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

“For what reason?”

“Family affairs.”

“Family affairs! Were you related, then?”

“Yes. Hippolyte was my cousin.”

“Your cousin! M. Fauville was your cousin! But⁠ ⁠… but then⁠ ⁠… Come, let us have the rights of the matter. M. Fauville and his wife were the children of two sisters, Elizabeth and Armande Roussel. Those two sisters had been brought up with a first cousin called Victor.”

“Yes, Victor Sauverand, whose grandfather was a Roussel. Victor Sauverand married abroad and had two sons. One of them died fifteen years ago; the other is myself.”

M. Desmalions gave a start. His excitement was manifest. If that man was telling the truth, if he was really the son of that Victor whose record the police had not yet been able to trace, then, owing to this very fact, since M. Fauville and his son were dead and Mme. Fauville, so to speak, convicted of murder and forfeiting her rights, they had arrested the final heir to Cosmo Mornington. But why, in a moment of madness, had he voluntarily brought this crushing indictment against himself?

He continued:

“My statements seem to surprise you, Monsieur le Préfet. Perhaps they throw a light on the mistake of which I am a victim?”

He expressed himself calmly, with great politeness and in a remarkably well-bred voice; and he did not for a moment seem to suspect that his revelations, on the contrary, were justifying the measures taken against him.

Without replying to the question, the Prefect of Police asked him:

“So your real name is⁠—”

“Gaston Sauverand.”

“Why do you call yourself Hubert Lautier?”

The man had a second of indecision which did not escape so clear-sighted an observer as M. Desmalions. He swayed from side to side, his eyes flickered and he said:

“That does not concern the police; it concerns no one but myself.”

M. Desmalions smiled:

“That is a poor argument. Will you use the same when I ask you why you live in hiding, why you left the Avenue du Roule, where you used to live, without leaving an address behind you, and why you receive your letters at the post-office under initials?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, those are matters of a private character, which affect only my conscience. You have no right to question me about them.”

“That is the exact reply which we are constantly receiving at every moment from your accomplice.”

“My accomplice?”

“Yes, Mme. Fauville.”

“Mme. Fauville!”

Gaston Sauverand had uttered the same cry as when he heard of the death of the engineer; and his stupefaction seemed even greater, combined as it was with an anguish that distorted his features beyond recognition.

“What?⁠ ⁠… What?⁠ ⁠… What do you say? Marie!⁠ ⁠… No, you don’t mean it! It’s not true!”

M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the Boulevard Suchet.

Gaston Sauverand, beside himself, with his eyes starting from his head, muttered:

“Is it true? Is Marie the victim of the same mistake as myself? Perhaps they have arrested her? She, she in prison!”

He raised his clenched fists in a threatening manner against all the unknown enemies by whom he was surrounded, against those who were persecuting him, those who had murdered Hippolyte Fauville and delivered Marie Fauville to the police.

Mazeroux and Chief Inspector Ancenis took hold of him roughly. He made a movement of resistance, as though he intended to thrust back his aggressors. But it was only momentary; and he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands:

“What a mystery!” he stammered. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand⁠—”

Weber, who had gone out a few minutes before, returned. M. Desmalions asked:

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, I have had the taxi brought up to the gate beside your car.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Eight. Two detectives have just arrived from the commissary’s.”

“Have you searched the house?”

“Yes. It’s almost empty, however. There’s nothing but the indispensable articles of furniture and some bundles of papers in the bedroom.”

“Very well. Take him away and keep a sharp lookout.”

Gaston Sauverand walked off quietly between the deputy chief and Mazeroux. He turned round in the doorway.

“Monsieur le Préfet, as you are making a search, I entreat you to take care of the papers on the table in my bedroom. They are notes that have cost me a great deal of labour in the small hours of the night. Also⁠—”

He hesitated, obviously embarrassed.

“Well?”

“Well, Monsieur le Préfet, I must tell you⁠—something⁠—”

He was looking for his words and seemed to fear the consequences of them at the same time that he uttered them. But he suddenly made up his mind.

“Monsieur le Préfet, there is in this house⁠—somewhere⁠—a packet of letters which I value more than my life. It is possible that those letters, if misinterpreted, will furnish a weapon against me; but no matter. The great thing is that they should be safe. You will see. They include documents of extreme importance. I entrust them to your keeping⁠—to yours alone, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“Where are they?”

“The hiding-place is easily found. All you have to do is to go to the garret above my bedroom and press on a nail to the right of the window. It is an apparently useless nail, but it controls a hiding-place outside, under the slates of the roof, along the gutter.”

He moved away between the two men. The Prefect called them back.

“One second. Mazeroux, go up to the garret and bring me the letters.”

Mazeroux went out and returned in a few minutes. He had been unable to work the spring.

The Prefect ordered Chief Inspector Ancenis to go up with Mazeroux and to take the prisoner, who would show them how to open the hiding-place. He himself remained in the room with Weber, awaiting the result of the search, and began to read the titles of the volumes piled upon the table.

They were scientific books, among which he noticed works on chemistry: Organic Chemistry and Chemistry Considered in Its Relations with Electricity. They were all covered with notes in the margins. He was turning over the pages of one of them, when he seemed to