The declaration was followed by a silence of some length. The Secretary
of the American Embassy and the Peruvian attaché had followed the
conversation with eager interest. Major d'Astrignac nodded his head with
an air of approval. To his mind, Perenna could not be mistaken.
The Prefect of Police confessed:
"Certainly, certainly ... we have a number of circumstances here ... that
are fairly ambiguous.... Those brown patches; that doctor.... It's a case
that wants looking into." And, questioning Don Luis Perenna as though in
spite of himself, he asked, "No doubt, in your opinion, there is a
possible connection between the murder ... and Mr. Mornington's will?"
"That, Monsieur le Préfet, I cannot tell. If there is, we should have to
suppose that the contents of the will were known. Do you think they can
have leaked out, Maître Lepertuis?"
"I don't think so, for Mr. Mornington seemed to behave with great
caution."
"And there's no question, is there, of any indiscretion committed in
your office?"
"By whom? No one handled the will except myself; and I alone have the
key of the safe in which I put away documents of that importance
every evening."
"The safe has not been broken into? There has been no burglary at
your office?"
"No."
"You saw Cosmo Mornington in the morning?"
"Yes, on a Friday morning."
"What did you do with the will until the evening, until you locked it
away up your safe?"
"I probably put it in the drawer of my desk."
"And the drawer was not forced?"
Maître Lepertuis seemed taken aback and made no reply.
"Well?" asked Perenna.
"Well, yes, I remember ... there was something that day ... that
same Friday."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. When I came in from lunch I noticed that the drawer was not locked,
although I had locked it beyond the least doubt. At the time I attached
comparatively little importance to the incident. To-day, I understand, I
understand--"
Thus, little by little, were all the suppositions conceived by Don Luis
verified: suppositions resting, it is true, upon just one or two clues,
but yet containing an amount of intuition, of divination, that was really
surprising in a man who had been present at none of the events between
which he traced the connection so skilfully.
"We will lose no time, Monsieur," said the Prefect of Police, "in
checking your statements, which you will confess to be a little
venturesome, by the more positive evidence of one of my detectives who
has the case in charge ... and who ought to be here by now."
"Does his evidence bear upon Cosmo Mornington's heirs?" asked the
solicitor.
"Upon the heirs principally, because two days ago he telephoned to me
that he had collected all the particulars, and also upon the very points
which--But wait: I remember that he spoke to my secretary of a murder
committed a month ago to-day.... Now it's a month to-day since Mr. Cosmo
Mornington--"
M. Desmalions pressed hard on a bell. His private secretary at
once appeared.
"Inspector Vérot?" asked the Prefect sharply.
"He's not back yet."
"Have him fetched! Have him brought here! He must be found at all costs
and without delay."
He turned to Don Luis Perenna.
"Inspector Vérot was here an hour ago, feeling rather unwell, very much
excited, it seems, and declaring that he was being watched and followed.
He said he wanted to make a most important statement to me about the
Mornington case and to warn the police of two murders which are to be
committed to-night ... and which would be a consequence of the murder of
Cosmo Mornington."
"And he was unwell, you say?"
"Yes, ill at ease and even very queer and imagining things. By way of
being prudent, he left a detailed report on the case for me. Well, the
report is simply a blank sheet of letter-paper.
"Here is the paper and the envelope in which I found it, and here is a
cardboard box which he also left behind him. It contains a cake of
chocolate with the marks of teeth on it."
"May I look at the two things you have mentioned, Monsieur le Préfet?"
"Yes, but they won't tell you anything."
"Perhaps so--"
Don Luis examined at length the cardboard box and the yellow envelope,
on which were printed the words, "Café du Pont-Neuf." The others awaited
his words as though they were bound to shed an unexpected light. He
merely said:
"The handwriting is not the same on the envelope and the box. The writing
on the envelope is less plain, a little shaky, obviously imitated."
"Which proves--?"
"Which proves, Monsieur le Préfet, that this yellow envelope does not
come from your detective. I presume that, after writing his report at a
table in the Café du Pont-Neuf and closing it, he had a moment of
inattention during which somebody substituted for his envelope another
with the same address, but containing a blank sheet of paper."
