals to her and that thissteamer was on her way to Algiers. Well, a few days later, Don LuisPerenna enlisted in the Foreign Legion at Sidi-bel-Abbes."

  Of course, the controversy upon which the newspapers embarked on thissubject was carried on discreetly. Everybody was afraid of Lupin; and thejournalists maintained a certain reserve in their articles, confinedthemselves to comparing dates and pointing out coincidences, andrefrained from speaking too positively of any Lupin that might lie hiddenunder the mask of Perenna.

  But, as regards the private in the Foreign Legion and his stay inMorocco, they took their revenge and let themselves go freely.

  Major d'Astrignac had spoken. Other officers, other comrades ofPerenna's, related what they had seen. The reports and daily ordersconcerning him were published. And what became known as "The Hero'sIdyll" began to take the form of a sort of record each page of whichdescribed the maddest and unlikeliest of facts.

  At Mediouna, on the twenty-fourth of March, the adjutant, Captain Pollex,awarded Private Perenna four days' cells on a charge of having broken outof camp past two sentries after evening roll call, contrary to orders,and being absent without leave until noon on the following day. Perenna,the report went on to say, brought back the body of his sergeant, killedin ambush. And in the margin was this note, in the colonel's hand:

  "The colonel commanding doubles Private Perenna's award, but mentions hisname in orders and congratulates and thanks him."

  After the fight of Ber-Rechid, Lieutenant Fardet's detachment beingobliged to retreat before a band of four hundred Moors, Private Perennaasked leave to cover the retreat by installing himself in a _kasbah_.

  "How many men do you want, Perenna?"

  "None, sir."

  "What! Surely you don't propose to cover a retreat all by yourself?"

  "What pleasure would there be in dying, sir, if others were to die aswell as I?"

  At his request, they left him a dozen rifles, and divided with him thecartridges that remained. His share came to seventy-five.

  The detachment got away without being further molested. Next day, whenthey were able to return with reinforcements, they surprised the Moorslying in wait around the _kasbah_, but afraid to approach. The ground wascovered with seventy-five of their killed.

  Our men drove them off. They found Private Perenna stretched on the floorof the _kasbah_. They thought him dead. He was asleep!

  He had not a single cartridge left. But each of his seventy-five bulletshad gone home.

  What struck the imagination of the public most, however, was Major Comted'Astrignac's story of the battle of Dar-Dbibarh. The major confessedthat this battle, which relieved Fez at the moment when we thought thatall was lost and which created such a sensation in France, was won beforeit was fought and that it was won by Perenna, alone!

  At daybreak, when the Moorish tribes were preparing for the attack,Private Perenna lassoed an Arab horse that was galloping across theplain, sprang on the animal, which had no saddle, bridle, nor any sort ofharness, and without jacket, cap, or arms, with his white shirt bulgingout and a cigarette between his teeth, charged, with his hands in histrousers-pockets!

  He charged straight toward the enemy, galloped through their camp, ridingin and out among the tents, and then left it by the same place by whichhe had gone in.

  This quite inconceivable death ride spread such consternation among theMoors that their attack was half-hearted and the battle was won withoutresistance.

  This, together with numberless other feats of bravado, went to make upthe heroic legend of Perenna. It threw into relief the superhuman energy,the marvellous recklessness, the bewildering fancy, the spirit ofadventure, the physical dexterity, and the coolness of a singularlymysterious individual whom it was impossible not to take for ArseneLupin, but a new and greater Arsene Lupin, dignified, idealized, andennobled by his exploits.

  One morning, a fortnight after the double murder in the BoulevardSuchet, this extraordinary man, who aroused such eager interest and whowas spoken of on every side as a fabulous and more or less impossiblebeing: one morning, Don Luis Perenna dressed himself and went the roundsof his house.

  It was a comfortable and roomy eighteenth-century mansion, situated atthe entrance to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the little Place duPalais-Bourbon. He had bought it, furnished, from a rich Hungarian, CountMalonyi, keeping for his own use the horses, carriages, motor cars, andtaking over the eight servants and even the count's secretary, Mlle.Levasseur, who undertook to manage the household and to receive and getrid of the visitors--journalists, bores and curiosity-dealers--attractedby the luxury of the house and the reputation of its new owner.

  After finishing his inspection of the stable
s and garage, he walkedacross the courtyard and went up to his study, pushed open one of thewindows and raised his head. Above him was a slanting mirror; and thismirror reflected, beyond the courtyard and its surrounding wall, onewhole side of the Place du Palais-Bourbon.

