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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Bear in mind that the explosion is independent of the letters, and that it will take place at three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Yes,” thought Don Luis, accepting M. Desmalions’s reasoning, “yes, in ten days’ time. As there have been only three letters, the fourth will appear to-night; and the explosion will not take place until the fifth letter appears — that is in ten days from now.”

  He repeated:

  “In ten days — with the fifth letter — in ten days—”

  And suddenly he gave a start of fright. A horrible vision had flashed across his mind, a vision only too real. The explosion was to occur that very night! And all at once, knowing that he knew the truth, all at once, in a revival of his usual clear-sightedness, he accepted the theory as certain.

  No doubt only three letters had appeared out of the mysterious darkness, but four letters ought to have appeared, because one of them had appeared not on the date fixed, but ten days later; and this for a reason which Don Luis knew. Besides, it was not a question of all this. It was not a question of seeking the truth amid this confusion of dates and letters, amid this intricate tangle in which no one could lay claim to any certainty,

  No; one thing alone stood out above the situation: the sentence, “Bear in mind that the explosion is independent of the letters.” And, as the explosion was put down for the night of the twenty-fifth of May, it would occur that very night, at three o’clock in the morning!

  “Help! Help!” he cried.

  This time he did not hesitate. So far, he had had the courage to remain huddled in his prison and to wait for the miracle that might come to his assistance; but he preferred to face every danger and undergo every penalty rather than abandon the Prefect of Police, Weber, Mazeroux, and their companions to the death that threatened them.

  “Help! Help!”

  Fauville’s house would be blown up in three or four hours. That he knew with the greatest certainty. Just as punctually as the mysterious letters had reached their destination in spite of all the obstacles in the way, so the explosion would occur at the hour named. The infernal artificer of the accursed work had wished it so. At three o’clock in the morning there would be nothing left of the Fauvilles’ house.

  “Help! Help!”

  He recovered enough strength to raise desperate shouts and to make his voice carry beyond the stones and beyond the wainscoting.

  Then, when there seemed to be no answer to his call, he stopped and listened for a long time. There was not a sound. The silence was absolute.

  Thereupon a terrible anguish covered him with a cold sweat. Supposing the detectives had ceased to watch the upper floors and confined themselves to spending the night in the rooms on the ground floor?

  He madly took a brick and struck it repeatedly against the stone that closed the entrance, hoping that the noise would spread through the house. But an avalanche of small stones, loosened by the blows, at once fell upon him, knocking him down again and fixing him where he lay.

  “Help! Help!”

  More silence — a great, ruthless silence.

  “Help! Help!”

  He felt that his shouts did not penetrate the walls that stifled him. Besides, his voice was growing fainter and fainter, producing a hoarse groan that died away in his strained throat.

  He ceased his cries and again listened, with all his anxious attention, to the great silence that surrounded as with layers of lead the stone coffin in which he lay imprisoned. Still nothing, not a sound. No one would come, no one could come to his assistance.

  He continued to be haunted by Florence’s name and image. And he thought also of Marie Fauville, whom he had promised to save. But Marie would die of starvation. And, like her, like Gaston Sauverand and so many others, he in his turn was the victim of this monstrous horror.

  An incident occurred to increase his dismay. All of a sudden his electric lantern, which he had left alight to dispel the terrors of the darkness, went out. It was eleven o’clock at night.

  He was overcome with a fit of giddiness. He could hardly breathe in the close and vitiated air. His brain suffered, as it were, a physical and exceedingly painful ailment, from the repetition of images that seemed to encrust themselves there; and it was always Florence’s beautiful features or Marie’s livid face. And, in his distraught brain, while Marie lay dying, he heard the explosion at the Fauvilles’ house and saw the Prefect of Police and Mazeroux lying hideously mutilated, dead.

  A numbness crept over him. He fell into a sort of swoon, in which he continued to stammer confused syllables:

  “Florence — Marie — Marie—”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE EXPLOSION

  THE FOURTH MYSTERIOUS letter! The fourth of those letters “posted by the devil and delivered by the devil,” as one of the newspapers expressed it!

  We all of us remember the really extraordinary agitation of the public as the night of the twenty-fifth of May drew near. And fresh news increased this interest to a yet higher degree.

  People heard in quick succession of the arrest of Sauverand, the flight of his accomplice, Florence Levasseur, Don Luis Perenna’s secretary, and the inexplicable disappearance of Perenna himself, whom they insisted, for the best of reasons, on identifying with Arsène Lupin.

  The police, assured from this moment of victory and having nearly all the actors in the tragedy in their power, had gradually given way to indiscretion; and, thanks to the particulars revealed to this or that journalist, the public knew of Don Luis’s change of attitude, suspected his passion for Florence Levasseur and the real cause of his right-about-face, and thrilled with excitement as they saw that astonishing figure enter upon a fresh struggle.

  What was he going to do? If he wanted to save the woman he loved from prosecution and to release Marie and Sauverand from prison, he would have to intervene some time that night, to take part, somehow or other, in the event at hand, and to prove the innocence of the three accomplices, either by arresting the invisible bearer of the fourth letter or by suggesting some plausible explanation. In short, he would have to be there; and that was interesting indeed!

