Of all these events the public knew only of the attempted suicide of Mme.
Fauville, the capture and escape of Gaston Sauverand, the murder of Chief
Inspector Ancenis, and the discovery of a letter written by Hippolyte
Fauville. This was enough, however, to reawaken their curiosity, as they
were already singularly puzzled by the Mornington case and took the
greatest interest in all the movements, however slight, of the mysterious
Don Luis Perenna, whom they insisted on confusing with Arsène Lupin.
He was, of course, credited with the brief capture of the man with the
ebony walking-stick. It was also known that he had saved the life of the
Prefect of Police, and that, finally, having at his own request spent the
night in the house on the Boulevard Suchet, he had become the recipient
of Hippolyte Fauville's famous letter. And all this added immensely to
the excitement of the aforesaid public.
But how much more complicated and disconcerting were the problems set to
Don Luis Perenna himself! Not to mention the denunciation in the
anonymous article, there had been, in the short space of forty-eight
hours, no fewer than four separate attempts to kill him: by the iron
curtain, by poison, by the shooting on the Boulevard Suchet, and by the
deliberately prepared motor accident.
Florence's share in this series of attempts was not to be denied. And,
now, behold her relations with the Fauvilles' murderers duly established
by the little note found in the eighth volume of Shakespeare's plays,
while two more deaths were added to the melancholy list: the deaths of
Chief Inspector Ancenis and of the chauffeur. How to describe and how to
explain the part played, in the midst of all these catastrophes, by that
enigmatical girl?
Strangely enough, life went on as usual at the house in the Place du
Palais-Bourbon, as though nothing out of the way had happened there.
Every morning Florence Levasseur sorted Don Luis's post in his presence
and read out the newspaper articles referring to himself or bearing upon
the Mornington case.
Not a single allusion was made to the fierce fight that had been waged
against him for two days. It was as though a truce had been proclaimed
between them; and the enemy appeared to have ceased his attacks for the
moment. Don Luis felt easy, out of the reach of danger; and he talked to
the girl with an indifferent air, as he might have talked to anybody.
But with what a feverish interest he studied her unobserved! He
watched the expression of her face, at once calm and eager, and a
painful sensitiveness which showed under the placid mask and which,
difficult to control, revealed itself in the frequent quivering of the
lips and nostrils.
"Who are you? Who are you?" he felt inclined to exclaim. "Will nothing
content you, you she-devil, but to deal out murder all round? And do you
want my death also, in order to attain your object? Where do you come
from and where are you making for?"
On reflection, he was convinced of a certainty that solved a problem
which had preoccupied him for a long time--namely, the mysterious
connection between his own presence in the mansion in the Place du
Palais-Bourbon and the presence of a woman who was manifestly wreaking
her hatred on him.
He now understood that he had not bought the house by accident. In making
the purchase he had been persuaded by an anonymous offer that reached him
in the form of a typewritten prospectus. Whence did this offer come, if
not from Florence, who wished to have him near her in order to spy upon
him and wage war upon him?
"Yes," he thought, "that is where the truth lies. As the possible heir
of Cosmo Mornington and a prominent figure in the case, I am the enemy,
and they are trying to do away with me as they did with the others. And
it is Florence who is acting against me. And it is she who has
committed murder.
"Everything tells against her; nothing speaks in her defence. Her
innocent eyes? The accent of sincerity in her voice? Her serene dignity?
And then? Yes, what then? Have I never seen women with that frank look
who have committed murder for no reason, almost for pleasure's sake?"
He started with terror at the memory of Dolores Kesselbach. What was it
that made him connect these two women at every moment in his mind? He
had loved one of them, that monster Dolores, and had strangled her with
his own hands. Was fate now leading him toward a like love and a
similar murder?
When Florence left him he would experience a sense of satisfaction and
breathe more easily, as though released from an oppressive weight, but he
would run to the window and see her crossing the courtyard and be still
waiting when the girl whose scented breath he had felt upon his face
passed to and fro.
One morning she said to him:
"The papers say that it will be to-night."
"To-night?"
"Yes," she said, showing him an article in one of the newspapers.
"This is the twenty-fifth; and, according to the information of the
police, supplied, they say, by you, there should be a letter delivered
in the house on the Boulevard Suchet every tenth day, and the house is
to be destroyed by an explosion on the day when the fifth and last
letter appears."
Was she defying him? Did she wish to make him understand that, whatever
happened, whatever the obstacles, the letters would appear, those
mysterious letters prophesied on the list which he had found in the
eighth volume of Shakespeare's plays?
He looked at her steadily. She did not flinch. He answered:
"Yes, this is the night. I shall be there. Nothing in the world will
prevent me."
She was on the point of replying, but once more controlled her feelings.
That day Don Luis was on his guard. He lunched and dined out and arranged
with Mazeroux to have the Place du Palais-Bourbon watched.
Mlle. Levasseur did not leave the house during the afternoon. In the
evening Don Luis ordered Mazeroux's men to follow any one who might go
out at that time.
At ten o'clock the sergeant joined Don Luis in Hippolyte Fauville's
workroom. Deputy Chief Detective Weber and two plain-clothesmen
were with him.
