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

was my crowning triumph. Oh, the joy of it, when I invented and constructed my little mechanical toy! Wasn’t it nicely thought out? Isn’t it wonderfully neat and accurate? On the appointed day, click, the first letter! And, ten days after, click, the second letter! Come, there’s no hope for you, my poor friends, you’re nicely done for. Dance! Jump! Skip!

“And what amuses me⁠—for I am laughing now⁠—is to think that nobody will know what to make of it. Marie and Sauverand guilty: of that there is not the least doubt. But, outside that, absolute mystery.

“Nobody will know nor ever will know anything. In a few weeks’ time, when the two criminals are irrevocably doomed, when the letters are in the hands of the police, on the 25th, or, rather, at 3 o’clock on the morning of the 26th of May, an explosion will destroy every trace of my work. The bomb is in its place. A movement entirely independent of the chandelier will explode it at the hour aforesaid.

“I have just laid beside it the drab-cloth manuscript book in which I pretended that I wrote my diary, the phials containing the poison, the needles which I used, an ebony walking-stick, two letters from Inspector Vérot, in short, anything that might save the culprits. Then how can anyone know? No, nobody will know nor ever will know anything.

“Unless⁠—unless some miracle happens⁠—unless the bomb leaves the walls standing and the ceiling intact. Unless, by some marvel of intelligence and intuition, a man of genius, unravelling the threads which I have tangled, should penetrate to the very heart of the riddle and succeed, after a search lasting for months and months, in discovering this final letter.

“It is for this man that I write, well knowing that he cannot exist. But, after all, what do I care? Marie and Sauverand will be at the bottom of the abyss by then, dead no doubt, or in any case separated forever. And I risk nothing by leaving this evidence of my hatred in the hands of chance.

“There, that’s finished. I have only to sign. My hand shakes more and more. The sweat is pouring from my forehead in great drops. I am suffering the tortures of the damned and I am divinely happy! Aha, my friends, you were waiting for my death!

“You, Marie, imprudently let me read in your eyes, which watched me stealthily, all your delight at seeing me so ill! And you were both of you so sure of the future that you had the courage to wait patiently for my death! Well, here it is, my death! Here it is and there are you, united above my grave, linked together with the handcuffs. Marie, be the wife of my friend Sauverand. Sauverand, I bestow my spouse upon you. Be joined together in holy matrimony. Bless you, my children!

“The examining magistrate will draw up the contract and the executioner will read the marriage service. Oh, the delight of it! I suffer agonies⁠—but oh, the delight! What a fine thing is hatred, when it makes death a joy! I am happy in dying. Marie is in prison. Sauverand is weeping in the condemned man’s cell. The door opens.⁠ ⁠…

“Oh, horror! the men in black! They walk up to the bed: ‘Gaston Sauverand, your appeal is rejected. Courage! Be a man!’ Oh, the cold, dark morning⁠—the scaffold! It’s your turn, Marie, your turn! Would you survive your lover? Sauverand is dead: it’s your turn. See, here’s a rope for you. Or would you rather have poison? Die, will you, you hussy! Die with your veins on fire⁠—as I am doing, I who hate you⁠—hate you⁠—hate you!”

M. Desmalions ceased, amid the silent astonishment of all those present. He had great difficulty in reading the concluding lines, the writing having become almost wholly shapeless and illegible.

He said, in a low voice, as he stared at the paper: “ ‘Hippolyte Fauville,’ The signature is there. The scoundrel found a last remnant of strength to sign his name clearly. He feared that a doubt might be entertained of his villainy. And indeed how could anyone have suspected it?”

And, looking at Don Luis, he added:

“It needed, to solve the mystery, a really exceptional power of insight and gifts to which we must all do homage, to which I do homage. All the explanations which that madman gave have been anticipated in the most accurate and bewildering fashion.”

Don Luis bowed and, without replying to the praise bestowed upon him, said:

“You are right, Monsieur le Préfet; he was a madman, and one of the most dangerous kind, the lucid madman who pursues an idea from which nothing will make him turn aside. He pursued it with superhuman tenacity and with all the resources of his fastidious mind, enslaved by the laws of mechanics.

“Another would have killed his victims frankly and brutally. He set his wits to work to kill at a long date, like an experimenter who leaves to time the duty of proving the excellence of his invention. And he succeeded only too well, because the police fell into the trap and because Mme. Fauville is perhaps going to die.”

M. Desmalions made a gesture of decision. The whole business, in fact, was past history, on which the police proceedings would throw the necessary light. One fact alone was of importance to the present: the saving of Marie Fauville’s life.

“It’s true,” he said, “we have not a minute to lose. Mme. Fauville must be told without delay. At the same time, I will send for the examining magistrate; and the case against her is sure to be dismissed at once.”

He swiftly gave orders for continuing the investigations and verifying Don Luis’s theories. Then, turning to Perenna:

“Come, Monsieur,” he said. “It is right that Mme. Fauville should thank her rescuer. Mazeroux, you come, too.”

The meeting was over, that meeting in the course of which Don Luis had given the most striking proofs of his genius. Waging war, so to speak, upon the powers beyond the grave, he had