And so, in a fight in which the police had a band of experienced detectives at their disposal, while the enemy, a prisoner, seemed to possess not the remotest chance of safety, this enemy, by a strategem of unprecedented daring, had led two of his adversaries aside, disabled both of them, drawn the others into the house and, finding the coast clear, escaped.
M. Desmalions was white with anger and despair. He exclaimed:
“He’s tricked us! His letters, his hiding-place, the movable nail, were all shams. Oh, the scoundrel!”
He went down to the ground floor and into the courtyard. On the boulevard he met one of the detectives who had given chase to the murderer and who was returning quite out of breath.
“Well?” he asked anxiously,
“Monsieur le Préfet, he turned down the first street, where there was a motor waiting for him. The engine must have been working, for our man outdistanced us at once.”
“But what about my car?”
“You see, Monsieur le Préfet, by the time it was started—”
“Was the motor that picked him up a hired one?”
“Yes, a taxi.”
“Then we shall find it. The driver will come of his own accord when he has seen the newspapers.”
Weber shook his head.
“Unless the driver is himself a confederate, Monsieur le Préfet.
Besides, even if we find the cab, aren’t we bound to suppose that Gaston
Sauverand will know how to front the scent? We shall have trouble,
Monsieur le Préfet.”
“Yes,” whispered Don Luis, who had been present at the first investigation and who was left alone for a moment with Mazeroux. “Yes, you will have trouble, especially if you let the people you capture take to their heels. Eh, Mazeroux, what did I tell you last night? But, still, what a scoundrel! And he’s not alone, Alexandre. I’ll answer for it that he has accomplices — and not a hundred yards from my house — do you understand? From my house.”
After questioning Mazeroux upon Sauverand’s attitude and the other incidents of the arrest, Don Luis went back to the Place du Palais-Bourbon.
* * * * *
The inquiry which he had to make related to events that were certainly quite as strange as those which he had just witnessed; and while the part played by Gaston Sauverand in the pursuit of the Mornington inheritance deserved all his attention, the behaviour of Mlle. Levasseur puzzled him no less.
He could not forget the cry of terror that escaped the girl while he was telephoning to Mazeroux, nor the scared expression of her face. Now it was impossible to attribute that cry and that expression to anything other than the words which he had uttered in reply to Mazeroux:
“What! Mme. Fauville tried to commit suicide!”
The fact was certain; and the connection between the announcement of the attempt and Mlle. Levasseur’s extreme emotion was too obvious for Perenna not to try to draw conclusions.
He went straight to his study and at once examined the arch leading to the telephone box. This arch, which was about six feet wide and very low, had no door, but merely a velvet hanging, which was nearly always drawn up, leaving the arch uncovered. Under the hanging, among the moldings of the cornice, was a button that had only to be pressed to bring down the iron curtain against which he had thrown himself two hours before.
He worked the catch two or three times over, and his experiments proved to him in the most explicit fashion that the mechanism was in perfect order and unable to act without outside intervention. Was he then to conclude that the girl had wanted to kill him? But what could be her motive?
He was on the point of ringing and sending for her, so as to receive the explanation which he was resolved to demand from her. However, the minutes passed and he did not ring. He saw her through the window as she walked slowly across the yard, her body swinging gracefully from her hips. A ray of sunshine lit up the gold of her hair.
All the rest of the morning he lay on a sofa, smoking cigars. He was ill at ease, dissatisfied with himself and with the course of events, not one of which brought him the least glimmer of truth; in fact, all of them seemed to deepen the darkness in which he was battling. Eager to act, the moment he did so he encountered fresh obstacles that paralyzed his powers of action and left him in utter ignorance of the nature of his adversaries.
But, at twelve o’clock, just as he had rung for lunch, his butler entered the study with a tray in his hand, and exclaimed, with an agitation which showed that the household was aware of Don Luis’s ambiguous position:
“Sir, it’s the Prefect of Police!”
“Eh?” said Perenna. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs, sir. I did not know what to do, at first … and I thought of telling Mlle. Levasseur. But—”
“Are you sure?”
“Here is his card, sir.”
Perenna took the card from the tray and read M. Desmalions’s name. He went to the window, opened it and, with the aid of the overhead mirror, looked into the Place du Palais-Bourbon. Half a dozen men were walking about. He recognized them. They were his usual watchers, those whom he had got rid of on the evening before and who had come to resume their observation.
“No others?” he said to himself. “Come, we have nothing to fear, and the
Prefect of Police has none but the best intentions toward me. It was what
I expected; and I think that I was well advised to save his life.”
M. Desmalions entered without a word. All that he did was to bend his head slightly, with a movement that might be taken for a bow. As for Weber, who was with him, he did not even give himself the trouble to disguise his feelings toward such a man as Perenna.
Don Luis took no direct notice of this attitude, but, in revenge, ostentatiously omitted to push forward more than one chair. M. Desmalions, however, preferred to walk about the room, with his hands behind his back, as if to continue his reflections before speaking.
The silence was prolonged. Don Luis waited patiently. Then, suddenly, the
Prefect stopped and said:
“When you left the Boulevard Richard-Wallace, Monsieur, did you go straight home?”