  "Bother!" he said. "Those confounded detectives are still there. And thishas been going on for a fortnight. I'm getting tired of this spying."

  He sat down, in a bad temper, to look through his letters, tearing up,after he had read them, those which concerned him personally and makingnotes on the others, such as applications for assistance and requests forinterviews. When he had finished, he rang the bell.

  "Ask Mlle. Levasseur to bring me the newspapers."

  She had been the Hungarian count's reader as well as his secretary; andPerenna had trained her to pick out in the newspapers anything thatreferred to him, and to give him each morning an exact account of theproceedings that were being taken against Mme. Fauville.

  Always dressed in black, with a very elegant and graceful figure, she hadattracted him from the first. She had an air of great dignity and a graveand thoughtful face which made it impossible to penetrate the secret ofher soul, and which would have seemed austere had it not been framed in acloud of fair curls, resisting all attempts at discipline and setting ahalo of light and gayety around her.

  Her voice had a soft and musical tone which Perenna loved to hear; and,himself a little perplexed by Mlle. Levasseur's attitude of reserve, hewondered what she could think of him, of his mode of life, and of allthat the newspapers had to tell of his mysterious past.

  "Nothing new?" he asked, as he glanced at the headings of the articles.

  She read the reports relating to Mme. Fauville; and Don Luis could seethat the police investigations were making no headway. Marie Fauvillestill kept to her first method, that of weeping, making a show ofindignation, and assuming entire ignorance of the facts upon which shewas being examined.

  "It's ridiculous," he said, aloud. "I have never seen any one defendherself so clumsily."

  "Still, if she's innocent?"

  It was the first time that Mlle. Levasseur had uttered an opinion orrather a remark upon the case. Don Luis looked at her in great surprise.

  "So you think her innocent, Mademoiselle?"

  She seemed ready to reply and to explain the meaning of herinterruption. It was as though she were removing her impassive mask andabout to allow her face to adopt a more animated expression under theimpulse of her inner feelings. But she restrained herself with a visibleeffort, and murmured:

  "I don't know. I have no views."

  "Possibly," he said, watching her with curiosity, "but you have a doubt:a doubt which would be permissible if it were not for the marks left byMme. Fauville's own teeth. Those marks, you see, are something more thana signature, more than a confession of guilt. And, as long as she isunable to give a satisfactory explanation of this point--"

  But Marie Fauville vouchsafed not the slightest explanation of this or ofanything else. She remained impenetrable. On the other hand, the policefailed to discover her accomplice or accomplices, or the man with theebony walking-stick and the tortoise-shell glasses whom the waiter at theCafe du Pont-Neuf had described to Mazeroux and who seemed to have playeda singularly suspicious part. In short, there was not a ray of lightthrown upon the subject.

  Equally vain was all search for the traces of Victor, the Rousselsister's first cousin, who would have inherited the Mornington bequest inthe absence of any direct heirs.

  "Is that all?" asked Perenna.

  "No," said Mlle. Levasseur, "there is an article in the _Echo deFrance_--"

  "Relating to me?"

  "I presume so, Monsieur. It is called, 'Why Don't They Arrest Him?'"

  "That concerns me," he said, with a laugh.

  He took the newspaper and read:

  "Why do they not arrest him? Why go against logic and prolong anunnatural situation which no decent man can understand? This is thequestion which everybody is asking and to which our investigations enableus to furnish a precise reply.

  "Two years ago, in other words, three years after the pretended death ofArsene Lupin, the police, having discovered or believing they haddiscovered that Arsene Lupin was really none other than one Floriani,born at Blois and since lost to sight, caused the register to beinscribed, on the page relating to this Floriani, with the word'Deceased,' followed by the words 'Under the alias of Arsene Lupin.'

  "Consequently, to bring Arsene Lupin back to life, there would be wantedsomething more than the undeniable proof of his existence, which wouldnot be impossible. The most complicated wheels in the administrativemachine would have to be set in motion, and a decree obtained from theCouncil of State.

  "Now it would seem that M. Valenglay, the Prime Minister, together withthe Prefect of Police, is opposed to making any too minute inquiriescapable of opening up a scandal which the authorities are anxious toavoid. Bring Arsene Lupin back to life? Recommence the struggle withthat accursed scoundrel? Risk a fresh defeat and fresh ridicule? No, no,and again no!

