The Teeth of the Tiger Maurice Leblanc (best novels of all time .txt) 📖

detectives who has the case in charge⁠ ⁠… and who ought to be here by now.”

“Does his evidence bear upon Cosmo Mornington’s heirs?” asked the solicitor.

“Upon the heirs principally, because two days ago he telephoned to me that he had collected all the particulars, and also upon the very points which⁠—But wait: I remember that he spoke to my secretary of a murder committed a month ago today.⁠ ⁠… Now it’s a month today since Mr. Cosmo Mornington⁠—”

M. Desmalions pressed hard on a bell. His private secretary at once appeared.

“Inspector Vérot?” asked the Prefect sharply.

“He’s not back yet.”

“Have him fetched! Have him brought here! He must be found at all costs and without delay.”

He turned to Don Luis Perenna.

“Inspector Vérot was here an hour ago, feeling rather unwell, very much excited, it seems, and declaring that he was being watched and followed. He said he wanted to make a most important statement to me about the Mornington case and to warn the police of two murders which are to be committed tonight⁠ ⁠… and which would be a consequence of the murder of Cosmo Mornington.”

“And he was unwell, you say?”

“Yes, ill at ease and even very queer and imagining things. By way of being prudent, he left a detailed report on the case for me. Well, the report is simply a blank sheet of letter-paper.

“Here is the paper and the envelope in which I found it, and here is a cardboard box which he also left behind him. It contains a cake of chocolate with the marks of teeth on it.”

“May I look at the two things you have mentioned, Monsieur le Préfet?”

“Yes, but they won’t tell you anything.”

“Perhaps so⁠—”

Don Luis examined at length the cardboard box and the yellow envelope, on which were printed the words, “Café du Pont-Neuf.” The others awaited his words as though they were bound to shed an unexpected light. He merely said:

“The handwriting is not the same on the envelope and the box. The writing on the envelope is less plain, a little shaky, obviously imitated.”

“Which proves⁠—?”

“Which proves, Monsieur le Préfet, that this yellow envelope does not come from your detective. I presume that, after writing his report at a table in the Café du Pont-Neuf and closing it, he had a moment of inattention during which somebody substituted for his envelope another with the same address, but containing a blank sheet of paper.”

“That’s a supposition!” said the Prefect.

“Perhaps; but what is certain, Monsieur le Préfet, is that your inspector’s presentiments are well-grounded, that he is being closely watched, that the discoveries about the Mornington inheritance which he has succeeded in making are interfering with criminal designs, and that he is in terrible danger.”

“Come, come!”

“He must be rescued, Monsieur le Préfet. Ever since the commencement of this meeting I have felt persuaded that we are up against an attempt which has already begun. I hope that it is not too late and that your inspector has not been the first victim.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the Prefect of Police, “you declare all this with a conviction which rouses my admiration, but which is not enough to establish the fact that your fears are justified. Inspector Vérot’s return will be the best proof.”

“Inspector Vérot will not return.”

“But why not?”

“Because he has returned already. The messenger saw him return.”

“The messenger was dreaming. If you have no proof but that man’s evidence⁠—”

“I have another proof, Monsieur le Préfet, which Inspector Vérot himself has left of his presence here: these few, almost illegible letters which he scribbled on this memorandum pad, which your secretary did not see him write and which have just caught my eye. Look at them. Are they not a proof, a definite proof that he came back?”

The Prefect did not conceal his perturbation. The others all seemed impressed. The secretary’s return but increased their apprehensions: nobody had seen Inspector Vérot.

“Monsieur le Préfet,” said Don Luis, “I earnestly beg you to have the office messenger in.”

And, as soon as the messenger was there, he asked him, without even waiting for M. Desmalions to speak:

“Are you sure that Inspector Vérot entered this room a second time?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“And that he did not go out again?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“And your attention was not distracted for a moment?”

“Not for a moment.”

“There, Monsieur, you see!” cried the Prefect. “If Inspector Vérot were here, we should know it.”

“He is here, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“What!”

“Excuse my obstinacy, Monsieur le Préfet, but I say that, when someone enters a room and does not go out again, he is still in that room.”

“Hiding?” said M. Desmalions, who was growing more and more irritated.

“No, but fainting, ill⁠—dead, perhaps.”

“But where, hang it all?”

“Behind that screen.”

“There’s nothing behind that screen, nothing but a door.”

“And that door⁠—?”

“Leads to a dressing-room.”

“Well, Monsieur le Préfet, Inspector Vérot, tottering, losing his head, imagining himself to be going from your office to your secretary’s room, fell into your dressing-room.”

M. Desmalions ran to the door, but, at the moment of opening it, shrank back. Was it apprehension, the wish to withdraw himself from the influence of that astonishing man, who gave his orders with such authority and who seemed to command events themselves?

Don Luis stood waiting imperturbably, in a deferential attitude.

“I cannot believe⁠—” said M. Desmalions.

“Monsieur le Préfet, I would remind you that Inspector Vérot’s revelations may save the lives of two persons who are doomed to die tonight. Every minute lost is irreparable.”

M. Desmalions shrugged his shoulders. But that man mastered him with the power of his conviction; and the Prefect opened the door.

He did not make a movement, did not utter a cry. He simply muttered:

“Oh, is it possible!⁠—”

By the pale gleam of light that entered through a ground-glass window they saw the body of a man lying on the floor.

“The inspector! Inspector Vérot!” gasped the office messenger, running forward.

He and the secretary raised the body and placed it in an armchair in the Prefect’s office.

Inspector Vérot was still alive, but so little alive that they could scarcely hear the beating of his heart. A drop of saliva trickled