Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  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 h
ours 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 sup
pose? 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.”