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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Why, you’re mad, Chief! you’ll kill yourself!”

  “Let go, you ass!” roared Don Luis. “It’s they! Let me be, can’t you!”

  The carriages filed past. He tried to jump on to another footboard. But the two men were clinging to him, some railway porters came to their assistance, the station-master ran up. The train moved out of the station.

  “Idiots!” he shouted. “Boobies! Pack of asses that you are, couldn’t you leave me alone? Oh, I swear to Heaven — !”

  With a blow of his left fist he knocked the ticket collector down; with a blow of his right he sent Mazeroux spinning; and shaking off the porters and the station-master, he rushed along the platform to the luggage-room, where he took flying leaps over several batches of trunks, packing-cases, and portmanteaux.

  “Oh, the perfect fool!” he mumbled, on seeing that Mazeroux had let the power down in the car. “Trust him, if there’s any blunder going!”

  Don Luis had driven his car at a fine rate during the day; but that night the pace became vertiginous. A very meteor flashed through the suburbs of Le Mans and hurled itself along the highroad. Perenna had but one thought in his head: to reach the next station, which was Chartres, before the two accomplices, and to fly at Sauverand’s throat. He saw nothing but that: the savage grip of his two hands that would set Florence Levasseur’s lover gasping in his agony.

  “Her lover! Her lover!” he muttered, gnashing his teeth. “Why, of course, that explains everything! They have combined against their accomplice, Marie Fauville; and it is she alone, poor devil, who will pay for the horrible series of crimes!”

  “Is she their accomplice even?” he wondered. “Who knows? Who knows if that pair of demons are not capable, after killing Hippolyte and his son, of having plotted the ruin of Marie Fauville, the last obstacle that stood between them and the Mornington inheritance? Doesn’t everything point to that conclusion? Didn’t I find the list of dates in a book belonging to Florence? Don’t the facts prove that the letters were communicated by Florence?…

  “Those letters accuse Gaston Sauverand as well. But how does that affect things? He no longer loves Marie, but Florence. And Florence loves him. She is his accomplice, his counsellor, the woman who will live by his side and benefit by his fortune…. True, she sometimes pretends to be defending Marie Fauville. Play-acting! Or perhaps remorse, fright at the thought of all that she has done against her rival, and of the fate that awaits the unhappy woman!

  “But she is in love with Sauverand. And she continues to carry on the struggle without pity and without respite. And that is why she wanted to kill me, the interloper whose insight she dreaded. And she hates me and loathes me—”

  To the hum of the engine and the sighing of the trees, which bent down at the approach, he murmured incoherent words. The recollection of the two lovers clasped in each other’s arms made him cry aloud with jealousy. He wanted to be revenged. For the first time in his life, the longing, the feverish craving to kill set his brain boiling.

  “Hang it all!” he growled suddenly. “The engine’s misfiring! Mazeroux!

  Mazeroux!”

  “What, Chief! Did you know that I was here?” exclaimed Mazeroux, emerging from the shadow in which he sat hidden.

  “You jackass! Do you think that the first idiot who comes along can hang on to the footboard of my car without my knowing it? You must be feeling comfortable down there!”

  “I’m suffering agonies, and I’m shivering with cold.”

  “That’s right, it’ll teach you. Tell me, where did you buy your petrol?”

  “At the grocer’s.”

  “At a thief’s, you mean. It’s muck. The plugs are getting sooted up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Can’t you hear the misfiring, you fool?”

  The motor, indeed, at moments seemed to hesitate. Then everything became normal again. Don Luis forced the pace. Going downhill they appeared to be hurling themselves into space. One of the lamps went out. The other was not as bright as usual. But nothing diminished Don Luis’s ardour.

  There was more misfiring, fresh hesitations, followed by efforts, as though the engine was pluckily striving to do its duty. And then suddenly came the final failure, a dead stop at the side of the road, a stupid breakdown.

  “Confound it!” roared Don Luis. “We’re stuck! Oh, this is the last straw!”

