“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.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 246
