The Teeth of the Tiger

by Maurice Leblanc

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE "HATER"

  M. Desmalions looked at him without understanding, and looked from him tothe ceiling. Perenna said:

  "Oh, there's no witchcraft about it; and, though no one has thrown thatletter from above, though there is not the smallest hole in the ceiling,the explanation is quite simple!"

  "Quite simple, is it?" said M. Desmalions.

  "Yes, Monsieur le Prefet. It all looks like an extremely complicatedconjuring trick, done almost for fun. Well, I say that it is quitesimple--and, at the same time, terribly tragic. Sergeant Mazeroux, wouldyou mind drawing back the curtains and giving us as much light aspossible?"

  While Mazeroux was executing his orders and M. Desmalions glancing at thefourth letter, the contents of which were unimportant and merelyconfirmed the previous ones, Don Luis took a pair of steps which theworkmen had left in the corner, set it up in the middle of the room andclimbed to the top, where, seated astride, he was able to reach theelectric chandelier.

  It consisted of a broad, circular band in brass, beneath which was afestoon of crystal pendants. Inside were three lamps placed at thecorners of a brass triangle concealing the wires.

  He uncovered the wires and cut them. Then he began to take the wholefitting to pieces. To hasten matters, he asked for a hammer and broke upthe plaster all round the clamps that held the chandelier in position.

  "Lend me a hand, please," he said to Mazeroux.

  Mazeroux went up the steps; and between them they took hold of thechandelier and let it slide down the uprights. The detectives caught itand placed it on the table with some difficulty, for it was much heavierthan it looked.

  On inspection, it proved to be surmounted by a cubical metal box,measuring about eight inches square, which box, being fastened inside theceiling between the iron clamps, had obliged Don Luis to knock away theplaster that concealed it.

  "What the devil's this?" exclaimed M. Desmalions.

  "Open it for yourself, Monsieur le Prefet: there's a lid to it,"said Perenna.

  M. Desmalions raised the lid. The box was filled with springs and wheels,a whole complicated and detailed mechanism resembling a piece ofclockwork.

  "By your leave, Monsieur le Prefet," said Don Luis.

  He took out one piece of machinery and discovered another beneath it,joined to the first by the gearing of two wheels; and the second was morelike one of those automatic apparatuses which turn out printed slips.

  Right at the bottom of the box, just where the box touched theceiling, was a semicircular groove, and at the edge of it was a letterready for delivery.

  "The last of the five letters," said Don Luis, "doubtless continuing theseries of denunciations. You will notice, Monsieur le Prefet, that thechandelier originally had a fourth lamp in the centre. It was obviouslyremoved when the chandelier was altered, so as to make room for theletters to pass."

  He continued his detailed explanations:

  "So the whole set of letters was placed here, at the bottom. A cleverpiece of machinery, controlled by clockwork, took them one by one at theappointed time, pushed them to the edge of the groove concealed betweenthe lamps and the pendants, and projected them into space."

  None of those standing around Don Luis spoke, and all of them seemedperhaps a little disappointed. The whole thing was certainly very clever;but they had expected something better than a trick of springs andwheels, however surprising.

  "Have patience, gentlemen," said Don Luis. "I promised you somethingghastly; and you shall have it."

  "Well, I agree," said the Prefect of Police, "that this is where theletters started from. But a good many points remain obscure; and, apartfrom this, there is one fact in particular which it seems impossible tounderstand. How were the criminals able to adapt the chandelier in thisway? And, in a house guarded by the police, in a room watched night andday, how were they able to carry out such a piece of work without beingseen or heard?"

  "The answer is quite easy, Monsieur le Prefet: the work was done beforethe house was guarded by the police."

  "Before the murder was committed, therefore?"

  "Before the murder was committed."

  "And what is to prove to me that that is so?"

  "You have said so yourself, Monsieur le Prefet: because it could not havebeen otherwise."

  "But do explain yourself, Monsieur!" cried M. Desmalions, with a gestureof irritation. "If you have important things to tell us, why delay?"

  "It is better, Monsieur le Prefet, that you should arrive at the truth inthe same way as I did. When you know the secret of the letters, the truthis much nearer than you think; and you would have already named thecriminal if the horror of his crime had not been so great as to divertall suspicion from him."

  M. Desmalions looked at him attentively. He felt the importance ofPerenna's every word and he was really anxious.

  "Then, according to you," he said, "those letters accusing MadameFauville and Gaston Sauverand were placed there with the sole object ofruining both of them?"