  And then the news of Marie Fauville was not good. With unwavering obstinacy she persisted in her suicidal plans. She had to be artificially fed; and the doctors in the infirmary at Saint-Lazare did not conceal their anxiety. Would Don Luis Perenna arrive in time?

  Lastly, there was that one other thing, the threat of an explosion which was to blow up Hippolyte Fauville’s house ten days after the delivery of the fourth letter, a really impressive threat when it was remembered that the enemy had never announced anything that did not take place at the stated hour. And, although it was still ten days — at least, so people thought — from the date fixed for the catastrophe, the threat made the whole business look more and more sinister.

  That evening, therefore, a great crowd made its way, through La Muette and Auteuil, to the Boulevard Suchet, a crowd coming not only from Paris, but also from the suburbs and the provinces. The spectacle was exciting, and people wanted to see.

  They saw only from a distance, for the police had barred the approaches a hundred yards from either side of the house and were driving into the ditches of the fortifications all those who managed to climb the opposite slope.

  The sky was stormy, with heavy clouds revealed at intervals by the light of a silver moon. There were lightning-flashes and peals of distant thunder. Men sang. Street-boys imitated the noises of animals. People formed themselves into groups on the benches and pavements and ate and drank while discussing the matter.

  A part of the night was spent in this way and nothing happened to reward the patience of the crowd, who began to wonder, somewhat wearily, if they would not do better to go home, seeing that Sauverand was in prison and that there was every chance that the fourth letter would not appear in the same mysterious way as the others.

  And yet they did not go: Don Luis Perenna was due to come!

  From ten o’clock in the eve
ning the Prefect of Police and his secretary general, the chief detective and Weber, his deputy, Sergeant Mazeroux, and two detectives were gathered in the large room in which Fauville had been murdered. Fifteen more detectives occupied the remaining rooms, while some twenty others watched the roofs, the outside of the house, and the garden.

  Once again a thorough search had been made during the afternoon, with no better results than before. But it was decided that all the men should keep awake. If the letter was delivered anywhere in the big room, they wanted to know and they meant to know who brought it. The police do not recognize miracles.

  At twelve o’clock M. Desmalions had coffee served to his subordinates. He himself took two cups and never ceased walking from one end to the other of the room, or climbing the staircase that led to the attic, or going through the passage and hall. Preferring that the watch should be maintained under the most favourable conditions, he left all the doors opened and all the electric lights on.

  Mazeroux objected:

  “It has to be dark for the letter to come. You will remember, Monsieur le Préfet, that the other experiment was tried before and the letter was not delivered.”

  “We will try it again,” replied M. Desmalions, who, in spite of everything, was really afraid of Don Luis’s interference, and increased his measures to make it impossible.

  Meanwhile, as the night wore on, the minds of all those present became impatient. Prepared for the angry struggle as they were, they longed for the opportunity to show their strength. They made desperate use of their ears and eyes.

  At one o’clock there was an alarm that showed the pitch which the nervous tension had reached. A shot was fired on the first floor, followed by shouts. On inquiry, it was found that two detectives, meeting in the course of a round, had not recognized each other, and one of them had discharged his revolver in the air to inform his comrades.

  In the meantime the crowd outside had diminished, as M. Desmalions perceived on opening the garden gate. The orders had been relaxed and sightseers were allowed to come nearer, though they were still kept at a distance from the pavement.

  Mazeroux said:

  “It is a good thing that the explosion is due in ten days’ time and not to-night, Monsieur le Préfet; otherwise, all those good people would be in danger as well as ourselves.”

  “There will be no explosion in ten days’ time, any more than there will be a letter to-night,” said M. Desmalions, shrugging his shoulders. And he added, “Besides, on that day, the orders will be strict.”

  It was now ten minutes past two.

  At twenty-five minutes past, as the Prefect was lighting a cigar, the chief detective ventured to joke:

  “That’s something you will have to do without, next time, Monsieur le

  Préfet. It would be too risky.”

  “Next time,” said M. Desmalions, “I shall not waste time in keeping watch. For I really begin to think that all this business with the letters is over.”

  “You can never tell,” suggested Mazeroux.

  A few minutes more passed. M. Desmalions had sat down. The others also were seated. No one spoke.

  And suddenly they all sprang up, with one movement, and the same expression of surprise.

  A bell had rung.

  They at once heard where the sound came from.

  “The telephone,” M. Desmalions muttered.

  He took down the receiver.

  “Hullo! Who are you?”

  A voice answered, but so distant and so faint that he could only catch an incoherent noise and exclaimed:

  “Speak louder! What is it? Who are you?”

  The voice spluttered out a few syllables that seemed to astound him.

  “Hullo!” he said. “I don’t understand. Please repeat what you said. Who is it speaking?”

  “Don Luis Perenna,” was the answer, more distinctly this time.

  The Prefect made as though to hang up the receiver; and he growled:

  “It’s a hoax. Some rotter amusing himself at our expense.”

