The Crystal Stopper by Maurice Leblanc (good book club books .txt) 📗

list of the Twenty-seven. It lay before him, on the table.

Mastering his emotion, he said, in a casual tone:

“So it is there still?”

“At least, I suppose so,” declared M. Nicole.

“What! You suppose so?”

“I have not opened the hiding-place. I thought, monsieur le secretaire-general, I would reserve that honour for you.”

Prasville put out his hand, took the thing up and inspected it. It was a block of crystal, imitating nature to perfection, with all the details of the eyeball, the iris, the pupil, the cornea.

He at once saw a movable part at the back, which slid in a groove. He pushed it. The eye was hollow.

There was a tiny ball of paper inside. He unfolded it, smoothed it out and, quickly, without delaying to make a preliminary examination of the names, the hand-writing or the signatures, he raised his arms and turned the paper to the light from the windows.

“Is the cross of Lorraine there?” asked M. Nicole.

“Yes, it is there,” replied Prasville. “This is the genuine list.”

He hesitated a few seconds and remained with his arms raised, while reflecting what he would do. Then he folded up the paper again, replaced it in its little crystal sheath and put the whole thing in his pocket. M. Nicole, who was looking at him, asked:

“Are you convinced?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we are agreed?”

“We are agreed.”

There was a pause, during which the two men watched each other without appearing to. M. Nicole seemed to be waiting for the conversation to be resumed. Prasville, sheltered behind the piles of books on the table, sat with one hand grasping his revolver and the other touching the push of the electric bell. He felt the whole strength of his position with a keen zest. He held the list. He held Lupin:

“If he moves,” he thought, “I cover him with my revolver and I ring. If he attacks me, I shoot.”

And the situation appeared to him so pleasant that he prolonged it, with the exquisite relish of an epicure.

In the end, M. Nicole took up the threads:

“As we are agreed, monsieur le secretaire-general, I think there is nothing left for you to do but to hurry. Is the execution to take place to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow.”

“In that case, I shall wait here.”

“Wait for what?”

“The answer from the Elysee.”

“Oh, is some one to bring you an answer?”

“Yes.”

“You, monsieur le secretaire-general.”

Prasville shook his head:

“You must not count on me, M. Nicole.”

“Really?” said M. Nicole, with an air of surprise. “May I ask the reason?”

“I have changed my mind.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. I have come to the conclusion that, as things stand, after this last scandal, it is impossible to try to do anything in Gilbert’s favour. Besides, an attempt in this direction at the Elysee, under present conditions, would constitute a regular case of blackmail, to which I absolutely decline to lend myself.”

“You are free to do as you please, monsieur. Your scruples do you honour, though they come rather late, for they did not trouble you yesterday. But, in that case, monsieur le secretaire-general, as the compact between us is destroyed, give me back the list of the Twenty-seven.”

“What for?”

“So that I may apply to another spokesman.”

“What’s the good? Gilbert is lost.”

“Not at all, not at all. On the contrary, I consider that, now that his accomplice is dead, it will be much easier to grant him a pardon which everybody will look upon as fair and humane. Give me back the list.”

“Upon my word, monsieur, you have a short memory and none too nice a conscience. Have you forgotten your promise of yesterday?”

“Yesterday, I made a promise to a M. Nicole.”

“Well?”

“You are not M. Nicole.”

“Indeed! Then, pray, who am I?”

“Need I tell you?”

M. Nicole made no reply, but began to laugh softly, as though pleased at the curious turn which the conversation was taking; and Prasville felt a vague misgiving at observing that fit of merriment. He grasped the butt-end of his revolver and wondered whether he ought not to ring for help.

M. Nicole drew his chair close to the desk, put his two elbows on the table, looked Prasville straight in the face and jeered:

“So, M. Prasville, you know who I am and you have the assurance to play this game with me?”

“I have that assurance,” said Prasville, accepting the sneer without flinching.

“Which proves that you consider me, Arsene Lupin—we may as well use the name: yes, Arsene Lupin—which proves that you consider me fool enough, dolt enough to deliver myself like this, bound hand and foot into your hands.”

“Upon my word,” said Prasville, airily, patting the waistcoat-pocket in which he had secreted the crystal ball, “I don’t quite see what you can do, M. Nicole, now that Daubrecq’s eye is here, with the list of the Twenty-seven inside it.”

“What I can do?” echoed M. Nicole, ironically.

“Yes! The talisman no longer protects you; and you are now no better off than any other man who might venture into the very heart of the police-office, among some dozens of stalwart fellows posted behind each of those doors and some hundreds of others who will hasten up at the first signal.”

M. Nicole shrugged his shoulders and gave Prasville a look of great commiseration:

“Shall I tell you what is happening, monsieur le secretaire-general? Well, you too are having your head turned by all this business. Now that you possess the list, your state of mind has suddenly sunk to that of a Daubrecq or a d’Albufex. There is no longer even a question, in your thoughts, of taking it to your superiors, so that this ferment of disgrace and discord may be ended. No, no; a sodden temptation has seized upon you