  "Yes, Monsieur le Prefet."

  "And, as they were placed there before the crime, the plot must have beenschemed before the murder?"

  "Yes, Monsieur le Prefet, before the murder. From the moment that weadmit the innocence of Mme. Fauville and Gaston Sauverand, we are obligedto conclude that, as everything accuses them, this is due to a series ofdeliberate acts. Mme. Fauville was out on the night of the murder: aplot! She was unable to say how she spent her time while the murder wasbeing committed: a plot! Her inexplicable drive in the direction of LaMuette and her cousin Sauverand's walk in the neighbourhood of the house:plots! The marks left in the apple by those teeth, by Mme. Fauville's ownteeth: a plot and the most infernal of all!

  "I tell you, everything is plotted beforehand, everything is, so tospeak, prepared, measured out, labelled, and numbered. Everything takesplace at the appointed time. Nothing is left to chance. It is a work verynicely pieced together, worthy of the most skilful artisan, so solidlyconstructed that outside happenings have not been able to throw it out ofgear; and that the scheme works exactly, precisely, imperturbably, likethe clockwork in this box, which is a perfect symbol of the wholebusiness and, at the same time, gives a most accurate explanation of it,because the letters denouncing the murderers were duly posted before thecrime and delivered after the crime on the dates and at the hoursforeseen."

  M. Desmalions remained thinking for a time and then objected:

  "Still, in the letters which he wrote, M. Fauville accuses his wife."

  "He does."

  "We must therefore admit either that he was right in accusing her or thatthe letters are forged?"

  "They are not forged. All the experts have recognized M. Fauville'shandwriting."

  "Then?"

  "Then--"

  Don Luis did not finish his sentence; and M. Desmalions felt the breathof the truth fluttering still nearer round him.

  The others, one and all as anxious as himself, were silent. He muttered:

  "I do not understand--"

  "Yes, Monsieur le Prefet, you do. You understand that, if the sending ofthose letters forms an integrate part of the plot hatched against Mme.Fauville and Gaston Sauverand, it is because their contents were preparedin such a way as to be the undoing of the victims."

  "What! What! What are you saying?"

  "I am saying what I said before. Once they are innocent, everything thattells against them is part of the plot."

  Again there was a long silence. The Prefect of Police did not concealhis agitation. Speaking very slowly, with his eyes fixed on Don Luis'seyes, he said:

  "Whoever the culprit may be, I know nothing more terrible than this workof hatred."

  "It is an even more improbable work than you can imagine, Monsieur lePrefet," said Perenna, with growing animation, "and it is a hatred ofwhich you, who do not know Sauverand's confession, cannot yet estimatethe violence. I understood it completely as I listened to the man; and,since then, all my thoughts have
been overpowered by the dominant idea ofthat hatred. Who could hate like that? To whose loathing had MarieFauville and Sauverand been sacrificed? Who was the inconceivable personwhose perverted genius had surrounded his two victims with chains sopowerfully forged?

  "And another idea came to my mind, an earlier idea which had alreadystruck me several times and to which I have already referred in SergeantMazeroux's presence: I mean the really mathematical character of theappearance of the letters. I said to myself that such grave documentscould not be introduced into the case at fixed dates unless some primaryreason demanded that those dates should absolutely be fixed. Whatreason? If a _human_ agency had been at work each time, there wouldsurely have been some irregularity dependent on this especially afterthe police had become cognizant of the matter and were present at thedelivery of the letters.

  "Well," Perenna continued, "in spite of every obstacle, the letterscontinued to come, as though they could not help it. And thus the reasonof their coming gradually dawned upon me: they came mechanically, by someinvisible process set going once and for all and working with the blindcertainty of a physical law. This was a case not of a consciousintelligence and will, but just of material necessity.... It was theclash of these two ideas--the idea of the hatred pursuing the innocentand the idea of that machinery serving the schemes of the 'hater'--it wastheir clash that gave birth to the little spark of light. When broughtinto contact, the two ideas combined in my mind and suggested therecollection that Hippolyte Fauville was an engineer by profession!"

  The others listened to him with a sort of uneasy oppression. What wasgradually being revealed of the tragedy, instead of relieving theanxiety, increased it until it became absolutely painful.

  M. Desmalions objected:

  "Granting that the letters arrived on the dates named, you willnevertheless have noted that the hour varied on each occasion.

