“Nothing to be done? Why, it’s a question of putting them off your scent and mighty quickly!”
“What good would that do me, as I’m going home and they know where I live?”
“Eh, what? Can you have the cheek to go home after what’s happened?”
“Where do you expect me to sleep? Under the bridges?”
“But, dash it all, don’t you understand that, after this job, there will be the most infernal stir, that you’re compromised up to the neck as it is, and that everybody will turn against you?”
“Well?”
“Drop the business.”
“And the murderers of Cosmo Mornington and the Fauvilles?”
“The police will see to that.”
“Alexandre, you’re an ass.”
“Then become Lupin again, the invisible, impregnable Lupin, and do your own fighting, as you used to. But in Heaven’s name don’t remain Perenna! It is too dangerous. And don’t occupy yourself officially with a business in which you are not interested.”
“The things you say, Alexandre! I am interested in it to the tune of a hundred millions. If Perenna does not stick to his post, the hundred millions will be snatched from under his nose. And, on the one occasion when I can earn a few honest centimes, that would be most annoying.”
“And, if they arrest you?”
“No go! I’m dead!”
“Lupin is dead. But Perenna is alive.”
“As they haven’t arrested me to-day, I’m easy in my mind.”
“It’s only put off. And the orders are strict from this moment onward.
They mean to surround your house and to keep watch day and night.”
“Capital. I always was frightened at night.”
“But, good Lord! what are you hoping for?”
“I hope for nothing, Alexandre. I am sure. I am sure now that they will not dare arrest me.”
“Do you imagine that Weber will stand on ceremony?”
“I don’t care a hang about Weber. Without orders, Weber can do nothing.”
“But they’ll give him his orders.”
“The order to shadow me, yes; to arrest me, no. The Prefect of Police has committed himself about me to such an extent that he will be obliged to back me up. And then there’s this: the whole affair is so absurd, so complicated, that you people will never find your way out of it alone. Sooner or later, you will come and fetch me. For there is no one but myself able to fight such adversaries as these: not you nor Weber, nor any of your pals at the detective office. I shall expect your visit, Alexandre.”
On the next day an expert examination identified the tooth prints on the two apples and likewise established the fact that the print on the cake of chocolate was similar to the others.
Also, the driver of a taxicab came and gave evidence that a lady engaged him as she left the opera, told him to drive her straight to the end of the Avenue Henri Martin, and left the cab on reaching that spot.
Now the end of the Avenue Henri Martin was within five minutes’ walk of the Fauvilles’ house.
The man was brought into Mme. Fauville’s presence and recognized her at once.
What had she done in that neighbourhood for over an hour?
Marie Fauville was taken to the central lockup, was entered on the register, and slept, that night, at the Saint-Lazare prison.
That same day, when the reporters were beginning to publish details of the investigation, such as the discovery of the tooth prints, but when they did not yet know to whom to attribute them, two of the leading dailies used as a headline for their article the very words which Don Luis Perenna had employed to describe the marks on the apple, the sinister words which so well suggested the fierce, savage, and so to speak, brutal character of the incident:
“
THE TEETH OF THE TIGER.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE IRON CURTAIN
It is sometimes an ungrateful task to tell the story of Arsène Lupin’s life, for the reason that each of his adventures is partly known to the public, having at the time formed the subject of much eager comment, whereas his biographer is obliged, if he would throw light upon what is not known, to begin at the beginning and to relate in full detail all that which is already public property.
It is because of this necessity that I am compelled to speak once more of the extreme excitement which the news of that shocking series of crimes created in France, in Europe and throughout the civilized world. The public heard of four murders practically all at once, for the particulars of Cosmo Mornington’s will were published two days later.
There was no doubt that the same person had killed Cosmo Mornington, Inspector Vérot, Fauville the engineer, and his son Edmond. The same person had made the identical sinister bite, leaving against himself or herself, with a heedlessness that seemed to show the avenging hand of fate, a most impressive and incriminating proof, a proof which made people shudder as they would have shuddered at the awful reality: the marks of his or her teeth, the teeth of the tiger!
And, in the midst of all this bloodshed, at the most tragic moment of the dismal tragedy, behold the strangest of figures emerging from the 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 of Inspector Vérot, taken the conduct of the investigation into his own hands, delivered to justice the inhuman creature whose beautiful white teeth fitted the marks as precious stones fit their settings, received a cheque for a million francs on the day after these exploits and, finally, found himself the probable heir to an immense fortune.