Don Luis took Mazeroux aside:
"They distrust me. Own up to it."
"No. As long as M. Desmalions is there, they can do nothing against you.
Only, M. Weber maintains--and he is not the only one--that you fake up
all these occurrences yourself."
"With what object?"
"With the object of furnishing proof against Marie Fauville and getting
her condemned. So I asked for the attendance of the deputy chief and two
men. There will be four of us to bear witness to your honesty."
They all took up their posts. Two detectives were to sit up in turns.
This time, after making a minute search of the little room in which
Fauville's son used to sleep, they locked and bolted the doors and
shutters. At eleven o'clock they switched off the electric chandelier.
Don Luis and Weber hardly slept at all.
The night passed without incident of any kind.
But, at seven o'clock, when the shutters were opened, they saw that there
was a letter on the table. Just as on the last occasion, there was a
letter on the table!
When the first moment of stupefaction was over, the deputy chief took
the letter. His orders were not to read it and not to let any one
else read it.
Here is the letter, published by the newspapers, which also published the
declarations of the experts certifying that the handwriting was Hippolyte
Fauville's:
"I have seen him! You understand, don't you, my dear friend? I have seen
him! He was walking along a path in the Bois, with his coat collar turned
up and his hat pulled over his ears. I don't think that he saw me. It was
almost dark. But I knew him at once. I knew the silver handle of his
ebony stick. It was he beyond a doubt, the scoundrel!
"So he is in Paris, in spite of his promise. Gaston Sauverand is in
Paris! Do you understand the terrible significance of that fact? If he is
in Paris, it means that he intends to act. If he is in Paris, it means
certain death to me. Oh, the harm which I shall have suffered at that
man's hands! He has already robbed me of my happiness; and now he wants
my life. I am terrified."
So Fauville knew that the man with the ebony walking-stick, that Gaston
Sauverand, was designing to kill him. Fauville declared it most
positively, by evidence written in his own hand; and the letter,
moreover, corroborating the words that had escaped Gaston Sauverand at
his arrest, showed that the two men had at one time had relations with
each other, that they were no longer friends, and that Gaston Sauverand
had promised never to come to Paris.
A little light was therefore being shed on the darkness of the Mornington
case. But, on the other hand, how inconceivable was the mystery of that
letter found on the table in the workroom!
Five men had kept watch, five of the smartest men obtainable; and yet, on
that night, as on the night of the fifteenth of April, an unknown hand
had delivered the letter in a room with barricaded doors and windows,
without their hearing a sound or discovering any signs that the
fastenings of the doors or windows had been tampered with.
The theory of a secret outlet was at once raised, but had to be
abandoned after a careful examination of the walls and after an
interview with the contractor who had built the house, from Fauville's
own plans, some years ago.
It is unnecessary once more to recall what I may describe as the flurry
of the public. The deed, in the circumstances, assumed the appearance of
a sleight-of-hand trick. People felt tempted to look upon it as the
recreation of some wonderfully skilful conjurer rather than as the act of
a person employing unknown methods.
Nevertheless, Don Luis Perenna's intelligence was justified at all
points, for the expected incident had taken place on the twenty-fifth of
April, as on the fifteenth. Would the series be continued on the fifth of
May? No one doubted it, because Don Luis had said so and because
everybody felt that Don Luis could not be mistaken. All through the night
of the fifth of May there was a crowd on the Boulevard Suchet; and
quidnuncs and night birds of every kind came trooping up to hear the
latest news.
The Prefect of Police, greatly impressed by the first two miracles, had
determined to see the next one for himself, and was present in person on
the third night.
He came accompanied by several inspectors, whom he left in the garden, in
the passage, and in the attic on the upper story. He himself took up his
post on the ground floor with Weber, Mazeroux, and Don Luis Perenna.
Their expectations were disappointed; and this was M. Desmalions's fault.
In spite of the express opinion of Don Luis, who deprecated the
experiment as useless, the Prefect had decided not to turn off the
electric light, so that he might see if the light would prevent the
miracle. Under these conditions no letter could appear, and no letter did
appear. The miracle, whether a conjuring trick or a criminal's device,
needed the kindly aid of the darkness.
There were therefore ten days lost, always presuming that the diabolical
postman would dare to repeat his attempt and produce the third
mysterious letter.
* * * * *
On the fifteenth of May the wait was renewed, while the same crowd
gathered outside, an anxious, breathless crowd, stirred by the least
sound and keeping an impressive silence, with eyes gazing upon the
Fauvilles' house.
This time the light was put out, but the Prefect of Police kept his hand
on the electric switch. Ten times, twenty times, he unexpectedly turned
on the light. There was nothing on the table. What had aroused his
attention was the creaking of a piece of furniture or a movement made by
one of the men with him.
Suddenly they all uttered an exclamation. Something unusual, a rustling
noise, had interrupted the silence.
M. Desmalions at once switched on the light. He gave a cry. A letter lay
not on the table, but beside it, on the floor, on the carpet.
Mazeroux made the sign of the cross. The inspectors were as pale as
death.