The Teeth of the Tiger by Maurice Leblanc (e book reader android TXT) 📕

every point of view. He was not much disturbed about the result, because, being now in possession of the terrible secret, he had nothing more to do but make his escape and go that evening to the meeting on the Boulevard Suchet, where he would show them all how the murder was committed.

But when, wishing to try his chance of escaping, he went up through the underground passage and climbed to the top of the upper ladder⁠—that is to say, to the level of the boudoir⁠—he heard through the trapdoor the voices of men in the room.

“By Jove!” he said to himself, “the thing is not so simple as I thought! In order to escape the minions of the law I must first leave my prison; and here is at least one of the exits blocked. Let’s look at the other.”

He went down to Florence’s apartments and worked the mechanism, which consisted of a counterweight. The panel of the cupboard moved in the groove.

Driven by horror and hoping to find some provisions which enable him to withstand a siege without being reduced to famine, he was about to pass through the alcove, behind the curtains, when he was stopped short by a sound of footsteps. Someone had entered the room.

“Well, Mazeroux, have you spent the night here? Nothing new!”

Don Luis recognized the Prefect of Police by his voice; and the question put by the Prefect told him, first, that Mazeroux had been released from the dark closet where he had bound him up, and, secondly, that the sergeant was in the next room. Fortunately, the sliding panel had worked without the least sound; and Don Luis was able to overhear the conversation between the two men.

“No, nothing new, Monsieur le Préfet,” replied Mazeroux.

“That’s funny. The confounded fellow must be somewhere. Or can he have got away over the roof?”

“Impossible, Monsieur le Préfet,” said a third voice, which Don Luis recognized as that of Weber, the deputy chief detective. “Impossible. We made certain yesterday, that unless he has wings⁠—”

“Then what do you think, Weber?”

“I think, Monsieur le Préfet, that he is concealed in the house. This is an old house and probably contains some safe hiding-place⁠—”

“Of course, of course,” said M. Desmalions, whom Don Luis, peeping through the curtains, saw walking to and fro in front of the alcove. “You’re right; and we shall catch him in his burrow. Only, is it really necessary?”

“Monsieur le Préfet!”

“Well, you know my opinion on the subject, which is also the Prime Minister’s opinion. Unearthing Lupin would be a blunder which we should end by regretting. After all, he’s become an honest man, you know; he’s useful to us and he does no harm⁠—”

“No harm, Monsieur le Préfet? Do you think so?” said Weber stiffly.

M. Desmalions burst out laughing.

“Oh, of course, yesterday’s trick, the telephone trick! You must admit it was funny. The Premier had to hold his sides when I told him of it.”

“Upon my word, I see nothing to laugh at!”

“No, but, all the same, the rascal is never at a loss. Funny or not, the trick was extraordinarily daring. To cut the telephone wire before your eyes and then blockade you behind that iron curtain! By the way, Mazeroux, you must get the telephone repaired this morning, so as to keep in touch with the office. Have you begun your search in these two rooms?”

“As you ordered, Monsieur le Préfet. The deputy chief and I have been hunting round for the last hour.”

“Yes,” said M. Desmalions, “that Florence Levasseur strikes me as a troublesome creature. She is certainly an accomplice. But what were her relations with Sauverand and what was her connection with Don Luis Perenna? That’s what I should like to know. Have you discovered nothing in her papers?”

“No, Monsieur le Préfet,” said Mazeroux. “Nothing but bills and tradesmen’s letters.”

“And you, Weber?”

“I’ve found something very interesting, Monsieur le Préfet.”

Weber spoke in a triumphant tone, and, in answer to M. Desmalions’s question, went on:

“This is a volume of Shakespeare, Monsieur le Préfet, Volume VIII. You will see that, contrary to the other volumes, the inside is empty and the binding forms a secret receptacle for hiding documents.”

“Yes. What sort of documents?”

“Here they are: sheets of paper, blank sheets, all but three. One of them gives a list of the dates on which the mysterious letters were to appear.”

“Oho!” said M. Desmalions. “That’s a crushing piece of evidence against Florence Levasseur. And also it tells us where Don Luis got his list from.”

Perenna listened with surprise: he had utterly forgotten this particular; and Gaston Sauverand had made no reference to it in his narrative. And yet it was a strange and serious detail. From whom had Florence received that list of dates?

“And what’s on the other two sheets?” asked M. Desmalions.

Don Luis pricked up his ears. Those two other sheets had escaped his attention on the day of his interview with Florence in this room.

“Here is one of them,” said Weber.

M. Desmalions took the paper and read:

“Bear in mind that the explosion is independent of the letters, and that it will take place at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Yes,” he said, “the famous explosion which Don Luis foretold and which is to accompany the fifth letter, as announced on the list of dates. Tush! We have plenty of time, as there have been only three letters and the fourth is due tonight. Besides, blowing up that house on the Boulevard Suchet would be no easy job, by Jove! Is that all?”

“Monsieur le Préfet,” said Weber, producing the third sheet, “would you mind looking at these lines drawn in pencil and enclosed in a large square containing some other smaller squares and rectangles of all sizes? Wouldn’t you say that it was the plan of a house?”

“Yes, I should.”

“It is the plan of the house in which we are,” declared Weber solemnly. “Here you see the front courtyard, the main building, the porter’s lodge, and, over there, Mlle. Levasseur’s lodge. From this lodge, a