  "And thus is brought about this unprecedented, inadmissible,inconceivable, disgraceful situation, that Arsene Lupin, the hardenedthief, the impenitent criminal, the robber-king, the emperor of burglarsand swindlers, is able to-day, not clandestinely, but in the sight andhearing of the whole world, to pursue the most formidable task that hehas yet undertaken, to live publicly under a name which is not his own,but which he has incontestably made his own, to destroy with impunityfour persons who stood in his way, to cause the imprisonment of aninnocent woman against whom he himself has accumulated false evidence,and at the end of all, despite the protests of common sense and thanksto an unavowed complicity, to receive the hundred millions of theMornington legacy.

  "There is the ignominious truth in a nutshell. It is well that it shouldbe stated. Let us hope, now that it stands revealed, that it willinfluence the future conduct of events."

  "At any rate, it will influence the conduct of the idiot who wrote thatarticle," said Lupin, with a grin.

  He dismissed Mlle. Levasseur and rang up Major d'Astrignac on thetelephone.

  "Is that you, Major? Perenna speaking."

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "Have you read the article in the _Echo de France_?"

  "Yes."

  "Would it bore you very much to call on that gentleman and ask forsatisfaction in my name?"

  "Oh! A duel!"

  "It's got to be, Major. All these sportsmen are wearying me with theirlucubrations. They must be gagged. This fellow will pay for the rest."

  "Well, of course, if you're bent on it--"

  "I am, very much."

  * * * * *

  The preliminaries were entered upon without delay. The editor of the_Echo de France_ declared that the article had been sent in without asignature, typewritten, and that it had been published without hisknowledge; but he accepted the entire responsibility.

  That same day, at three o'clock, Don Luis Perenna, accompanied by Majord'Astrignac, another officer, and a doctor, left the house in the Placedu Palais-Bourbon in his car, and, followed by a taxi crammed with thedetectives engaged in watching him, drove to the Parc des Princes.

  While waiting for the arrival of the adversary, the Comte d'Astrignactook Don Luis aside.

  "My dear Perenna, I ask you no questions. I don't want to know how muchtruth there is in all that is being written about you, or what your realname is. To me, you are Perenna of the Legion, and that is all I careabout. Your past began in Morocco. As for the future, I know that,whatever happens and however great the temptation, your only aim will beto revenge Cosmo Mornington and protect his heirs. But there's one thingthat worries me."

  "Speak out, Major."

  "Give me your word that you won't kill this man."

  "Two months in bed, Major; will that suit you?"

  "Too long. A fortnight."

  "Done."

  The two adversaries took up the
ir positions. At the second encounter, theeditor of the _Echo de France_ fell, wounded in the chest.

  "Oh, that's too bad of you, Perenna!" growled the Comte d'Astrignac. "Youpromised me--"

  "And I've kept my promise, Major."

  The doctors were examining the injured man. Presently one of themrose and said:

  "It's nothing. Three weeks' rest, at most. Only a third of an inch more,and he would have been done for."

  "Yes, but that third of an inch isn't there," murmured Perenna.

  Still followed by the detectives' motor cab, Don Luis returned to theFaubourg Saint-Germain; and it was then that an incident occurred whichwas to puzzle him greatly and throw a most extraordinary light on thearticle in the _Echo de France_.

  In the courtyard of his house he saw two little puppies which belonged tothe coachman and which were generally confined to the stables. They wereplaying with a twist of red string which kept catching on to things, tothe railings of the steps, to the flower vases. In the end, the paperround which the string was wound, appeared. Don Luis happened to pass atthat moment. His eyes noticed marks of writing on the paper, and hemechanically picked it up and unfolded it.

  He gave a start. He had at once recognized the opening lines of thearticle printed in the _Echo de France_. And the whole article was there,written in ink, on ruled paper, with erasures, and with sentences added,struck out, and begun anew.

  He called the coachman and asked him:

  "Where does this ball of string come from?"

  "The string, sir? Why, from the harness-room, I think. It must have beenthat little she-devil of a Mirza who--"

  "And when did you wind the string round the paper?"

  "Yesterday evening, Monsieur."

  "Yesterday evening. I see. And where is the paper from?"

  "Upon my word, Monsieur, I can't say. I wanted something to wind mystring on. I picked this bit up behind the coach-house where they flingall the rubbish of the house to be taken into the street at night."