  Nevertheless, in spite of himself, he went on in a gruff voice:

  “Look here, what is it? You say you’re Don Luis Perenna?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What’s the time?”

  “What’s the time!”

  The Prefect made an angry gesture, not so much because of the ridiculous question as because he had really recognized Don Luis’s voice beyond mistake.

  “Well?” he said, controlling himself. “What’s all this about?

  Where are you?”

  “At my house, above the iron curtain, in the ceiling of my study.”

  “In the ceiling!” repeated the Prefect, not knowing what to think.

  “Yes; and more or less done for, I confess.”

  “We’ll send and help you out,” said M. Desmalions, who was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “Later on, Monsieur le Préfet. First answer me. Quickly! If not, I don’t know that I shall have the strength. What’s the time?”

  “Oh, look here!”

  “I beg of you—”

  “It’s twenty minutes to three.”

  “Twenty minutes to three!”

  It was as though Don Luis found renewed strength in a sudden fit of fear. His weak voice recovered its emphasis, and, by turns imperious, despairing, and beseeching, full of a conviction which he did his utmost to impart to M. Desmalions, he said:

  “Go away, Monsieur le Préfet! Go, all of you; leave the house. The house will be blown up at three o’clock. Yes, yes, I swear it will. Ten days after the fourth letter means now, because there has been a ten days’ delay in the delivery of the letters. It means now, at three o’clock in the morning. Remember what was written on the sheet which Deputy Chief Weber handed you this morning: ‘The explosion is independent of the letters. It will take place at three o’clock in the morning.’ At three o’clock in the morning, to-day, Monsieur le Préfet!” The voice faltered and then continued:

  “Go away, please. Let no one remain in the house. You must believe me. I know everything about the business. And nothing can prevent the threat from being executed. Go, go, go! This is horrible; I feel that you do not believe me — and I have no strength left. Go away, every one of you!”

  He said a few more words which M. Desmalions could not make out. Then the voice ceased; and, though the Prefect still heard cries, it seemed to him that those cries were distant, as though the instrument were no longer within the reach of the mouth that uttered them.

  He hung up the receiver.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, with a smile, “it is seventeen to three. In seventeen minutes we shall all be blown up together. At least, that is what our good friend Don Luis Perenna declares.”

  In spite of the jokes with which this threat was met, there was a general feeling of uneasiness. Weber asked:

  “Was it really Don Luis, Monsieur le Préfet?”

  “Don Luis in person. He has gone to earth in some hiding-hole in his house, above the study; and his fatigue and privations seem to have unsettled him a little. Mazeroux, go and ferret him out — unless this is just some fresh trick on his part. You have your warrant.”

  Sergeant Mazeroux went up to M. Desmalions. His face was pallid.

  “Monsieur le Préfet, did he tell you that we were going to be blown up?”

  “He did. He relies on the note which M. Weber found in a volume of

  Shakespeare. The explosion is to take place to-night.”

  “At three o’clock in the morning?”

  “At three o’clock in the morning — that is to say, in less than a quarter of an hour.”

  “And do you propose to remain, Monsieur le Préfet?”

  “What next, Sergeant? Do you imagine that we are going to obey that gentleman’s fancies?”

  Mazeroux staggered, hesitated, and then, despite all his natural deference, unable to contain himself, exclaimed:

  “Monsieur le Pré
fet, it’s not a fancy. I have worked with Don Luis. I know the man. If he tells you that something is going to happen, it’s because he has his reasons.”

  “Absurd reasons.”

  “No, no, Monsieur le Préfet,” Mazeroux pleaded, growing more and more excited. “I swear that you must listen to him. The house will be blown up — he said so — at three o’clock. We have a few minutes left. Let us go. I entreat you, Monsieur le Préfet.”

  “In other words, you want us to run away.”

  “But it’s not running away, Monsieur le Préfet. It’s a simple precaution.

  After all, we can’t risk — You, yourself, Monsieur le Préfet—”

  “That will do.”

  “But, Monsieur le Préfet, as Don Luis said—”

  “That will do, I say!” repeated the Prefect harshly. “If you’re afraid, you can take advantage of the order which I gave you and go off after Don Luis.”

  Mazeroux clicked his heels together and, old soldier that he was, saluted:

  “I shall stay here, Monsieur le Préfet.”

  And he turned and went back to his place at a distance.

  * * * * *

  Silence followed. M. Desmalions began to walk up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. Then, addressing the chief detective and the secretary general:

  “You are of my opinion, I hope?” he said.

  “Why, yes, Monsieur le Préfet.”

  “Well, of course! To begin with, that supposition is based on nothing serious. And, besides, we are guarded, aren’t we? Bombs don’t come tumbling on one’s head like that. It takes some one to throw them. Well, how are they to come? By what way?”

  “Same way as the letters,” the secretary general ventured to suggest.

  “What’s that? Then you admit — ?”

  The secretary general did not reply and M. Desmalions did not complete his sentence. He himself, like the others, experienced that same feeling of uneasiness which gradually, as the seconds sped past, was becoming almost intolerably painful.