The Teeth of the Tiger - Maurice Leblanc (feel good books txt) 📗

But Don Luis mastered his rage. He felt that all his arguments would be shattered to pieces against the sergeant’s obstinacy, and that, if necessary, Mazeroux would go to the length of defending the enemy against him. He simply said in a sententious tone:

“One ass and you make a pair of asses; and there are as many asses as there are people who try to do police work with bits of paper, signatures, warrants, and other gammon. Police work, my lad, is done with one’s fists. When you come upon the enemy, hit him. Otherwise, you stand a chance of hitting the air. With that, good night. I’m going to bed. Telephone to me when the job is done.”

He went home, furious, sick of an adventure in which he had not had elbow room, and in which he had had to submit to the will, or, rather, to the weakness of others.

But next morning when he woke up his longing to see the police lay hold of the man with the ebony stick, and especially the feeling that his assistance would be of use, impelled him to dress as quickly as he could.

“If I don’t come to the rescue,” he thought, “they’ll let themselves be done in the eye. They’re not equal to a contest of this kind.”

Just then Mazeroux rang up and asked to speak to him. He rushed to a little telephone box which his predecessor had fitted up on the first floor, in a dark recess that communicated only with his study, and switched on the electric light.

“Is that you, Alexandre?”

“Yes, Chief. I’m speaking from a wine shop near the house on the Boulevard Richard-Wallace.”

“What about our man?”

“The bird’s still in the nest. But we’re only just in time.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s packed his trunk. He’s going away this morning.”

“How do they know?”

“Through the woman who manages for him. She’s just come to the house and will let us in.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yes, the woman cooks his meals and goes away in the evening. No one ever calls except a veiled lady who has paid him three visits since he’s been here. The housekeeper was not able to see what she was like. As for him, she says he’s a scholar, who spends his time reading and working.”

“And have you a warrant?”

“Yes, we’re going to use it.”

“I’ll come at once.”

“You can’t! We’ve got Weber at our head. Oh, by the way, have you heard the news about Mme. Fauville?”

“About Mme. Fauville?”

“Yes, she tried to commit suicide last night.”

“What! Tried to commit suicide!”

Perenna had uttered an exclamation of astonishment and was very much surprised to hear, almost at the same time, another cry, like an echo, at his elbow. Without letting go the receiver, he turned round and saw that Mlle. Levasseur was in the study a few yards away from him, standing with a distorted and livid face. Their eyes met. He was on the point of speaking to her, but she moved away, without leaving the room, however.

“What the devil was she listening for?” Don Luis wondered. “And why that look of dismay?”

Meanwhile, Mazeroux continued:

“She said, you know, that she would try to kill herself. But it must have taken a goodish amount of pluck.”

“But how did she do it?” Perenna asked.

“I’ll tell you another time. They’re calling me. Whatever you do, Chief, don’t come.”

“Yes,” he replied, firmly, “I’m coming. After all, the least I can do is to be in at the death, seeing that it was I who found the scent. But don’t be afraid. I shall keep in the background.”

“Then hurry, Chief. We’re delivering the attack in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be with you before that.”

He quickly hung up the receiver and turned on his heel to leave the telephone box. The next moment he had flung himself against the farther wall. Just as he was about to pass out he had heard something click above his head and he but barely had the time to leap back and escape being struck by an iron curtain which fell in front of him with a terrible thud.

Another second and the huge mass would have crushed him. He could feel it whizzing by his head. And he had never before experienced the anguish of danger so intensely.

After a moment of genuine fright, in which he stood as though petrified, with his brain in a whirl, he recovered his coolness and threw himself upon the obstacle. But it at once appeared to him that the obstacle was unsurmountable.

It was a heavy metal panel, not made of plates or lathes fastened one to the other, but formed of a solid slab, massive, firm, and strong, and covered with the sheen of time darkened here and there with patches of rust. On either side and at the top and bottom the edges of the panel fitted in a narrow groove which covered them hermetically.

He was a prisoner. In a sudden fit of rage he banged at the metal with his fists. He remembered that Mlle. Levasseur was in the study. If she had not yet left the room⁠—and surely she could not have left it when the thing happened⁠—she would hear the noise. She was bound to hear it. She would be sure to come back, give the alarm, and rescue him.

He listened. He shouted. No reply. His voice died away against the walls and ceiling of the box in which he was shut up, and he felt that the whole house⁠—drawing-rooms, staircases, and passages⁠—remained deaf to his appeal.

And yet⁠ ⁠… and yet⁠ ⁠… Mlle. Levasseur⁠—

“What does it mean?” he muttered. “What can it all mean?”

And motionless now and silent, he thought once more of the girl’s strange attitude, of her distraught face, of her haggard eyes. And he also began to wonder what accident had released the mechanism which had hurled the formidable iron curtain upon him, craftily and ruthlessly.

A group consisting of Deputy Chief Detective Weber, Chief Inspector Ancenis, Sergeant Mazeroux, three inspectors, and the