  "That is to say, it varied according as we watched in the dark or not,and that is just the detail which supplied me with the key to theriddle. If the letters--and this was an indispensable precaution, whichwe are now able to understand--were delivered only under cover of thedarkness, it must be because a contrivance of some kind prevented themfrom appearing when the electric light was on, and because thatcontrivance was controlled by a switch inside the room. There is noother explanation possible.

  "We have to do with an automatic distributor that delivers theincriminating letters which it contains by clockwork, releasing them onlybetween this hour and that on such and such a night fixed in advance andonly at times when the electric light is off. You have the apparatusbefore you. No doubt the experts will admire its ingenuity and confirm myassertions. But, given the fact that it was found in the ceiling of thisroom, given the fact that it contained letters written by M. Fauville, amI not entitled to say that it was constructed by M. Fauville, theelectrical engineer?"

  Once more the name of M. Fauville returned, like an obsession; and eachtime the name stood more clearly defined. It was first M. Fauville; thenM. Fauville, the engineer; then M. Fauville, the electrical engineer. Andthus the picture of the "hater," as Don Luis said, appeared in itsaccurate outlines, giving those men, used though they were to thestrangest criminal monstrosities, a thrill of terror. The truth was nowno longer prowling around them. They were already fighting with it, asyou fight with an adversary whom you do not see but who clutches you bythe throat and brings you to the ground.

  And the Prefect of Police, summing up all his impressions, said, in astrained voice:

  "So M. Fauville wrote those letters in order to ruin his wife and the manwho was in love with her?"

  "Yes."

  "In that case--"

  "What?"

  "Knowing, at the same time, that he was threatened with death, he wished,if ever the threat was realized, that his death should be laid to thecharge of his wife and her friend?"

  "Yes."

  "And, in order to avenge himself on their love for each other and togratify his hatred of them both, he wanted the whole set of facts topoint to them as guilty of the murder of which he would be the victim?"

  "Yes."

  "So that--so that M. Fauville, in one part of his accursed work,was--what shall I say?--the accomplice of his own murder. He dreadeddeath. He struggled against it. But he arranged that his hatred shouldgain by it. That's it, isn't it? That's how it is?"

  "Almost, Monsieur le Prefet. You are following the same stages by which Itravelled and, like myself, you are hesitating before the last truth,before the truth which gives the tragedy its sinister character anddeprives it of all human proportions."

  The Prefect struck the table with his two fists and, in a sudden fit ofrevolt, cried:

  "It's ridiculous! It's a perfectly preposterous theory! M. Fauvillethreatened with death and contriving his wife's ruin with thatMachiavellian perseverance? Absurd! The man who came to my office, theman whom you saw, was thinking of only one thing: how to escape dying! Hewas obsessed by one dread alone, the dread of death.

  "It is not at such moments," the Prefect emphasized, "that a man fits upclockwork and lays traps, especially when those traps cannot take effectunless he dies by foul play. Can you see M. Fauville working at hisautomatic machine, putting in with his own hands letters which he hastaken the pains to write to a friend three months before and intercept,arranging events so that his wife shall appear guilty and saying,'There! If I die murdered, I'm easy in my mind: the person to bearrested will be Marie!'

  "No, you must confess, men don't take these gruesome precautions. Or, ifthey do--if they do, it means that they're sure of being murdered. Itmeans that they agree to be murdered. It means that they are at one withthe murderer, so to speak, and meet him halfway. In short, it means--"

  He interrupted himself, as if the sentences which he had spoken hadsurprised him. And the others seemed equally disconcerted. And all ofthem unconsciously drew from those sentences the conclusions which theyimplied, and which they themselves did not yet fully perceive.

  Don Luis did not remove his eyes from the Prefect, and awaited theinevitable words.

  M. Desmalions muttered:

  "Come, come, you are not going to suggest that he had agreed--"

  "I suggest nothing, Monsieur le Prefet," said Don Luis. "So far, you havefollowed the logical and natural trend of your thoughts; and that bringsyou to your present position."

  "Yes, yes, I know, but I am showing you the absurdity of your theory. Itcan't be correct, and we can't believe in Marie Fauville's innocenceunless we are prepared to suppose an unheard-of thing, that M. Fauvilletook part in his own murder. Why, it's laughable!"

  And he gave a laugh; but it was a forced laugh and did not ring true.

  "For, after all," he added, "you can't deny that that is where we stand."

  "I don't deny it."

  "Well?"

  "Well, M. Fauville, as you say, took part in his own murder."

  This was said in the quietest possible fashion, but with an air of suchcertainty that no one dreamed of protesting. After the work of deductionand supposition which Don Luis had compelled his hearers to undertake,they found themselves in a corner which it was impossible for them toleave without stumbling against unanswerable objections.