  “Come, Chief, we’ll put it right. And we’ll pick up Sauverand at Paris instead of Chartres, that’s all.”

  “You infernal ass! The repairs will take an hour! And then she’ll break down again. It’s not petrol, it’s filth they’ve foisted on you.”

  The country stretched around them to endless distances, with no other lights than the stars that riddled the darkness of the sky.

  Don Luis was stamping with fury. He would have liked to kick the motor to pieces. He would have liked —

  It was Mazeroux who “caught it,” in the hapless sergeant’s own words. Don Luis took him by the shoulders, shook him, loaded him with insults and abuse and, finally, pushing him against the roadside bank and holding him there, said, in a broken voice of mingled hatred and sorrow.

  “It’s she, do you hear, Mazeroux? it’s Sauverand’s companion who has done everything. I’m telling you now, because I’m afraid of relenting. Yes, I am a weak coward. She has such a grave face, with the eyes of a child. But it’s she, Mazeroux. She lives in my house. Remember her name: Florence Levasseur. You’ll arrest her, won’t you? I might not be able to. My courage fails me when I look at her. The fact is that I have never loved before.

  “There have been other women — but no, those were fleeting fancies — not even that: I don’t even remember the past! Whereas Florence — ! You must arrest her, Mazeroux. You must deliver me from her eyes. They burn into me like poison. If you don’t deliver me I shall kill her as I killed Dolores — or else they will kill me — or — Oh, I don’t know all the ideas that are driving me wild — !

  “You see, there’s another man,” he explained. “There’s Sauverand, whom she loves. Oh, the infamous pair! They have killed Fauville and the boy and old Langernault and those two in the barn and others besides: Cosmo Mornington, Vérot, and more still. They are monsters, she most of all — And if you saw her eyes-”

  He spoke so low that Mazeroux could hardly hear him. He had let go his hold of Mazeroux and seemed utterly cast down with despair, a surprising symptom in a man of his amazing vigour and authority.

  “Come, Chief,” said the sergeant, helping him up. “This is all stuff and nonsense. Trouble with women: I’ve had it like everybody else. Mme. Mazeroux — yes, I got married while you were away — Mme. Mazeroux turned out badly herself, gave me the devil of a time, Mme. Mazeroux did. I’ll tell you all about it, Chief, how Mme. Mazeroux rewarded my kindness.”

  He led Don Luis gently to the car and settled him on the front seat.

  “Take a rest, Chief. It’s not very cold and there are plenty of furs. The first peasant that comes along at daybreak, I’ll send him to the next town for what we want — and for food, too, for I’m starving. And everything will come right; it always does with women. All you have to do is to kick them out of your life — except when they anticipate you and kick themselves out…. I was going to tell you: Mme. Mazeroux—”

  Don Luis was never to learn what had happened with Mme. Mazeroux. The most violent catastrophies had no effect upon the peacefulness of his slumbers. He was asleep almost at once.

  It was late in the morning when he woke up. Mazeroux had had to wait till seven o’clock before he could hail a cyclist on his way to Chartres.

  They made a start at nine o’clock. Don Luis had recovered all his coolness. He turned to his sergeant.

  “I said a lot last night that I did not mean to say. However, I don’t regret it. Yes, it is my duty to do everything to save Mme. Fauville and to catch the real culprit. Only the task falls upon myself; and I swear that I shan’t fail in it. This evening Florence Levas
seur shall sleep in the lockup!”

  “I’ll help you, Chief,” replied Mazeroux, in a queer tone of voice.

  “I need nobody’s help. If you touch a single hair of her head, I’ll do for you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Then hold your tongue.”

  His anger was slowly returning and expressed itself in an increase of speed, which seemed to Mazeroux a revenge executed upon himself. They raced over the cobble-stones of Chartres. Rambouillet, Chevreuse, and Versailles received the terrifying vision of a thunderbolt tearing across them from end to end.

  Saint-Cloud. The Bois de Boulogne …

  On the Place de la Concorde, as the motor was turning toward the

  Tuileries, Mazeroux objected:

  “Aren’t you going home, Chief?”