"That's a supposition!" said the Prefect.
"Perhaps; but what is certain, Monsieur le Préfet, is that your
inspector's presentiments are well-grounded, that he is being closely
watched, that the discoveries about the Mornington inheritance which he
has succeeded in making are interfering with criminal designs, and that
he is in terrible danger."
"Come, come!"
"He must be rescued, Monsieur le Préfet. Ever since the commencement of
this meeting I have felt persuaded that we are up against an attempt
which has already begun. I hope that it is not too late and that your
inspector has not been the first victim."
"My dear sir," exclaimed the Prefect of Police, "you declare all this
with a conviction which rouses my admiration, but which is not enough to
establish the fact that your fears are justified. Inspector Vérot's
return will be the best proof."
"Inspector Vérot will not return."
"But why not?"
"Because he has returned already. The messenger saw him return."
"The messenger was dreaming. If you have no proof but that man's
evidence--"
"I have another proof, Monsieur le Préfet, which Inspector Vérot himself
has left of his presence here: these few, almost illegible letters which
he scribbled on this memorandum pad, which your secretary did not see him
write and which have just caught my eye. Look at them. Are they not a
proof, a definite proof that he came back?"
The Prefect did not conceal his perturbation. The others all seemed
impressed. The secretary's return but increased their apprehensions:
nobody had seen Inspector Vérot.
"Monsieur le Préfet," said Don Luis, "I earnestly beg you to have the
office messenger in."
And, as soon as the messenger was there, he asked him, without even
waiting for M. Desmalions to speak:
"Are you sure that Inspector Vérot entered this room a second time?"
"Absolutely sure."
"And that he did not go out again?"
"Absolutely sure."
"And your attention was not distracted for a moment?"
"Not for a moment."
"There, Monsieur, you see!" cried the Prefect. "If Inspector Vérot were
here, we should know it."
"He is here, Monsieur le Préfet."
"What!"
"Excuse my obstinacy, Monsieur le Préfet, but I say that, when some one
enters a room and does not go out again, he is still in that room."
"Hiding?" said M. Desmalions, who was growing more and more irritated.
"No, but fainting, ill--dead, perhaps."
"But where, hang it all?"
"Behind that screen."
"There's nothing behind that screen, nothing but a door."
"And that door--?"
"Leads to a dressing-room."
"Well, Monsieur le Préfet, Inspector Vérot, tottering, losing his head,
imagining himself to be going from your office to your secretary's room,
fell into your dressing-room."
M. Desmalions ran to the door, but, at the moment of opening it, shrank
back. Was it apprehension, the wish to withdraw himself from the
influence of that astonishing man, who gave his orders with such
authority and who seemed to command events themselves?
Don Luis stood waiting imperturbably, in a deferential attitude.
"I cannot believe--" said M. Desmalions.
"Monsieur le Préfet, I would remind you that Inspector Vérot's
revelations may save the lives of two persons who are doomed to die
to-night. Every minute lost is irreparable."
M. Desmalions shrugged his shoulders. But that man mastered him with the
power of his conviction; and the Prefect opened the door.
He did not make a movement, did not utter a cry. He simply muttered:
"Oh, is it possible!--"
By the pale gleam of light that entered through a ground-glass window
they saw the body of a man lying on the floor.
"The inspector! Inspector Vérot!" gasped the office messenger,
running forward.
He and the secretary raised the body and placed it in an armchair in the
Prefect's office.
Inspector Vérot was still alive, but so little alive that they could
scarcely hear the beating of his heart. A drop of saliva trickled from
the corner of his mouth. His eyes were devoid of all expression. However,
certain muscles of the face kept moving, perhaps with the effort of a
will that seemed to linger almost beyond life.
Don Luis muttered:
"Look, Monsieur le Préfet--the brown patches!"
The same dread unnerved all. They began to ring bells and open doors and
call for help.
