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

by Maurice Leblanc

  It was a heavy metal panel, not made of plates or lathes fastened one to the other, but formed of a solid slab, massive, firm, and strong, and covered with the sheen of time darkened here and there with patches of rust. On either side and at the top and bottom the edges of the panel fitted in a narrow groove which covered them hermetically.

  He was a prisoner. In a sudden fit of rage he banged at the metal with his fists. He remembered that Mlle. Levasseur was in the study. If she had not yet left the room — and surely she could not have left it when the thing happened — she would hear the noise. She was bound to hear it. She would be sure to come back, give the alarm, and rescue him.

  He listened. He shouted. No reply. His voice died away against the walls and ceiling of the box in which he was shut up, and he felt that the whole house — drawing-rooms, staircases, and passages — remained deaf to his appeal.

  And yet … and yet … Mlle. Levasseur —

  “What does it mean?” he muttered. “What can it all mean?”

  And motionless now and silent, he thought once more of the girl’s strange attitude, of her distraught face, of her haggard eyes. And he also began to wonder what accident had released the mechanism which had hurled the formidable iron curtain upon him, craftily and ruthlessly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE MAN WITH THE EBONY WALKING-STICK

  A GROUP CONSISTING of Deputy Chief Detective Weber, Chief Inspector Ancenis, Sergeant Mazeroux, three inspectors, and the Neuilly commissary of police stood outside the gate of No. 8 Boulevard Richard-Wallace.

  Mazeroux was watching the Avenue de Madrid, by which Don Luis would have to come, and began to wonder what had happened; for half an hour had passed since they telephoned to each other, and Mazeroux could find no further pretext for delaying the work.

  “It’s time to make a move,” said Weber. “The housekeeper is making signals to us from the window: the joker’s dressing.”

  “Why not nab him when he comes out?” objected Mazeroux. “We shall capture him in a moment.”

  “And if he cuts off by another outlet which we don’t know of?” said the deputy chief. “You have to be careful with these beggars. No, let’s beard him in his den. It’s more certain.”

  “Still—”

  “What’s the matter with you, Mazeroux?” asked the deputy chief, taking him on one side. “Don’t you see that our men are getting restive? They’re afraid of this sportsman. There’s only one way, which is to set them on him as if he were a wild beast. Besides, the business must be finished by the time the Prefect comes,”

  “Is he coming?”

  “Yes. He wants to see things for himself. The whole affair interests him enormously. So, forward! Are you ready, men? I’m going to ring.”

  The bell sounded; and the housekeeper at once came and half opened the gate.

  Although the orders were to observe great quiet, so as not to alarm the enemy too soon, the fear which he inspired was so intense that there was a general rush; and all the detectives crowded into the courtyard, ready for the fight. But a window opened and some one cried from the second floor:

  “What’s happening?”

  The deputy chief did not reply. Two detectives, the chief inspector, the commissary, and himself entered the house, while the others remained in the courtyard and made any attempt at flight impossible.

  The meeting took place on the first floor. The man had come down, fully dressed, with his hat on his head; and the deputy chief roared:

  “Stop! Hands up! Are you Hubert Lautier?”

  The man seemed disconcerted. Five revolvers were levelled at him. And yet no sign of fear showed in his face; and he simply said:

  “What do you want, Monsieur? What are you here for?”

  “We are here in the name of the law, with a warrant for your arrest.”

  “A warrant for my arrest?”

  “A warrant for the arrest of Hubert Lautier, residing at 8 Boulevard

  Richard-Wallace.”

  “But it’s absurd!” said the man. “It’s incredible! What does it mean?

  What for?”

  They took him by both arms, without his offering the least resistance, pushed him into a fairly large room containing no furniture but three rush-bottomed chairs, an armchair, and a table covered with big books.

  “There,” said the deputy chief. “Don’t stir. If you attempt to move, so much the worse for you.”