  There was no longer any doubt about M. Fauville's share in his own death.But of what did that share consist? What part had he played in thetragedy of hatred and murder? Had he played that part, which ended in thesacrifice of his life, voluntarily or under compulsion? Who, when all wassaid and done, had served as his accomplice or his executioner?

  All these questions came crowding upon the minds of M. Desmalions and theothers. They thought of nothing but of how to solve them, and Don Luiscould feel certain that his solution was accepted beforehand. From thatmoment he had but to tell his story of what had happened without fear ofcontradiction. He did so briefly, after the manner of a succinct reportlimited to essentials:

  "Three months before the crime, M. Fauville wrote a series of lettersto one of his
friends, M. Langernault, who, as Sergeant Mazeroux willhave told you, Monsieur le Prefet, had been dead for several years, afact of which M. Fauville cannot have been ignorant. These letters wereposted, but were intercepted by some means which it is not necessarythat we should know for the moment. M. Fauville erased the postmarksand the addresses and inserted the letters in a machine constructed forthe purpose, of which he regulated the works so that the first lettershould be delivered a fortnight after his death and the others atintervals of ten days.

  "At this moment it is certain that his plan was concerted down to thesmallest detail. Knowing that Sauverand was in love with his wife,watching Sauverand's movements, he must obviously have noticed that hisdetested rival used to pass under the windows of the house everyWednesday and that Marie Fauville would go to her window.

  "This is a fact of the first importance, one which was exceedinglyvaluable to me; and it will impress you as being equal to a materialproof. Every Wednesday evening, I repeat, Sauverand used to wander roundthe house. Now note this: first, the crime prepared by M. Fauville wascommitted on a Wednesday evening; secondly, it was at her husband'sexpress request that Mme. Fauville went out that evening to go to theopera and to Mme. d'Ersinger's."

  Don Luis stopped for a few seconds and then continued:

  "Consequently, on the morning of that Wednesday, everything was ready,the fatal clock was wound up, the incriminating machinery was working toperfection, and the proofs to come would confirm the immediate proofswhich M. Fauville held in reserve. Better still, Monsieur le Prefet, youhad received from him a letter in which he told you of the plot hatchedagainst him, and he implored your assistance for the morning of the nextday--that is to say, _after his death_!

  "Everything, in short, led him to think that things would go according tothe 'hater's' wishes, when something occurred that nearly upset hisschemes: the appearance of Inspector Verot, who had been sent by you,Monsieur le Prefet, to collect particulars about the Mornington heirs.What happened between the two men? Probably no one will ever know. Bothare dead; and their secret will not come to life again. But we can atleast say for certain that Inspector Verot was here and took away withhim the cake of chocolate on which the teeth of the tiger were seen forthe first time, and also that Inspector Verot succeeded, thanks tocircumstances with which we are unacquainted, in discovering M.Fauville's projects."

  "This we know," explained Don Luis, "because Inspector Verot said so inhis own agonizing words; because it was through him that we learned thatthe crime was to take place on the following night; and because he hadset down his discoveries in a letter which was stolen from him.

  "And Fauville knew it also, because, to get rid of the formidable enemywho was thwarting his designs, he poisoned him; because, when the poisonwas slow in acting, he had the audacity, under a disguise which made himlook like Sauverand and which was one day to turn suspicion againstSauverand, he had the audacity and the presence of mind to followInspector Verot to the Cafe du Pont-Neuf, to purloin the letter ofexplanation which Inspector Verot wrote you, to substitute a blank sheetof paper for it, and then to ask a passer-by, who might become a witnessagainst Sauverand, the way to the nearest underground station forNeuilly, where Sauverand lived! There's your man, Monsieur le Prefet."

  Don Luis spoke with increasing force, with the ardour that springs fromconviction; and his logical and closely argued speech seemed to conjureup the actual truth,

  "There's your man, Monsieur le Prefet," he repeated. "There's yourscoundrel. And the situation in which he found himself was such, the fearinspired by Inspector Verot's possible revelations was such, that, beforeputting into execution the horrible deed which he had planned, he came tothe police office to make sure that his victim was no longer alive andhad not been able to denounce him.

  "You remember the scene, Monsieur le Prefet, the fellow's agitation andfright: 'To-morrow evening,' he said. Yes, it was for the morrow that heasked for your help, because he knew that everything would be over thatsame evening and that next day the police would be confronted with amurder, with the two culprits against whom he himself had heaped up thecharges, with Marie Fauville, whom he had, so to speak, accused inadvance....