And here was Arsène Lupin coming to life again!
For the public made no mistake about that, and, with wonderful intuition, proclaimed aloud that Don Luis Perenna was Arsène Lupin, before a close examination 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 smoking ruins of a little chalet near the Luxemburg frontier and, with it, the corpse of a man whom the police identified as Arsène Lupin. But everything goes to show that the whole scene was contrived by Lupin, who, for reasons of his own, wanted to be thought dead. And everything shows that the police accepted and legalized the theory of his death only because they wished to be rid of their everlasting adversary.
“As a proof, we have the confidences made by Valenglay, who was Prime Minister at the time and whom the chances of politics have just replaced at the head of the government. And there is the mysterious incident on the island of Capri when the German Emperor, just as he was about to be buried under a landslip, was saved by a hermit who, according to the German version, was none other than Arsène Lupin.”
To this came a fresh objection:
“Very well; but read the newspapers of the time: ten minutes afterward, 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 a steamer picked up a man who was making signals to her and that this steamer was on her way to Algiers. Well, a few days later, Don Luis Perenna enlisted in the Foreign Legion at Sidi-bel-Abbes.”
Of course, the controversy upon which the newspapers embarked on this subject was carried on discreetly. Everybody was afraid of Lupin; and the journalists maintained a certain reserve in their articles, confined themselves to comparing dates and pointing out coincidences, and refrained from speaking too positively of any Lupin that might lie hidden under the mask of Perenna.
But, as regards the private in the Foreign Legion and his stay in
Morocco, they took their revenge and let themselves go freely.
Major d’Astrignac had spoken. Other officers, other comrades of Perenna’s, related what they had seen. The reports and daily orders concerning him were
published. And what became known as “The Hero’s Idyll” began to take the form of a sort of record each page of which described the maddest and unlikeliest of facts.
At Médiouna, on the twenty-fourth of March, the adjutant, Captain Pollex, awarded Private Perenna four days’ cells on a charge of having broken out of 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, killed in ambush. And in the margin was this note, in the colonel’s hand:
“The colonel commanding doubles Private Perenna’s award, but mentions his name in orders and congratulates and thanks him.”
After the fight of Ber-Réchid, Lieutenant Fardet’s detachment being obliged to retreat before a band of four hundred Moors, Private Perenna asked 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 as well as I?”
At his request, they left him a dozen rifles, and divided with him the cartridges that remained. His share came to seventy-five.
The detachment got away without being further molested. Next day, when they were able to return with reinforcements, they surprised the Moors lying in wait around the kasbah, but afraid to approach. The ground was covered with seventy-five of their killed.
Our men drove them off. They found Private Perenna stretched on the floor of the kasbah. They thought him dead. He was asleep!
He had not a single cartridge left. But each of his seventy-five bullets had gone home.
What struck the imagination of the public most, however, was Major Comte d’Astrignac’s story of the battle of Dar-Dbibarh. The major confessed that this battle, which relieved Fez at the moment when we thought that all was lost and which created such a sensation in France, was won before it 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 the plain, sprang on the animal, which had no saddle, bridle, nor any sort of harness, and without jacket, cap, or arms, with his white shirt bulging out and a cigarette between his teeth, charged, with his hands in his trousers-pockets!
He charged straight toward the enemy, galloped through their camp, riding in and out among the tents, and then left it by the same place by which he had gone in.
This quite inconceivable death ride spread such consternation among the Moors that their attack was half-hearted and the battle was won without resistance.
This, together with numberless other feats of bravado, went to make up the heroic legend of Perenna. It threw into relief the superhuman energy, the marvellous recklessness, the bewildering fancy, the spirit of adventure, the physical dexterity, and the coolness of a singularly mysterious individual whom it was impossible not to take for Arsène Lupin, but a new and greater Arsène Lupin, dignified, idealized, and ennobled by his exploits.
One morning, a fortnight after the double murder in the Boulevard Suchet, this extraordinary man, who aroused such eager interest and who was spoken of on every side as a fabulous and more or less impossible being: one morning, Don Luis Perenna dressed himself and went the rounds of his house.