  “No. There’s something more urgent first: we must relieve Marie Fauville of her suicidal obsession by letting her know that we have discovered the criminals.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I want to see the Prefect of Police.”

  “M. Desmalions is away and won’t be back till this afternoon.”

  “In that case the examining magistrate.”

  “He doesn’t get to the law courts till twelve; and it’s only eleven now.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Mazeroux was right: there was no one at the law courts.

  Don Luis lunched somewhere close by; and Mazeroux, after calling at the detective office, came to fetch him and took him to the magistrate’s corridor. Don Luis’s excitement, his extraordinary restlessness, did not fail to strike Mazeroux, who asked:

  “Are you still of the same mind, Chief?”

  “More than ever. I looked through the newspapers at lunch. Marie Fauville, who was sent to the infirmary after her second attempt, has again tried to kill herself by banging her head against the wall of the room. They have put a straitjacket on her. But she is refusing all food. It is my duty to save her.”

  “How?”

  “By handing over the real criminal. I shall inform the magistrate in charge of the case; and this evening I shall bring you Florence Levasseur dead or alive.”

  “And Sauverand?”

  “Sauverand? That won’t take long. Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless I settle his business myself, the miscreant!”

  “Chief!”

  “Oh, dry up!”

  There were some reporters near them waiting for particulars. He recognized them and went up to them.

  “You can say, gentlemen, that from to-day I am taking up the defence of

  Marie Fauville and devoting myself entirely to her cause.”

  They all protested: was it not he who had had Mme. Fauville arrested? Was it not he who had collected a heap of convicting proofs against her?

  “I shall demolish those proofs one by one,” he said. “Marie Fauville is the victim of wretches who have hatched the most diabolical plot against her, and whom I am about to deliver up to justice.”

  “But the teeth! The marks of the teeth!”

  “A coincidence! An unparalleled coincidence, but one which now strikes me as a most powerful proof of innocence. I tell you that, if Marie Fauville had been clever enough to commit all those murders, she would also have been clever enough not to leave behind her a fruit bearing the marks of her two rows of teeth.”

  “But still—”

  “She is innocent! And that is what I am going to tell the examining magistrate. She must be informed of the efforts that are being made in her favour. She must be given hope at once. If not, the poor thing will kill herself and her death will be on the conscience of all who accused an innocent woman. She must—”

  At that moment he interrupted himself. His eyes were fixed on one of the journalists who was standing a little way off listening to him and taking notes.

  He whispered to Mazeroux:

  “Could you manage to find out that beggar’s name? I can’t remember where on earth I’ve seen him before.”

  But an usher now opened the door of the examining magistrate, who, on receiving Don Perenna’s card, had asked to see him at once. He stepped forward and was about to enter the room with Mazeroux, when he suddenly turned to his companion with a cry of rage:

  “It’s he! It was Sauverand in disguise. Stop him! He’s made off. Run, can’t you?”

  He himself darted away followed by Mazeroux and a number of warders and journalists, He soon outdistanced them, so that, three minutes later, he heard no one more behind him. He had rushed down the staircase of the “Mousetrap,” and through the subway leading from one courtyard to the other. Here two people told him that they had met a man walking at a smart pace.

  The track was a false one. He became aware of this, hunted about, lost a good deal of time, and managed to discover that Sauverand had left by the Boulevard du Palais and joined a very pretty, fair-haired woman — Florence Levasseur, obviously — on the Quai de l’Horloge. They had both got into the motor bus that runs from the Place Saint-Michel to the Gare Saint-Lazare.

  Don Luis went back to a lonely little street where he had left his car in the charge of a boy. He set the engine going and drove at full speed to the Gare Saint-Lazare, From the omnibus shelter he went off on a fresh track which also proved to be wrong, lost quite another hour, returned to the terminus, and ended by learning for certain that Florence had stepped by herself into a motor bus which would take her toward the Place du Palais-Bourbon. Contrary to all his expectations, therefore, the girl must have gone home.