  "That was why Sergeant Mazeroux's visit and mine to his house, at nineo'clock in the evening, embarrassed him so obviously. Who were thoseintruders? Would they not succeed in shattering his plan? Reflectionreassured him, even as we, by our insistence, compelled him to give way."

  "After all, what he did care?" asked Perenna.

  "His measures were so well taken that no amount of watching could destroythem or even make the watchers aware of them. What was to happen wouldhappen in our presence and unknown to us. Death, summoned by him, woulddo its work.... And the comedy, the tragedy, rather, ran its course. Mme.Fauville, whom he was sending to the opera, came to say good-night. Thenhis servant brought him something to eat, including a dish of apples.Then followed a fit of rage, the agony of the man who is about to die andwho fears death and a whole scene of deceit, in which he showed us hissafe and the drab-cloth diary which was supposed to contain the story ofthe plot. ... That ended matters.

  "Mazeroux and I retired to the hall passage, closing the door after us;and M. Fauville remained alone and free to act. Nothing now could preventthe fulfilment of his wishes. At eleven o'clock in the evening, Mme.Fauville--to whom no doubt, in the course of the day, imitatingSauverand's handwriting, he had sent a letter--one of those letters whichare always torn up at once, in which Sauverand entreated the poor womanto grant him an interview at the Ranelagh--Mme. Fauville would leave theopera and, before going to Mme. d'Ersinger's party, would spend an hournot far from the house.

  "On the other hand, Sauverand would be performing his usual Wednesdaypilgrimage less than half a mile away, in the opposite direction. Duringthis time the crime would be committed.

  "Both of them would come under the notice of the police, either by M.Fauville's allusions or by the incident at the Cafe du Pont-Neuf; both ofthem, moreover, would be incapable either of providing an alibi or ofexplaining their presence so near the house: were not both of them boundto be accused and convicted of the crime? ... In the most unlikely eventthat some chance should protect them, there was an undeniable proof lyingready to hand in the shape of the apple containing the very marks ofMarie Fauville's teeth! And then, a few weeks later, the last anddecisive trick, the mysterious arrival at intervals of ten days, of theletters denouncing the pair. So everything was settled.

  "The smallest details were foreseen with infernal clearness. Youremember, Monsieur le Prefet, that turquoise which dropped out of myring and was found in the safe? There were only four persons whocould have seen it and picked it up. M. Fauville was one of them.Well, he was just the one, whom we all excepted; and yet it was hewho, to cast suspicion upon me and to forestall an interference whichhe felt would be dangerous, seized the opportunity and placed theturquoise in the safe! ...

  "This time the work was completed. Fate was about to be fulfilled.Between the 'hater' and his victims there was but the distance of oneact. The act was performed. M. Fauville died."

  Don Luis ceased. His words were followed by a long silence; and he feltcertain that the extraordinary story which he had just finished tellingmet with the absolute approval of his hearers. They did not discuss, theybelieved. And yet it was the most incredible truth that he was askingthem to believe.

  M. Desmalions asked one last question.

  "You were in that passage with Sergeant Mazeroux. There were detectivesoutside the house. Admitting that M. Fauville knew that he was to bekilled that night and at that very hour of the night, who can havekilled him and who can have killed his son? There was no one withinthese four walls."

  "There was M. Fauville."

  A sudden clamour of protests arose. The veil was promptly torn; and thespectacle revealed by Don Luis provoked, in addition to horror, anunforeseen outburst of incredulity and a sort of revolt against the tookindly attention which had been accorded to those ex
planations. ThePrefect of Police expressed the general feeling by exclaiming:

  "Enough of words! Enough of theories! However logical they may seem, theylead to absurd conclusions."

  "Absurd in appearance, Monsieur le Prefet; but how do we know that M.Fauville's unheard-of conduct is not explained by very natural reasons?Of course, no one dies with a light heart for the mere pleasure ofrevenge. But how do we know that M. Fauville, whose extreme emaciationand pallor you must have noted as I did, was not stricken by some mortalillness and that, knowing himself doomed--"

  "I repeat, enough of words!" cried the Prefect. "You go only bysuppositions. What I want is proofs, a proof, only one. And we are stillwaiting for it."

  "Here it is, Monsieur le Prefet."

  "Eh? What's that you say?"

