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

Neuilly commissary of police stood outside the gate of No. 8 Boulevard Richard-Wallace.

Mazeroux was watching the Avenue de Madrid, by which Don Luis would have to come, and began to wonder what had happened; for half an hour had passed since they telephoned to each other, and Mazeroux could find no further pretext for delaying the work.

“It’s time to make a move,” said Weber. “The housekeeper is making signals to us from the window: the joker’s dressing.”

“Why not nab him when he comes out?” objected Mazeroux. “We shall capture him in a moment.”

“And if he cuts off by another outlet which we don’t know of?” said the deputy chief. “You have to be careful with these beggars. No, let’s beard him in his den. It’s more certain.”

“Still⁠—”

“What’s the matter with you, Mazeroux?” asked the deputy chief, taking him on one side. “Don’t you see that our men are getting restive? They’re afraid of this sportsman. There’s only one way, which is to set them on him as if he were a wild beast. Besides, the business must be finished by the time the Prefect comes.”

“Is he coming?”

“Yes. He wants to see things for himself. The whole affair interests him enormously. So, forward! Are you ready, men? I’m going to ring.”

The bell sounded; and the housekeeper at once came and half opened the gate.

Although the orders were to observe great quiet, so as not to alarm the enemy too soon, the fear which he inspired was so intense that there was a general rush; and all the detectives crowded into the courtyard, ready for the fight. But a window opened and someone cried from the second floor:

“What’s happening?”

The deputy chief did not reply. Two detectives, the chief inspector, the commissary, and himself entered the house, while the others remained in the courtyard and made any attempt at flight impossible.

The meeting took place on the first floor. The man had come down, fully dressed, with his hat on his head; and the deputy chief roared:

“Stop! Hands up! Are you Hubert Lautier?”

The man seemed disconcerted. Five revolvers were levelled at him. And yet no sign of fear showed in his face; and he simply said:

“What do you want, Monsieur? What are you here for?”

“We are here in the name of the law, with a warrant for your arrest.”

“A warrant for my arrest?”

“A warrant for the arrest of Hubert Lautier, residing at 8 Boulevard Richard-Wallace.”

“But it’s absurd!” said the man. “It’s incredible! What does it mean? What for?”

They took him by both arms, without his offering the least resistance, pushed him into a fairly large room containing no furniture but three rush-bottomed chairs, an armchair, and a table covered with big books.

“There,” said the deputy chief. “Don’t stir. If you attempt to move, so much the worse for you.”

The man made no protest. While the two detectives held him by the collar, he seemed to be reflecting, as though he were trying to understand the secret causes of an arrest for which he was totally unprepared. He had an intelligent face, a reddish-brown beard, and a pair of blue-gray eyes which now and again showed a certain hardness of expression behind his glasses. His broad shoulders and powerful neck pointed to physical strength.

“Shall we tie his wrists?” Mazeroux asked the deputy chief.

“One second. The Prefect’s coming; I can hear him. Have you searched the man’s pockets? Any weapons?”

“No.”

“No flask, no phial? Nothing suspicious?”

“No, nothing.”

M. Desmalions arrived and, while watching the prisoner’s face, talked in a low voice with the deputy chief and received the particulars of the arrest.

“This is good business,” he said. “We wanted this. Now that both accomplices are in custody, they will have to speak; and everything will be cleared up. So there was no resistance?”

“None at all, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“No matter, we will remain on our guard.”

The prisoner had not uttered a word, but still wore a thoughtful look, as though trying to understand the inexplicable events of the last few minutes. Nevertheless, when he realized that the newcomer was none other than the Prefect of Police, he raised his head and looked at M. Desmalions, who asked him:

“It is unnecessary to tell you the cause of your arrest, I presume?”

He replied, in a deferential tone:

“Excuse me, Monsieur le Préfet, but I must ask you, on the contrary, to inform me. I have not the least idea of the reason. Your detectives have made a grave mistake which a word, no doubt, will be enough to set right. That word I wish for, I insist upon⁠—”

The Prefect shrugged his shoulders and said:

“You are suspected of taking part in the murder of Fauville, the civil engineer, and his son Edmond.”

“Is Hippolyte dead?”

The cry was spontaneous, almost unconscious; a bewildered cry of dismay from a man moved to the depths of his being. And his dismay was supremely strange, his question, trying to make them believe in his ignorance, supremely unexpected.

“Is Hippolyte dead?”

He repeated the question in a hoarse voice, trembling all over as he spoke.

“Is Hippolyte dead? What are you saying? Is it possible that he can be dead? And how? Murdered? Edmond, too?”

The Prefect once more shrugged his shoulders.

“The mere fact of your calling M. Fauville by his Christian name shows that you knew him intimately. And, even if you were not concerned in his murder, it has been mentioned often enough in the newspapers during the last fortnight for you to know of it.”

“I never read a newspaper, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“What! You mean to tell me⁠—?”

“It may sound improbable, but it is quite true. I lead an industrious life, occupying myself solely with scientific research, in view of a popular work which I am preparing, and I do not take the least part or the least interest in outside things. I defy anyone to prove that I have read a newspaper for months and months past. And that is why I am entitled to say that I did not know of Hippolyte Fauville’s murder.”

“Still, you knew M. Fauville.”

“I used to