Don Luis did not demur to this cross-examining manner and answered:
“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet.”
“Here, to your study?”
“Here, to my study.”
M. Desmalions paused and then went on:
“I left thirty or forty minutes after you and drove to the police office in my car. There I received this express letter. Read it. You will see that it was handed in at the Bourse at half-past nine.”
Don Luis took the letter and read the following words, written in capital letters:
This is to inform you that Gaston Sauverand, after making his escape, rejoined his accomplice Perenna, who, as you know, is none other than Arsène Lupin. Arsène Lupin gave you Sauverand’s address in order to get rid of him and to receive the Mornington inheritance. They were reconciled this morning, and Arsène Lupin suggested a safe hiding-place to Sauverand. It is easy to prove their meeting and their complicity. Sauverand handed Lupin the half of the walking-stick which he had carried away unawares. You will find it under the cushions of a sofa standing between the two windows of Perenna’s study.
Don Luis shrugged his shoulders. The letter was absurd; for he had not once left his study. He folded it up quietly and handed it to the Prefect of Police without comment. He was resolved to let M. Desmalions take the initiative in the conversation.
The Prefect asked:
“What is your reply to the accusation?”
“None, Monsieur le Préfet.”
“Still, it is quite plain and easy to prove or disprove.”
“Very easy, indeed, Monsieur le Préfet; the sofa is there, between the windows.”
M. Desmalions waited two or three seconds and then walked to the sofa and moved the cushions. Under one of them lay the handle end of the walking-stick.
Don Luis could not repres
s a gesture of amazement and anger. He had not for a second contemplated the possibility of such a miracle; and it took him unawares. However, he mastered himself. After all, there was nothing to prove that this half of a walking-stick was really that which had been seen in Gaston Sauverand’s hands and which Sauverand had carried away by mistake.
“I have the other half on me,” said the Prefect of Police, replying to the unspoken objection. “Deputy Chief Weber himself picked it up on the Boulevard Richard-Wallace. Here it is.”
He produced it from the inside pocket of his overcoat and tried it. The ends of the two pieces fitted exactly.
There was a fresh pause. Perenna was confused, as were those, invariably, upon whom he himself used to inflict this kind of defeat and humiliation. He could not get over it. By what prodigy had Gaston Sauverand managed, in that short space of twenty minutes, to enter the house and make his way into this room? Even the theory of an accomplice living in the house did not do much to make the phenomenon easier to understand.
“It upsets all my calculations,” he thought, “and I shall have to go through the mill this time. I was able to baffle Mme. Fauville’s accusation and to foil the trick of the turquoise. But M. Desmalions will never admit that this is a similar attempt and that Gaston Sauverand has tried, as Marie Fauville did, to get me out of the way by compromising me and procuring my arrest.”
“Well,” exclaimed M. Desmalions impatiently, “answer! Defend yourself!”
“No, Monsieur le Préfet, it is not for me to defend myself,”
M. Desmalions stamped his foot and growled:
“In that case … in that case … since you confess … since—”
He put his hand on the latch of the window, ready to open it. A whistle, and the detectives would burst in and all would be over.
“Shall I have your inspectors called, Monsieur le Préfet?” asked Don
Luis.
M. Desmalions did not reply. He let go the window latch and started walking about the room again. And, suddenly, while Perenna was wondering why he still hesitated, for the second time the Prefect planted himself in front of him, and said:
“And suppose I looked upon the incident of the walking-stick as not having occurred, or, rather, as an incident which, while doubtless proving the treachery of your servants, is not able to compromise yourself? Suppose I took only the services which you have already rendered us into consideration? In a word, suppose I left you free?”
Perenna could not help smiling. Notwithstanding the affair of the walking-stick and though appearances were all against him, at the moment when everything seemed to be going wrong, things were taking the course which he had prophesied from the start, and which he had mentioned to Mazeroux during the inquiry on the Boulevard Suchet. They wanted him.
“Free?” he asked. “No more supervision? Nobody shadowing my movements?”
“Nobody.”
“And what if the press campaign around my name continues, if the papers succeed, by means of certain pieces of tittle-tattle, of certain coincidences, in creating a public outcry, if they call for measures against me?”
“Those measures shall not be taken.”
“Then I have nothing to fear?”
“Nothing.”
“Will M. Weber abandon his prejudices against me?”
“At any rate, he will act as though he did, won’t you, Weber?”
The deputy chief uttered a few grunts which might be taken as an expression of assent; and Don Luis at once exclaimed:
“In that case, Monsieur le Préfet, I am sure of gaining the victory and of gaining it in accordance with the wishes and requirements of the authorities.”
And so, by a sudden change in the situation, after a series of exceptional circumstances, the police themselves, bowing before Don Luis Perenna’s superior qualities of mind, acknowledging all that he had already done and foreseeing all that he would be able to do, decided to back him up, begging for his assistance, and offering him, so to speak, the command of affairs.