  "Monsieur le Prefet, when I removed the chandelier from the plaster thatsupported it, I found, outside the upper surface of the metal box, asealed envelope. As the chandelier was placed under the attic occupied byM. Fauville's son, it is evident that M. Fauville was able, by liftingthe boards of the floor in his son's room, to reach the top of themachine which he had contrived. This was how, during that last night, heplaced this sealed envelope in position, after writing on it the date ofthe murder, '31 March, 11 P.M.,' and his signature, 'HippolyteFauville.'"

  M. Desmalions opened the envelope with an eager hand. His first glance atthe pages of writing which it contained made him give a start.

  "Oh, the villain, the villain!" he said. "How was it possible for such amonster to exist? What a loathsome brute!"

  In a jerky voice, which became almost inaudible at times owing to hisamazement, he read:

  "The end is reached. My hour is striking. Put to sleep by me, Edmond isdead without having been roused from his unconsciousness by the fire ofthe poison. My own death-agony is beginning. I am suffering all thetortures of hell. My hand can hardly write these last lines. I suffer,how I suffer! And yet my happiness is unspeakable.

  "This happiness dates back to my visit to London, with Edmond, fourmonths ago. Until then, I was dragging on the most hideous existence,hiding my hatred of the woman who detested me and who loved another,broken down in health, feeling myself already eaten up with anunrelenting disease, and seeing my son grow daily more weak and languid.

  "In the afternoon I consulted a great physician and I no longer had theleast doubt left: the malady that was eating into me was cancer. And Iknew besides that, like myself, my son Edmond was on the road to thegrave, incurably stricken with consumption.

  "That same evening I conceived the magnificent idea of revenge. And sucha revenge! The most dreadful of accusations made against a man and awoman in love with each other! Prison! The assizes! Penal servitude! Thescaffold! And no assistance possible, not a struggle, not a hope!Accumulated proofs, proofs so formidable as to make the innocentthemselves doubt their own innocence and remain hopelessly and helplesslydumb. What a revenge!... And what a punishment! To be innocent and tostruggle vainly against the very facts that accuse you, the verycertainty that proclaims you guilty.

  "And I prepared everything with a glad heart. Each happy thought, eachinvention made me shout with laughter. Lord, how merry I was! You wouldthink that cancer hurts: not a bit of it! How can you suffer physicalpain when your soul is quivering with delight? Do you think I feel thehideous burning of the poison at this moment?

  "I am happy. The death which I have inflicted on myself is the beginningof their torment. Then why live and wait for a natural death which tothem would mean the beginning of their happiness? And as Edmond had todie, why not save him a lingering illness and give him a death whichwould double the crime of Marie and Sauverand?

  "The end is coming. I had to break off: the pain was too much for me. Nowto pull myself together.... How silent everything is! Outside the houseand in the house are emissaries of the police watching over my crime. Atno great distance, Marie, in obedience to my letter, is hurrying to thetrysting place, where her beloved will not come. And the beloved isroaming under the windows where his darling will not appear.

  "Oh, the dear little puppets whose string I pull! Dance! Jump! Skip!Lord, what fun they are! A rope round your neck, sir; and, madam, a roperound yours. Was it not you, sir, who poisoned Inspector Verot thismorning and followed him to the Cafe du Pont-Neuf, with your grand ebonywalking-stick? Why, of course it was! And at night the pretty ladypoisons me and poisons her stepson. Prove it? Well, what about thisapple, madam, this apple which you did _not_ bite into and which all thesame will be found to bear the marks of your teeth? What fun! Dance!Jump! Skip!

  "And the letters! The trick of my letters to the late lamentedLangernault! That was my crowning triumph. Oh, the joy of it, when Iinvented and constructed my little mechanical toy! Wasn't it nicelythought out? Isn't it wonderfully neat and accurate? On the appointedday, click, the first letter! And, ten days after, click, the secondletter! Come, there's no hope for you, my poor friends, you're nicelydone for. Dance! Jump! Skip!

  "And what amuses me--for I am laughing now--is to think that nobody willknow what to make of it. Marie and Sauverand guilty: of that there is notthe least doubt. But, outside that, absolute mystery.

  "Nobody will know nor ever will know anything. In a few weeks' time, whenthe two criminals are irrevocably doomed, when the letters are in thehands of the police, on the 25th, or, rather, at 3 o'clock on the morningof the 26th of May, an explosion will destroy every trace of my work. Thebomb is in its place. A movement entirely independent of the chandelierwill explode it at the hour aforesaid.

