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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “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.”

  “You look so young—”

  “Edmond was not my son, but my stepson, the son of my husband by his first wife, who died,”

  “Ah! So Edmond Fauville—” muttered the Prefect, without finishing his sentence.

  In two minutes the whole situation had changed. In the eyes of the magistrates, Mme. Fauville was no longer the widow and mother who must on no account be attacked. She had suddenly become a woman whom circumstances compelled them to cross-examine. However prejudiced they might be in her favour, however charmed by the seductive qualities of her beauty, they were inevitably bound to ask themselves, whether for some reason or other, for instance, in order to be alone in the enjoyment of the enormous fortune, she had not had the madness to kill her husband and to kill the boy who was only her husband’s son. In any case, the question was there, calling for a solution.

  The Prefect of Police continued:

  “Do you know this turquoise?”

  She took the stone which he held out to her and examined it without the least sign of confusion.

  “No,” she said. “I have an old-fashioned turquoise necklace, which I never wear, but the stones are larger and none of them has this irregular shape.”

  “We found this one in the safe,” said M. Desmalions. “It forms part of a ring belonging to a person whom we know.”

  “Well,” she said eagerly, “you must find that person.”

  “He is here,” said the Prefect, pointing to Don Luis, who had been standing some way off and who had not been noticed by Mme. Fauville.

  She started at the sight of Perenna and cried, very excitedly:

  “But that gentleman was here yesterday evening! He was talking to my

  husband — and so was that other gentleman,” she said, referring to

  Sergeant Mazeroux. “You must question them, find out why they were here.

  You understand that, if the turquoise belonged to one of them—”

  The insinuation was direct, but clumsy; and it lent the greatest weight to Perenna’s unspoken argument:

  “The turquoise was picked up by some one who saw me yesterday and who wishes to compromise me. Apart from M. Fauville and the detective sergeant, only two people saw me: Silvestre, the manservant, and Mme. Fauville. Consequently, as Silvestre is outside the question, I accuse Mme. Fauville of putting the turquoise in the safe.”

  M. Desmalions asked:

  “Will you let me see the necklace, Madame?”

  “Certainly. It is with my other jewels, in my wardrobe. I will go for it.”

  “Pray don’t trouble, Madame. Does your maid know the necklace?”

  “Quite well.”

  “In that case, Sergeant Mazeroux will tell her what is wanted.”

>   * * * * *

  Not a word was spoken during the few minutes for which Mazeroux was absent. Mme. Fauville seemed absorbed in her grief. M. Desmalions kept his eyes fixed on her.

  The sergeant returned, carrying a very large box containing a number of jewel-cases and loose ornaments.

  M. Desmalions found the necklace, examined it, and realized, in fact, that the stones did not resemble the turquoise and that none of them was missing. But, on separating two jewel cases in order to take out a tiara which also contained blue stones, he made a gesture of surprise.

  “What are these two keys?” he asked, pointing to two keys identical in shape and size with those which opened the lock and the bolt of the garden door.

  Mme. Fauville remained very calm. Not a muscle of her face moved. Nothing pointed to the least perturbation on account of this discovery. She merely said:

  “I don’t know. They have been there a long time.”

  “Mazeroux,” said M. Desmalions, “try them on that door.”

  Mazeroux did so. The door opened.

  “Yes,” said Mme. Fauville. “I remember now, my husband gave them to me.

  They were duplicates of his own keys—”

  The words were uttered in the most natural tone and as though the speaker did not even suspect the terrible charge that was forming against her.

  And nothing was more agonizing than this tranquillity. Was it a sign of absolute innocence, or the infernal craft of a criminal whom nothing is able to stir? Did she realize nothing of the tragedy which was taking place and of which she was the unconscious heroine? Or did she guess the terrible accusation which was gradually closing in upon her on every side and which threatened her with the most awful danger? But, in that case, how could she have been guilty of the extraordinary blunder of keeping those two keys?

  A series of questions suggested itself to the minds of all those present.

  The Prefect of Police put them as follows:

  “You were out, Madame, were you not, when the murders were committed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were at the opera?”

  “Yes; and I went on to a party at the house of one of my friends, Mme. d’Ersingen.”

  “Did your chauffeur drive you?”

  “To the opera, yes. But I sent him back to his garage; and he came to fetch me at the party.”