"Send for the doctor!" ordered M. Desmalions. "Tell them to bring a
doctor, the first that comes--and a priest. We can't let the poor man--"
Don Luis raised his arm to demand silence.
"There is nothing more to be done," he said. "We shall do better to
make the most of these last moments. Have I your permission, Monsieur
le Préfet?"
He bent over the dying man, laid the swaying head against the back of the
chair, and, in a very gentle voice, whispered:
"Vérot, it's Monsieur le Préfet speaking to you. We should like a few
particulars about what is to take place to-night. Do you hear me, Vérot?
If you hear me, close your eyelids."
The eyelids were lowered. But was it not merely chance? Don Luis went on:
"You have found the heirs of the Roussel sisters, that much we know; and
it is two of those heirs who are threatened with death. The double murder
is to be committed to-night. But what we do not know is the name of those
heirs, who are doubtless not called Roussel. You must tell us the name.
"Listen to me: you wrote on a memorandum pad three letters which seem to
form the syllable Fau.... Am I right? Is this the first syllable of a
name? Which is the next letter after those three? Close your eyes when I
mention the right letter. Is it 'b?' Is it 'c?'"
But there was now not a flicker in the inspector's pallid face. The head
dropped heavily on the chest. Vérot gave two or three sighs, his frame
shook with one great shiver, and he moved no more.
He was dead.
The tragic scene had been enacted so swiftly that the men who were
its shuddering spectators remained for a moment confounded. The
solicitor made the sign of the cross and went down on his knees. The
Prefect murmured:
"Poor Vérot!... He was a good man, who thought only of the service, of
his duty. Instead of going and getting himself seen to--and who knows?
Perhaps he might have been saved--he came back here in the hope of
communicating his secret. Poor Vérot!--"
"Was he married? Are there any children?" asked Don Luis.
"He leaves a wife and three children," replied the Prefect.
"I will look after them," said Don Luis simply.
Then, when they brought a doctor and when M. Desmalions gave orders for
the corpse to be carried to another room, Don Luis took the doctor
aside and said:
"There is no doubt that Inspector Vérot was poisoned. Look at his
wrist: you will see the mark of a puncture with a ring of inflammation
round it."
"Then he was pricked in that place?"
"Yes, with a pin or the point of a pen; and not as violently as they may
have wished, because death did not ensue until some hours later."
The messengers removed the corpse; and soon there was no one left in the
office except the five people whom the Prefect had originally sent for.
The American Secretary of Embassy and the Peruvian attaché, considering
their continued presence unnecessary, went away, after warmly
complimenting Don Luis Perenna on his powers of penetration.
Next came the turn of Major d'Astrignac, who shook his former subordinate
by the hand with obvious affection. And Maître Lepertais and Perenna,
having fixed an appointment for the payment of the legacy, were
themselves on the point of leaving, when M. Desmalions entered briskly.
"Ah, so you're still here, Don Luis Perenna! I'm glad of that. I have an
idea: those three letters which you say you made out on the
writing-table, are you sure they form the syllable Fau?"
"I think so, Monsieur le Préfet. See for yourself: are not these an 'F,'
an 'A' and a 'U?' And observe that the 'F' is a capital, which made me
suspect that the letters are the first syllable of a proper name."
"Just so, just so," said M. Desmalions. "Well, curiously enough, that
syllable happens to be--But wait, we'll verify our facts--"
M. Desmalions searched hurriedly among the letters which his secretary
had handed him on his arrival and which lay on a corner of the table.
"Ah, here we are!" he exclaimed, glancing at the signature of one of the
letters. "Here we are! It's as I thought: 'Fauville.' ... The first
syllable is the same.... Look, 'Fauville,' just like that, without
Christian name or initials. The letter must have been written in a
feverish moment: there is no date nor address.... The writing is shaky--"
And M. Desmalions read out:
"MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET:
"A great danger is hanging over my head and over the head of my son.
Death is approaching apace. I shall have to-night, or to-morrow morning
at the latest, the proofs of the abominable plot that threatens us. I ask
leave to bring them to you in the course of the morning. I am in need of
protection and I call for your assistance.
