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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “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:

&nb
sp; “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.”