  "I have just laid beside it the drab-cloth manuscript book in which Ipretended that I wrote my diary, the phials containing the poison, theneedles which I used, an ebony walking-stick, two letters from InspectorVerot, in short, anything that might save the culprits. Then how can anyone know? No, nobody will know nor ever will know anything.

  "Unless--unless some miracle happens--unless the bomb leaves the wallsstanding and the ceiling intact. Unless, by some marvel ofintelligence and intuition, a man of genius, unravelling the threadswhich I have tangled, should penetrate to the very heart of the riddleand succeed, after a search lasting for months and months, indiscovering this final letter.

  "It is for this man that I write, well knowing that he cannot exist.But, after all, what do I care? Marie and Sauverand will be at thebottom of the abyss by then, dead no doubt, or in any case separatedforever. And I risk nothing by leaving this evidence of my hatred in thehands of chance.

  "There, that's finished. I have only to sign. My hand shakes more andmore. The sweat is pouring from my forehead in great drops. I amsuffering the tortures of the damned and I am divinely happy! Aha, myfriends, you were waiting for my death!

  "You, Marie, imprudently let me read in your eyes, which watched mestealthily, all your delight at seeing me so ill! And you were both ofyou so sure of the future that you had the courage to wait patiently formy death! Well, here it is, my death! Here it is and there are you,united above my grave, linked together with the handcuffs. Marie, be thewife of my friend Sauverand. Sauverand, I bestow my spouse upon you. Bejoined together in holy matrimony. Bless you, my children!

  "The examining magistrate will draw up the contract and the executionerwill read the marriage service. Oh, the delight of it! I sufferagonies--but oh, the delight! What a fine thing is hatred, when it makesdeath a joy! I am happy in dying. Marie is in prison. Sauverand isweeping in the condemned man's cell. The door opens....

  "Oh, horror! the men in black! They walk up to the bed: 'GastonSauverand, your appeal is rejected. Courage! Be a man!' Oh, the cold,dark morning--the scaffold! It's your turn, Marie, your turn! Would yousurvive your lover? Sauverand is dead: it's your turn. See, here's arope for you. Or would you rather have poison? Die, will you, you hussy!Die with your veins on fire--as I am doing, I who hate you--hateyou--hate you!"

  M. Desmalions ceased, amid the silent astonishment of all those present.He had great difficulty in reading the concluding lines, the writinghaving
become almost wholly shapeless and illegible.

  He said, in a low voice, as he stared at the paper: "'HippolyteFauville,' The signature is there. The scoundrel found a last remnantof strength to sign his name clearly. He feared that a doubt might beentertained of his villainy. And indeed how could any one havesuspected it?"

  And, looking at Don Luis, he added:

  "It needed, to solve the mystery, a really exceptional power of insightand gifts to which we must all do homage, to which I do homage. All theexplanations which that madman gave have been anticipated in the mostaccurate and bewildering fashion."

  Don Luis bowed and, without replying to the praise bestowed uponhim, said:

  "You are right, Monsieur le Prefet; he was a madman, and one of the mostdangerous kind, the lucid madman who pursues an idea from which nothingwill make him turn aside. He pursued it with superhuman tenacity and withall the resources of his fastidious mind, enslaved by the laws ofmechanics.

  "Another would have killed his victims frankly and brutally. He set hiswits to work to kill at a long date, like an experimenter who leaves totime the duty of proving the excellence of his invention. And hesucceeded only too well, because the police fell into the trap andbecause Mme. Fauville is perhaps going to die."

  M. Desmalions made a gesture of decision. The whole business, in fact,was past history, on which the police proceedings would throw thenecessary light. One fact alone was of importance to the present: thesaving of Marie Fauville's life.

  "It's true," he said, "we have not a minute to lose. Mme. Fauville mustbe told without delay. At the same time, I will send for the examiningmagistrate; and the case against her is sure to be dismissed at once."

  He swiftly gave orders for continuing the investigations and verifyingDon Luis's theories. Then, turning to Perenna:

  "Come, Monsieur," he said. "It is right that Mme. Fauville should thankher rescuer. Mazeroux, you come, too."

  The meeting was over, that meeting in the course of which Don Luis hadgiven the most striking proofs of his genius. Waging war, so to speak,upon the powers beyond the grave, he had forced the dead man to revealhis secret. He disclosed, as though he had been present throughout, thehateful vengeance conceived in the darkness and carried out in the tomb.

  * * * * *

  M. Desmalions showed all his admiration by his silence and by certainmovements of his head. And Perenna took a keen enjoyment in the strangefact that he, who was being hunted down by the police a few hours ago,should now be sitting in a motor car beside the head of that same force.