  Don Luis pursued his investigations. He questioned or asked Mlle.Levasseur to question the other servants. He discovered nothing; but onefact remained: the article in the _Echo de France_ had been written, asthe rough draft which he had picked up proved, by somebody who lived inthe house or who was in touch with one of the people in the house.

  The enemy was inside the fortress.

  But what enemy? And what did he want? Merely Perenna's arrest?

  All the remainder of the afternoon Don Luis continued anxious, annoyed bythe mystery that surrounded him, incensed at his own inaction, andespecially at that threatened arrest, which certainly caused him nouneasiness, but which hampered his movements.

  Accordingly, when he was told at about ten o'clock that a man who gavethe name of Alexandre insisted on seeing him, he had the man shown in;and when he found himself face to face with Mazeroux, but Mazerouxdisguised beyond recognition and huddled in an old cloak, he flunghimself on him as on a prey, hustling and shaking him.

  "So it's you, at last?" he cried. "Well, what did I tell you? You can'tmake head or tail of things at the police office and you've come for me!Confess it, you numskull! You've come to fetch me! Oh, how funny it allis! Gad, I knew that you would never have the cheek to arrest me, andthat the Prefect of Police would manage to calm the untimely ardour ofthat confounded Weber! To begin with, one doesn't arrest a man whom onehas need of. Come, out with it! Lord, how stupid you look! Why don't youanswer? How far have you got at the office? Quick, speak! I'll settle thething in five seconds. Just tell me about your inquiry in two words, andI'll finish it for you in the twinkling of a bed-post, in two minutes bymy watch. Well, you were saying--"

  "But, Chief," spluttered Mazeroux, utterly nonplussed.

  "What! Must I drag the words out of you? Come on! I'll make a start. Ithas to do with the man with the ebony walking-stick, hasn't it? The onewe saw at the Cafe du Pont-Neuf on the day when Inspector Verot wasmurdered?"

  "Yes, it has."

  "Have you found his traces?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, come along, find your tongue!"

  "It's like this, Chief. Some one else noticed him besides the waiter.There was another customer in the cafe; and this other customer, whom Iended by discovering, went out at the same time as our man and heardhim ask somebody in the street which was the nearest undergroundstation for Neuilly."

  "Capital, that. And, in Neuilly, by asking questions on every side, youferreted him out?"

  "And even learnt his name, Chief: Hubert Lautier, of the Avenue du Roule.Only he decamped from there six months ago, leaving his furniture behindhim and taking nothing but two trunks."

  "What about the post-office?"

  "We have been to the post-office. One of the clerks recognized thedescription which we supplied. Our man calls once every eight or ten daysto fetch his mail, which never amounts to much: just one or two letters.He has not been there for some time."

  "Is the correspondence in his name?"

  "No, initials."

  "Were they able to remember them?"

  "Yes: B.R.W.8."

  "Is that all?"

  "That is absolutely all that I have discovered. But one of my fellowofficers succeeded in proving, from the evidence of two detectives, thata man carrying a silver-handled ebony walking-stick and a pair oftortoise-shell glasses walked out of the Gare d'Auteuil on the evening ofthe double murder and went toward Renelagh. Remember the presence of Mme.Fauville in that neighbourhood at the same hour. And remember that thecrime was committed round about midnight. I conclude from this--"

  "That will do; be off!"

  "But--"

  "Get!"

  "Then I don't see you again?"

  "Meet me in half an hour outside our man's place."

  "What man?"

  "Marie Fauville's accomplice."

  "But you don't know--"

  "The address? Why, you gave it to me yourself: Boulevard Richard-Wallace,No. 8. Go! And don't look such a fool."

  He made him spin round on his heels, took him by the shoulders, pushedhim to the door, and handed him over, quite flabbergasted, to a footman.

  He himself went out a few minutes later, dragging in his wake thedetectives attached to his person, left them posted on sentry dutyoutside a block of flats with a double entrance, and took a motor cabto Neuilly.

  He went along the Avenue de Madrid on foot and turned down the BoulevardRichard-Wallace, opposite the Bois de Boulogne. Mazeroux was waiting forhim in front of a small three-storied house standing at the back of acourtyard contained within the very high walls of the adjoining property.

  "Is this number eight?"

  "Yes, Chief, but tell me how--"

  "One moment, old chap; give me time to recover my breath."

  He gave two or three great gasps.

  "Lord, how good it is to be up and doing!" he said. "Upon my word, I wasgetting rusty. And what a pleasure to pursue those scoundrels! So youwant me to tell you?"