It was a comfortable and roomy eighteenth-century mansion, situated at the entrance to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the little Place du Palais-Bourbon. He had bought it, furnished, from a rich Hungarian, Count Malonyi, keeping for his own use the horses, carriages, motor cars, and taking over the eight servants and even the count’s secretary, Mlle. Levasseur, who undertook to manage the household and to receive and get rid of the visitors — journalists, bores and curiosity-dealers — attracted by the luxury of the house and the reputation of its new owner.
After finishing his inspection of the stables and garage, he walked across the courtyard and went up to his study, pushed open one of the windows and raised his head. Above him was a slanting mirror; and this mirror reflected, beyond the courtyard and its surrounding wall, one whole side of the Place du Palais-Bourbon.
“Bother!” he said. “Those confounded detectives are still there. And this has 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 making notes on the others, such as applications for assistance and requests for interviews. 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; and Perenna had trained her to pick out in the newspapers anything that referred to him, and to give him each morning an exact account of the proceedings that were being taken against Mme. Fauville.
Always dressed in black, with a very elegant and graceful figure, she had attracted him from the first. She had an air of great dignity and a grave and thoughtful face which made it impossible to penetrate the secret of her soul, and which would have seemed austere had it not been framed in a cloud of fair curls, resisting all attempts at discipline and setting a halo 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, he wondered what she could think of him, of his mode of life, and of all that 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 see that the police investigations were making no headway. Marie Fauville still kept to her first method, that of weeping, making a show of indignation, and assuming entire ignorance of the facts upon which she was being examined.
“It’s ridiculous,” he said, aloud. “I have never seen any one defend herself so clumsily.”
“Still, if she’s innocent?”
It was the first time that Mlle. Levasseur had uttered an opinion or rather 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 her interruption. It was as though she were removing her impassive mask and about to allow her face to adopt a more animated expression under the impulse of her inner feelings. But she restrained herself with a visible effort, 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 by Mme. Fauville’s own teeth. Those marks, you see, are something more than a signature, more than a confession of guilt. And, as long as she is unable to give a satisfactory explanation of this point—”
But Marie Fauville vouchsafed not the slightest explanation of this or of anything else. She remained impenetrable. On the other hand, the police failed to discover her accomplice or accomplices, or the man with the ebony walking-stick and the tortoise-shell glasses whom the waiter at the Café du Pont-Neuf had described to Mazeroux and who seemed to have played a singularly suspicious part. In short, there was not a ray of light thrown upon the subject.
Equally vain was all search for the traces of Victor, the Roussel sister’s first cousin, who would have inherited the Mornington bequest in the absence of any direct heirs.
“Is that all?” asked Perenna.
“No,” said Mlle. Levasseur, “there is an article in the Echo de
France—”
“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:
“Two years ago, in other words, three years after the pretended death of Arsène Lupin, the police, having discovered or believing they had discovered that Arsène Lupin was really none other than one Floriani, born at Blois and since lost to sight, caused the register to be inscribed, on the page relating to this Floriani, with the word ‘Deceased,’ followed by the words ‘Under the alias of Arsène Lupin.’
“Consequently, to bring Arsène Lupin back to life, there would be wanted something more than the undeniable proof of his existence, which would not be impossible. The most complicated wheels in the administrative machine would have to be set in motion, and a decree obtained from the Council of State.
“Now it would seem that M. Valenglay, the Prime Minister, together with the Prefect of Police, is opposed to making any too minute inquiries capable of opening up a scandal which the authorities are anxious to avoid. Bring Arsène Lupin back to life? Recommence the struggle with that 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 Arsène Lupin, the hardened thief, the impenitent criminal, the robber-king, the emperor of burglars and swindlers, is able to-day, not clandestinely, but in the sight and hearing of the whole world, to pursue the most formidable task that he has yet undertaken, to live publicly under a name which is not his own, but which he has incontestably made his own, to destroy with impunity four persons who stood in his way, to cause the imprisonment of an innocent woman against whom he himself has accumulated false evidence, and at the end of all, despite the protests of common sense and thanks to an unavowed complicity, to receive the hundred millions of the Mornington legacy.
“There is the ignominious truth in a nutshell. It is well that it should be stated. Let us hope, now that it stands revealed, that it will influence the future conduct of events.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 253