  Nothing threw into greater relief the masterly manner in which he hadconducted the business and the importance which the police attached tothe results obtained. The value of his collaboration was such that theywere willing to forget the incidents of the last two days. The grudgewhich Weber bore him was now of no avail against Don Luis Perenna.

  M. Desmalions, meanwhile, began briefly to review the new solutions, andhe concluded by still discussing certain points.

  "Yes, that's it ... there is not the least shadow of a doubt.... Weagree.... It's that and nothing else. Still, one or two things remainobscure. First of all, the mark of the teeth. This, notwithstanding thehusband's admission, is a fact which we cannot neglect."

  "I believe that the explanation is a very simple one, Monsieur le Prefet.I will give it to you as soon as I am able to support it with thenecessary proofs."

  "Very well. But another question: how is it that Weber, yesterdaymorning, found that sheet of paper relating to the explosion in Mlle.Levasseur's room?"

  "And how was it," added Don Luis, laughing, "that I found there the listof the five dates corresponding with the delivery of the letters?"

  "So you are of my opinion?" said M. Desmalions. "The part played by Mlle.Levasseur is at least suspicious."

  "I believe that everything will be cleared up, Monsieur le Prefet, andthat you need now only question Mme. Fauville and Gaston Sauverand inorder to dispel these last obscurities and remove all suspicion fromMlle. Levasseur."

  "And then," insisted M. Desmalions, "there is one more fact that strikesme as odd. Hippolyte Fauville does not once mention the Morningtoninheritance in his confession. Why? Did he not know of it? Are we tosuppose that there is no connection, beyond a mere casual coincidence,between the series of crimes and that bequest?"

  "There, I am entirely of your opinion, Monsieur le Prefet. HippolyteFauville's silence as to that bequest perplexes me a little, I confess.But all the same I look upon it as comparatively unimportant. The mainthing is Fauville's guilt and the prisoners' innocence."

  Don Luis's delight was pure and unbounded. From his point of view, thesinister tragedy was at an end with the discovery of the confessionwritten by Hippolyte Fauville. Anything not explained in those lineswould be explained by the details to be supplied by Mme. Fauville,Florence Levasseur, and Gaston Sauverand. He himself had lost allinterest in the matter.

  The car drew up at Saint-Lazare, the wretched, sordid old prison which isstill waiting to be pulled down.

  The Prefect jumped out. The door was opened at once.

  "Is the prison governor there?" he asked. "Quick! send for him,it's urgent."

  Then, unable to wait, he at once hastened toward the corridors leading tothe infirmary and, as he reached the first-floor landing, came up againstthe governor himself.

  "Mme. Fauville," he said, without waste of time. "I want to see her--"

  But he stopped short when he saw the expression of consternation on theprison governor's face.

  "Well, what is it?" he asked. "What's the matter?"

  "Why, haven't you heard, Monsieur le Prefet?" stammered the governor. "Itelephoned to the office, you know--"

  "Speak! What is it?"

  "Mme. Fauville died this morning. She managed somehow to take poison."

  M. Desmalions seized the governor by the arm and ran to the infirmary,followed by Perenna and Mazeroux.

  He saw Marie Fauville lying on a bed in one of the rooms. Her pale faceand her shoulders were stained with brown patches, similar to thosewhich had marked the bodies of Inspector Verot, Hippolyte Fauville, andhis son Edmond.

  Greatly upset, the Prefect murmured:

  "But the poison--where did it come from?"

  "This phial and syringe were found under her pillow, Monsieur le Prefet."

  "Under her pillow? But how did they get there? How did they reach her?Who gave them to her?"

  "We don't know yet, Monsieur le Prefet."

  M. Desmalions looked at Don Luis. So Hippolyte Fauville's suicide had notput an end to the series of crimes! His action had done more than aim atMarie's death by the hand of the law: it had now driven her to takepoison! Was it possible? Was it admissible that the dead man's revengeshould still continue in the same automatic and anonymous manner?

  Or rather--or rather, was there not some other mysterious will whichwas secretly and as audaciously carrying on Hippolyte Fauville'sdiabolical work?

  * * * * *

  Two days later came a fresh sensation: Gaston Sauverand was found dyingin his cell. He had had the courage to strangle himself with hisbedsheet. All efforts to restore him to life were vain.

  On the table near him lay a half-dozen newspaper cuttings, which had beenpassed to him by an unknown hand. All of them told the news of MarieFauville's death.