  He passed his arm through the sergeant's.

  "Listen, Alexandre, and profit by my words. Remember this: when a personis choosing initials for his address at a _poste restante_ he doesn'tpick them at random, but always in such a way that the letters convey ameaning to the person corresponding with him, a meaning which will enablethat other person easily to remember the address."

  "And in this case?"

  "In this case, Mazeroux, a man like myself, who knows Neuilly and theneighbourhood of the Bois, is at once struck by those three letters,'B.R.W,' and especially by the 'W.', a foreign letter, an English letter.So that in my mind's eye, instantly, as in a flash, I saw the threeletters in their logical place as initials at the head of the words forwhich they stand. I saw the 'B' of 'boulevard,' and the 'R' and theEnglish 'W' of Richard-Wallace. And so I came to the BoulevardRichard-Wallace, And that, my dear sir, explains the milk in thecocoanut."

  Mazeroux seemed a little doubtful.

  "And what do you think, Chief?"

 
"I think nothing. I am looking about. I am building up a theory on thefirst basis that offers a probable theory. And I say to myself ... I sayto myself ... I say to myself, Mazeroux, that this is a devilishmysterious little hole and that this house--Hush! Listen--"

  He pushed Mazeroux into a dark corner. They had heard a noise, theslamming of a door.

  Footsteps crossed the courtyard in front of the house. The lock of theouter gate grated. Some one appeared, and the light of a street lamp fellfull on his face.

  "Dash it all," muttered Mazeroux, "it's he!"

  "I believe you're right."

  "It's he. Chief. Look at the black stick and the bright handle. And didyou see the eyeglasses--and the beard? What a oner you are, Chief!"

  "Calm yourself and let's go after him."

  The man had crossed the Boulevard Richard-Wallace and was turning intothe Boulevard Maillot. He was walking pretty fast, with his head up,gayly twirling his stick. He lit a cigarette.

  At the end of the Boulevard Maillot, the man passed the octroi andentered Paris. The railway station of the outer circle was close by. Hewent to it and, still followed by the others, stepped into a train thattook them to Auteuil.

  "That's funny," said Mazeroux. "He's doing exactly what he did afortnight ago. This is where he was seen."

  The man now went along the fortifications. In a quarter of an hour hereached the Boulevard Suchet and almost immediately afterward the housein which M. Fauville and his son had been murdered.

  He climbed the fortifications opposite the house and stayed there forsome minutes, motionless, with his face to the front of the house. Thencontinuing his road he went to La Muette and plunged into the dusk of theBois de Boulogne.

  "To work and boldly!" said Don Luis, quickening his pace.

  Mazeroux stopped him.

  "What do you mean, Chief?"

  "Well, catch him by the throat! There are two of us; we couldn't hope fora better moment."

  "What! Why, it's impossible!"

  "Impossible? Are you afraid? Very well, I'll do it by myself."

  "Look here, Chief, you're not serious!"

  "Why shouldn't I be serious?"

  "Because one can't arrest a man without a reason."

  "Without a reason? A scoundrel like this? A murderer? What more doyou want?"

  "In the absence of compulsion, of catching him in the act, I wantsomething that I haven't got."

  "What's that?"

  "A warrant. I haven't a warrant."

  Mazeroux's accent was so full of conviction, and the answer struck DonLuis Perenna as so comical, that he burst out laughing.

  "You have no warrant? Poor little chap! Well, I'll soon show you if Ineed a warrant!"

  "You'll show me nothing," cried Mazeroux, hanging on to his companion'sarm. "You shan't touch the man."

  "One would think he was your mother!"

  "Come, Chief."

  "But, you stick-in-the-mud of an honest man," shouted Don Luis, angrily,"if we let this opportunity slip shall we ever find another?"

  "Easily. He's going home. I'll inform the commissary of police. He willtelephone to headquarters; and to-morrow morning--"

  "And suppose the bird has flown?"

  "I have no warrant."

  "Do you want me to sign you one, idiot?"

  But Don Luis mastered his rage. He felt that all his arguments would beshattered to pieces against the sergeant's obstinacy, and that, ifnecessary, Mazeroux would go to the length of defending the enemy againsthim. He simply said in a sententious tone:

  "One ass and you make a pair of asses; and there are as many asses asthere are people who try to do police work with bits of paper,signatures, warrants, and other gammon. Police work, my lad, is done withone's fists. When you come upon the enemy, hit him. Otherwise, you standa chance of hitting the air. With that, good-night. I'm going to bed.Telephone to me when the job is done."