  The man made no protest. While the two detectives held him by the collar, he seemed to be reflecting, as though he were trying to understand the secret causes of an arrest for which he was totally unprepared. He had an intelligent face, a reddish-brown beard, and a pair of blue-gray eyes which now and again showed a certain hardness of expression behind his glasses. His broad shoulders and powerful neck pointed to physical strength.

  “Shall we tie his wrists?” Mazeroux asked the deputy chief.

  “One second. The Prefect’s coming; I can hear him. Have you searched the man’s pockets? Any weapons?”

  “No.”

  “No flask, no phial? Nothing suspicious?”

  “No, nothing.”

  M. Desmalions arrived and, while watching the prisoner’s face, talked in a low voice with the deputy chief and received the particulars of the arrest.

  “This is good business,” he said. “We wanted this. Now that both accomplices are in custody, they will have to speak; and everything will be cleared up. So there was no resistance?”

  “None at all, Monsieur le Préfet.”

  “No matter, we will remain on our guard.”

  The prisoner had not uttered a word, but still wore a thoughtful look, as though trying to understand the inexplicable events of the last few minutes. Nevertheless, when he realized that the newcomer was none other than the Prefect of Police, he raised his head and looked at M. Desmalions, who asked him:

  “It is unnecessary to tell you the cause of your arrest, I presume?”

  He replied, in a deferential tone:

  “Excuse me, Monsieur le Préfet, but I must ask you, on the contrary, to inform me. I have not the least idea of the reason. Your detectives have made a grave mistake which a word, no doubt, will be enough to set right. That word I wish for, I insist upon—”

  The Prefect shrugged his shoulders and said:

  “You are suspected of taking part in the murder of Fauville, the civil engineer, and his son Edmond.”

  “Is Hippolyte dead?”

  The cry was spontaneous, almost unconscious; a bewildered cry of dismay from a man moved to the depths of his being. And his dismay was supremely strange, his question, trying to make them believe in his ignorance, supremely unexpected.

  “Is Hippolyte dead?”

  He repeated the question in a hoarse voice, trembling all over as he spoke.

  “Is Hippolyte dead? What are you saying? Is it possible that he can be dead? And how? Murdered? Edmond, too?”

  The Prefect once more shrugged his shoulders.

  “The mere fact of your calling M. Fauville by his Christian name shows that you knew him intimately. And, even if you were not concerned in his murder, it has been mentioned often enough in the newspapers during the last fortnight for you to know of it.”

  “I never read a newspaper, Monsieur le Préfet.”

  “What! You mean to tell me — ?”

  “It may sound improbable, but it is quite true. I lead an industrious life, occupying myself solely with scientific research, in view of a popular work which I am preparing, and I do not take the least part or the least interest in outside things. I defy any one to prove that I have read a newspaper for months and months past. And that is why I am entitled to say that I did not know of Hippolyte Fauville’s murder.”

  “Still, you knew M. Fauville.”

  “I used to know him, but we quarrelled.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Family affairs.”

  “Family affairs! Were you related, then?”

  �
��Yes. Hippolyte was my cousin.”

  “Your cousin! M. Fauville was your cousin! But … but then … Come, let us have the rights of the matter. M. Fauville and his wife were the children of two sisters, Elizabeth and Armande Roussel. Those two sisters had been brought up with a first cousin called Victor.”

  “Yes, Victor Sauverand, whose grandfather was a Roussel. Victor Sauverand married abroad and had two sons. One of them died fifteen years ago; the other is myself.”

  M. Desmalions gave a start. His excitement was manifest. If that man was telling the truth, if he was really the son of that Victor whose record the police had not yet been able to trace, then, owing to this very fact, since M. Fauville and his son were dead and Mme. Fauville, so to speak, convicted of murder and forfeiting her rights, they had arrested the final heir to Cosmo Mornington. But why, in a moment of madness, had he voluntarily brought this crushing indictment against himself?