"Permit me to be, etc. FAUVILLE."
"No other designation?" asked Perenna. "No letter-heading?"
"None. But there is no mistake. Inspector Vérot's declarations agree too
evidently with this despairing appeal. It is clearly M. Fauville and his
son who are to be murdered to-night. And the terrible thing is that, as
this name of Fauville is a very common one, it is impossible for our
inquiries to succeed in time."
"What, Monsieur le Préfet? Surely, by straining every nerve--"
"Certainly, we will strain every nerve; and I shall set all my men to
work. But observe that we have not the slightest clue."
"Oh, it would be awful!" cried Don Luis. "Those two creatures doomed to
death; and we unable to save them! Monsieur le Préfet, I ask you to
authorize me--"
He had not finished speaking when the Prefect's private secretary entered
with a visiting-card in his hand.
"Monsieur le Préfet, this caller was so persistent.... I hesitated--"
M. Desmalions took the card and uttered an exclamation of mingled
surprise and joy.
"Look, Monsieur," he said to Perenna.
And he handed him the card.
_Hippolyte Fauville,
Civil Engineer.
14 bis Boulevard Suchet._
"Come," said M. Desmalions, "chance is favouring us. If this M. Fauville
is one of the Roussel heirs, our task becomes very much easier."
"In any case, Monsieur le Préfet," the solicitor interposed, "I must
remind you that one of the clauses of the will stipulates that it shall
not be read until forty-eight hours have elapsed. M. Fauville, therefore,
must not be informed--"
The door was pushed open and a man hustled the messenger aside and
rushed in.
"Inspector ... Inspector Vérot?" he spluttered. "He's dead, isn't he? I
was told--"
"Yes, Monsieur, he is dead."
"Too late! I'm too late!" he stammered.
And he sank into a chair, clasping his hands and sobbing:
"Oh, the scoundrels! the scoundrels!"
He was a pale, hollow-cheeked, sickly looking man of about fifty.
His head was bald, above a forehead lined with deep wrinkles. A
nervous twitching affected his chin and the lobes of his ears. Tears
stood in his eyes.
The Prefect asked:
"Whom do you mean, Monsieur? Inspector Vérot's murderers? Are you able to
name them, to assist our inquiry?"
Hippolyte Fauville shook his head.
"No, no, it would be useless, for the moment.... My proofs would not be
sufficient.... No, really not."
He had already risen from his chair and stood apologizing:
"Monsieur le Préfet, I have disturbed you unnecessarily, but I wanted to
know.... I was hoping that Inspector Vérot might have escaped.... His
evidence, joined to mine, would have been invaluable. But perhaps he was
able to tell you?"
"No, he spoke of this evening--of to-night--"
Hippolyte Fauville started.
"This evening! Then the time has come!... But no, it's impossible, they
can't do anything to me yet.... They are not ready--"
"Inspector Vérot declared, however, that the double murder would be
committed to-night."
"No, Monsieur le Préfet, he was wrong there.... I know all about
it.... To-morrow evening at the earliest ... and we will catch them in a
trap.... Oh, the scoundrels!"
Don Luis went up to him and asked:
"Your mother's name was Ermeline Roussel, was it not?"
"Yes, Ermeline Roussel. She is dead now."
"And she was from Saint-Etienne?"
"Yes. But why these questions?"
"Monsieur le Préfet will tell you to-morrow. One word more." He opened
the cardboard box left by Inspector Vérot. "Does this cake of chocolate
mean anything to you? These marks?"
"Oh, how awful!" said the civil engineer, in a hoarse tone. "Where did
the inspector find it?"
He dropped into his chair again, but only for a moment; then, drawing
himself up, he hurried toward the door with a jerky step.
"I'm going, Monsieur le Préfet, I'm going. To-morrow morning I'll show
you.... I shall have all the proofs.... And the police will protect
me.... I am ill, I know, but I want to live! I have the right to
live ... and my son, too.... And we will live.... Oh, the scoundrels!--"
And he ran, stumbling out, like a drunken man.