  He went home, furious, sick of an adventure in which he had not had elbowroom, and in which he had had to submit to the will, or, rather, to theweakness of others.

  But next morning when he woke up his longing to see the police lay holdof the man with the ebony stick, and especially the feeling that hisassistance would be of use, impelled him to dress as quickly as he could.

  "If I don't come to the rescue," he thought, "they'll let themselves bedone in the eye. They're not equal to a contest of this kind."

  Just then Mazeroux rang up and asked to speak to him. He rushed to alittle telephone box which his predecessor had fitted up on the firstfloor, in a dark recess that communicated only with his study, andswitched on the electric light.

  "Is that you, Alexandre?"

  "Yes, Chief. I'm speaking from a wine shop near the house on theBoulevard Richard-Wallace."

  "What about our man?"

  "The bird's still in the nest. But we're only just in time."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, he's packed his trunk. He's going away this morning."

  "How do they know?"

  "Through the woman who manages for him. She's just come to the house andwill let us in."

  "Does he live alone?"

  "Yes, the woman cooks his meals and goes away in the evening. No one evercalls except a veiled lady who has paid him three visits since he's beenhere. The housekeeper was not able to see what she was like. As for him,she says he's a scholar, who spends his time reading and working."

  "And have you a warrant?"

  "Yes, we're going to use it."

  "I'll come at once."

  "You can't! We've got Weber at our head. Oh, by the way, have you heardthe news about Mme. Fauville?"

  "About Mme. Fauville?"

  "Yes, she tried to commit suicide last night."

  "What! Tried to commit suicide!"

  Perenna had uttered an exclamation of astonishment and was very muchsurprised to hear, almost at the same time, another cry, like an echo, athis elbow. Without letting go the receiver, he turned round and saw thatMlle. Levasseur was in the study a few yards away from him, standing witha distorted and livid face. Their eyes met. He was on the point ofspeaking to her, but she moved away, without leaving the room, however.

  "What the devil was she listening for?" Don Luis wondered. "And why thatlook of dismay?"

  Meanwhile, Mazeroux continued:

  "She said, you know, that she would try to kill herself. But it must havetaken a goodish amount of pluck."

  "But how did she do it?" Perenna asked.

  "I'll tell you another time. They're calling me. Whatever you do, Chief,don't come."

  "Yes," he replied, firmly, "I'm coming. After all, the least I can do isto be in at the death, seeing that it was I who found the scent. Butdon't be afraid. I shall keep in the background."

  "Then hurry, Chief. We're delivering the attack in ten minutes."

  "I'll be with you before that."

  He quickly hung up the receiver and turned on his heel to leave thetelephone box. The next moment he had flung himself against the fartherwall. Just as he was about to pass out he had heard something clickabove his head and he but barely had the time to leap back and escapebeing struck by an iron curtain which fell in front of him with aterrible thud.

  Another second and the huge mass would have crushed him. He could feel itwhizzing by his head. And he had never before experienced the anguish ofdanger so intensely.

  After a moment of genuine fright, in which he stood as though petrified,with his brain in a whirl, he recovered his coolness and threw himselfupon the obstacle. But it at once appeared to him that the obstacle wasunsurmountable.

  It was a heavy metal panel, not made of plates or lathes fastened one tothe other, but formed of a solid slab, massive, firm, and strong, andcovered with the sheen of time darkened here and there with patches ofrust. On either side and at the top and bottom the edges of the panelfitted in a narrow groove which covered them hermetically.

  He was a prisoner. In a sudden fit of rage he banged at the metal withhis fists. He re
membered that Mlle. Levasseur was in the study. If shehad not yet left the room--and surely she could not have left it when thething happened--she would hear the noise. She was bound to hear it. Shewould be sure to come back, give the alarm, and rescue him.

  He listened. He shouted. No reply. His voice died away against the wallsand ceiling of the box in which he was shut up, and he felt that thewhole house--drawing-rooms, staircases, and passages--remained deaf tohis appeal.

  And yet ... and yet ... Mlle. Levasseur--

  "What does it mean?" he muttered. "What can it all mean?"

  And motionless now and silent, he thought once more of the girl's strangeattitude, of her distraught face, of her haggard eyes. And he also beganto wonder what accident had released the mechanism which had hurled theformidable iron curtain upon him, craftily and ruthlessly.