  He continued:

  “My statements seem to surprise you, Monsieur le Préfet. Perhaps they throw a light on the mistake of which I am a victim?”

  He expressed himself calmly, with great politeness and in a remarkably well-bred voice; and he did not for a moment seem to suspect that his revelations, on the contrary, were justifying the measures taken against him.

  Without replying to the question, the Prefect of Police asked him:

  “So your real name is—”

  “Gaston Sauverand.”

  “Why do you call yourself Hubert Lautier?”

  The man had a second of indecision which did not escape so clear-sighted an observer as M. Desmalions. He swayed from side to side, his eyes flickered and he said:

  “That does not concern the police; it concerns no one but myself.”

  M. Desmalions smiled:

  “That is a poor argument. Will you use the same when I ask you why you live in hiding, why you left the Avenue du Roule, where you used to live, without leaving an address behind you, and why you receive your letters at the post-office under initials?”

  “Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, those are matters of a private character, which affect only my conscience. You have no right to question me about them.”

  “That is the exact reply which we are constantly receiving at every moment from your accomplice.”

  “My accomplice?”

  “Yes, Mme. Fauville.”

  “Mme. Fauville!”

  Gaston Sauverand had uttered the same cry as when he heard of the death of the engineer; and his stupefaction seemed even greater, combined as it was with an anguish that distorted his features beyond recognition.

  “What?… What?… What do you say? Marie!… No, you don’t mean it! It’s not true!”

  M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the Boulevard Suchet.

  Gaston Sauverand, beside himself, with his eyes starting from his head, muttered:

  “Is it true? Is Marie the victim of the same mistake as myself? Perhaps they have arrested her? She, she in prison!”

  He raised his clenched fists in a threatening manner against all the unknown enemies by whom he was surrounded, against those who were persecuting him, those who had murdered Hippolyte Fauville and delivered Marie Fauville to the police.

  Mazeroux and Chief Inspector Ancenis took hold of him roughly. He made a movement of resistance, as though he intended to thrust back his aggressors. But it was only momentary; and he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands:

  “What a mystery!” he stammered. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand—”

  Weber, who had gone out a few minutes before, returned. M.

  Desmalions asked:

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, I have had the taxi brought up to the gate beside your car.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Eight. Two detectives have just arrived from the commissary’s.”

  “Have you searched the house?”

  “Yes. It’s almost empty, however. There’s nothing but the indispensable articles of furniture and some bundles of papers in the bedroom.”

  “Very well. Take him away and keep a sharp lookout.”

  Gaston Sauverand walked off quietly between the deputy chief and

  Mazeroux. He turned round in the doorway.

  “Monsieur le Préfet, as you are making a search, I entreat you to take care of the papers on the table in my bedroom. They are notes that have cost me a great deal of labour in the small hours of the night. Also—”

  He hesitated, obviously embarrassed.

  “Well?”

  “Well, Monsieur le Préfet, I must tell you — something—”

  He was looking for his words and seemed to fear the consequences of them at the same time that he uttered them. But he suddenly made up his mind.

  “Monsieur le Préfet, there is in this house — somewhere — a packet of letters which I value more than my life. It is possible that those letters, if misinterpreted, will furnish a weapon against me; but no matter. The great thing is that they should be safe. You will see. They include documents of extreme importance. I entrust them to your keeping — to yours alone, Monsieur le Préfet.”

  “Where are they?”

  “The hiding-place is easily found. All you have to do is to go to the garret above my bedroom and press on a nail to the right of the window. It is an apparently useless nail, but it controls a hiding-place outside, under the slates of the roof, along the gutter.”

  He moved away between the two men. The Prefect called them back.

  “One second. Mazeroux, go up to the garret and bring me the letters.”

  Mazeroux went out and returned in a few minutes. He had been unable to work the spring.