It was a flattering compliment. Was it addressed only to Don Luis Perenna? And had Lupin, the terrible, undaunted Lupin, no right to claim his share? Was it possible to believe that M. Desmalions, in his heart of hearts, did not admit the identity of the two persons?
Nothing in the Prefect’s attitude gave any clue to his secret thoughts. He was suggesting to Don Luis Perenna one of those compacts which the police are often obliged to conclude in order to gain their ends. The compact was concluded, and no more was said upon the subject.
“Do you want any particulars of me?” asked the Prefect of Police.
“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet. The papers spoke of a notebook found in poor
Inspector Vérot’s pocket. Did the notebook contain a clue of any kind?”
“No. Personal notes, lists of disbursements, that’s all. Wait, I was forgetting, there was a photograph of a woman, about which I have not yet been able to obtain the least information. Besides, I don’t suppose that it bears upon the case and I have not sent it to the newspapers. Look, here it is.”
Perenna took the photograph which the Prefect handed him and gave a start that did not escape M. Desmalions’s eye.
“Do you know the lady?”
“No. No, Monsieur le Préfet. I thought I did; but no, there’s merely a resemblance — a family likeness, which I will verify if you can leave the photograph with me till this evening.”
“Till this evening, yes. When you have done with it, give it back to Sergeant Mazeroux, whom I will order to work in concert with you in everything that relates to the Mornington case.”
The interview was now over. The Prefect went away. Don Luis saw him to the door. As M. Desmalions was about to go down the steps, he turned and said simply:
“You saved my life this morning. But for you, that scoundrel Sauverand—”
“Oh, Monsieur le Préfet!” said Don Luis, modestly protesting.
“Yes, I know, you are in the habit of doing that sort of thing. All the same, you must accept my thanks.”
And the Prefect of Police made a bow such as he would really have made to Don Luis Perenna, the Spanish noble, the hero of the Foreign Legion. As for Weber, he put his two hands in his pockets, walked past with the look of a muzzled mastiff, and gave his enemy a glance of fierce hatred.
“By Jupiter!” thought Don Luis. “There’s a fellow who won’t miss me when he gets the chance to shoot!”
Looking through a window, he saw M. Desmalions’s motor car drive off. The detectives fell in behind the deputy chief and left the Place du Palais-Bourbon. The siege was raised.
“And now to work!” said Don Luis. “My hands are free, and we shall make things hum.”
He called the butler.
“Serve lunch; and ask Mlle. Levasseur to come and speak to me immediately after.”
He went to the dining-room and sat down, placing on the table the photograph which M. Desmalions had left behind; and, bending over it, he examined it attentively. It was a little faded, a little worn, as photographs have a tendency to become when they lie about in pocket-books or among papers; but the picture was quite clear. It was the radiant picture of a young woman in evening dress, with bare arms and shoulders, with flowers and leaves in her hair and a smile upon her face.
“Mlle. Levasseur, Mlle. Levasseur,” he said. “Is it possible!”
In a corner was a half-obliterated and hardly visible signature. He made out, “Florence,” the girl’s name, no doubt. And he repeated:
“Mlle. Levasseur, Florence Levasseur. How did her photograph come to be in Inspector Vérot’s pocket-book? And what is the connection between this adventure and the reader of the Hungarian count from whom I took over the house?”
He remembered the incident of the iron curtain. He remembered the article in the Echo de France, an article aimed against him, of which he had found the rough draft in his own courtyard. And, above all, he thought of the problem of that broken walking-stick conveyed i
nto his study.
And, while his mind was striving to read these events clearly, while he tried to settle the part played by Mlle. Levasseur, his eyes remained fixed upon the photograph and he gazed absent-mindedly at the pretty lines of the mouth, the charming smile, the graceful curve of the neck, the admirable sweep of the shoulders.
The door opened suddenly and Mlle. Levasseur burst into the room. Perenna, who had dismissed the butler, was raising to his lips a glass of water which he had just filled for himself. She sprang forward, seized his arm, snatched the glass from him and flung it on the carpet, where it smashed to pieces.
“Have you drunk any of it? Have you drunk any of it?” she gasped, in a choking voice.
He replied:
“No, not yet. Why?”
She stammered:
“The water in that bottle … the water in that bottle—”
“Well?”
“It’s poisoned!”
He leapt from his chair and, in his turn, gripped her arm fiercely:
“What’s that? Poisoned! Are you certain? Speak!”
In spite of his usual self-control, he was this time thoroughly alarmed. Knowing the terrible effects of the poison employed by the miscreants whom he was attacking, recalling the corpse of Inspector Vérot, the corpses of Hippolyte Fauville and his son, he knew that, trained though he was to resist comparatively large doses of poison, he could not have escaped the deadly action of this. It was a poison that did not forgive, that killed, surely and fatally.
The girl was silent. He raised his voice in command:
“Answer me! Are you certain?”
“No … it was an idea that entered my head — a presentiment … certain coincidences—”
It was as though she regretted her words and now tried to withdraw them.
“Come, come,” he cried, “I want to know the truth: You’re not certain that the water in this bottle is poisoned?”
“No … it’s possible—”
“Still, just now—”
“I thought so. But no … no!”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 256