  The thought of seeing her again roused his anger to its highest pitch. All the way down the Rue Royale and across the Place de la Concorde he kept blurting out words of revenge and threats which he was itching to carry out. He would abuse Florence. He would sting her with his insults. He felt a bitter and painful need to hurt the odious creature.

  But on reaching the Place du Palais-Bourbon he pulled up short. His practised eye had counted at a glance, on the right and left, a half-dozen men whose professional look there was no mistaking. And Mazeroux, who had caught sight of him, had spun round on his heel and was hiding under a gateway.

  He called him:

  “Mazeroux!”

  The sergeant appeared greatly surprised to hear his name and came up to the car.

  “Hullo, the Chief!”

  His face expressed such embarrassment that Don Luis felt his fears taking definite shape.

  “Look here, is it for me that you and your men are hanging about outside my house?”

  “There’s a notion, Chief,” replied Mazeroux, looking very uncomfortable.

  “You know that you’re in favour all right!”

  Don Luis gave a start. He understood. Mazeroux had betrayed his confidence. To obey his scruples of conscience as well as to rescue the chief from the dangers of a fatal passion, Mazeroux had denounced Florence Levasseur.

  Perenna clenched his fists in an effort of his whole being to stifle his boiling rage. It was a terrible blow. He received a sudden intuition of all the blunders which his mad jealousy had made him commit since the day before, and a presentiment of the irreparable disasters that might result from them. The conduct of events was slipping from him.

  “Have you the warrant?” he asked.

  Mazeroux spluttered:

  “It was quite by accident. I met the Prefect, who was back. We spoke of the young lady’s business. And, as it happened, they had discovered that the photograph — you know, the photograph of Florence Levasseur which the Prefect lent you — well, they have discovered that you faked it. And then when I mentioned the name of Florence, the Prefect remembered that that was the name.”

  “Have you the warrant?” Don Luis repeated, in a harsher tone.

  “Well, you see, I couldn’t help it…. M. Desmalions, the magistrate—”

  If the Place du Palais Bourbon had been deserted at that moment, Don Luis would certainly have relieved himself by a swinging blow admini
stered to Mazeroux’s chin according to the most scientific rules of the noble art. And Mazeroux foresaw this contingency, for he prudently kept as far away as possible and, to appease the chief’s anger, intended a whole litany of excuses:

  “It was for your good, Chief…. I had to do it … Only think! You yourself told me: ‘Rid me of the creature!’ said you. I’m too weak. You’ll arrest her, won’t you? Her eyes burn into me — like poison! Well, Chief, could I help it? No, I couldn’t, could I? Especially as the deputy chief—”

  “Ah! So Weber knows?”

  “Why, yes! The Prefect is a little suspicious of you since he understood about the faking of the portrait. So M. Weber is coming back in an hour, perhaps, with reinforcements. Well, I was saying, the deputy chief had learnt that the woman who used to go to Gaston Sauverand’s at Neuilly — you know, the house on the Boulevard Richard-Wallace — was fair and very good looking, and that her name was Florence. She even used to stay the night sometimes.”

  “You lie! You lie!” hissed Perenna.

  All his spite was reviving. He had been pursuing Florence with intentions which it would have been difficult for him to put into words. And now suddenly he again wanted to destroy her; and this time consciously. In reality he no longer knew what he was doing. He was acting at haphazard, tossed about in turns by the most diverse passions, a prey to that inordinate love which impels us as readily to kill the object of our affections as to die in an attempt to save her.

  A newsboy passed with a special edition of the Paris-Midi, showing in great black letters:

  “

  SENSATIONAL DECLARATION BY DON LUIS PERENNA

  “MME. FAUVILLE IS INNOCENT.

  “IMMINENT ARREST OF THE TWO CRIMINALS”

  “Yes, yes,” he said aloud. “The drama is drawing to an end. Florence is about to pay her debt to society. So much the worse for her.”

  He started his car again and drove through the gate. In the courtyard he said to his chauffeur, who came up:

  “Turn her around and don’t put her up. I may be starting again at any moment.”