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."