  The Prefect ordered Chief Inspector Ancenis to go up with Mazeroux and to take the prisoner, who would show them how to open the hiding-place. He himself remained in the room with Weber, awaiting the result of the search, and began to read the titles of the volumes piled upon the table.

  They were scientific books, among which he noticed works on chemistry:

  “Organic Chemistry” and “Chemistry Considered in Its Relations with

  Electricity.” They were all covered with notes in the margins. He was

  turning over the pages of one of them, when he seemed to hear shouts.

  The Prefect rushed to the door, but had not crossed the threshold when a pistol shot echoed down the staircase and there was a yell of pain.

  Immediately after came two more shots, accompanied by cries, the sound of a struggle, and yet another shot.

  Tearing upstairs, four steps at a time, with an agility not to be expected from a man of his build, the Prefect of Police, followed by the deputy chief, covered the second flight and came to a third, which was narrower and steeper. When he reached the bend, a man’s body, staggering above him, fell into his arms: it was Mazeroux, wounded.

  On the stairs lay another body, lifeless, that of Chief Inspector

  Ancenis.

  Above them, in the frame of a small doorway, stood Gaston Sauverand, with a savage look on his face and his arm outstretched. He fired a fifth shot at random. Then, seeing the Prefect of Police, he took deliberate aim.

  The Prefect stared at that terrifying barrel levelled at his face and gave himself up for lost. But, at that exact second, a shot was discharged from behind him, Sauverand’s weapon fell from his hand before he was able to fire, and the Prefect saw, as in a dream, a man, the man who had saved his life, striding across the chief inspector’s body, propping Mazeroux against the wall, and darting ahead, followed by the detectives. He recognized the man: it was Don Luis Perenna.

  Don Luis stepped briskly into the garret where Sauverand had retreated, but had time only to catch sight of him standing on the window ledge and leaping into space from the third floor.

  “Has he jumped from there?” cried the Prefect, hastening u
p. “We shall never capture him alive!”

  “Neither alive nor dead, Monsieur le Préfet. See, he’s picking himself up. There’s a providence which looks after that sort. He’s making for the gate. He’s hardly limping.”

  “But where are my men?”

  “Why, they’re all on the staircase, in the house, brought here by the shots, seeing to the wounded—”

  “Oh, the demon!” muttered the Prefect. “He’s played a masterly game!”

  Gaston Sauverand, in fact, was escaping unmolested.

  “Stop him! Stop him!” roared M. Desmalions.

  There were two motors standing beside the pavement, which is very wide at this spot: the Prefect’s own car, and the cab which the deputy chief had provided for the prisoner. The two chauffeurs, sitting on their seats, had noticed nothing of the fight. But they saw Gaston Sauverand’s leap into space; and the Prefect’s chauffeur, on whose seat a certain number of incriminating articles had been placed, taking out of the heap the first weapon that offered, the ebony walking-stick, bravely rushed at the fugitive.

  “Stop him! Stop him!” shouted M. Desmalions.

  The encounter took place at the exit from the courtyard. It did not last long. Sauverand flung himself upon his assailant, snatched the stick from him, and broke it across his face. Then, without dropping the handle, he ran away, pursued by the other chauffeur and by three detectives who at last appeared from the house. He had thirty yards’ start of the detectives, one of whom fired several shots at him without effect.

  When M. Desmalions and Weber went downstairs again, they found the chief inspector lying on the bed in Gaston Sauverand’s room on the second floor, gray in the face. He had been hit on the head and was dying. A few minutes later he was dead.

  Sergeant Mazeroux, whose wound was only slight, said, while it was being dressed, that Sauverand had taken the chief inspector and himself up to the garret, and that, outside the door, he had dipped his hand quickly into an old satchel hanging on the wall among some servants’ wornout aprons and jackets. He drew out a revolver and fired point-blank at the chief inspector, who dropped like a log. When seized by Mazeroux, the murderer released himself and fired three bullets, the third of which hit the sergeant in the shoulder.