The Teeth of the Tiger, Maurice Leblanc [top 10 inspirational books TXT] 📗

in the delivery of the letters. It means now, at three o’clock in the morning. Remember what was written on the sheet which Deputy Chief Weber handed you this morning: ‘The explosion is independent of the letters. It will take place at three o’clock in the morning.’ At three o’clock in the morning, today, Monsieur le Préfet!” The voice faltered and then continued:

“Go away, please. Let no one remain in the house. You must believe me. I know everything about the business. And nothing can prevent the threat from being executed. Go, go, go! This is horrible; I feel that you do not believe me⁠—and I have no strength left. Go away, every one of you!”

He said a few more words which M. Desmalions could not make out. Then the voice ceased; and, though the Prefect still heard cries, it seemed to him that those cries were distant, as though the instrument were no longer within the reach of the mouth that uttered them.

He hung up the receiver.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with a smile, “it is seventeen to three. In seventeen minutes we shall all be blown up together. At least, that is what our good friend Don Luis Perenna declares.”

In spite of the jokes with which this threat was met, there was a general feeling of uneasiness. Weber asked:

“Was it really Don Luis, Monsieur le Préfet?”

“Don Luis in person. He has gone to earth in some hiding-hole in his house, above the study; and his fatigue and privations seem to have unsettled him a little. Mazeroux, go and ferret him out⁠—unless this is just some fresh trick on his part. You have your warrant.”

Sergeant Mazeroux went up to M. Desmalions. His face was pallid.

“Monsieur le Préfet, did he tell you that we were going to be blown up?”

“He did. He relies on the note which M. Weber found in a volume of Shakespeare. The explosion is to take place tonight.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“At three o’clock in the morning⁠—that is to say, in less than a quarter of an hour.”

“And do you propose to remain, Monsieur le Préfet?”

“What next, Sergeant? Do you imagine that we are going to obey that gentleman’s fancies?”

Mazeroux staggered, hesitated, and then, despite all his natural deference, unable to contain himself, exclaimed:

“Monsieur le Préfet, it’s not a fancy. I have worked with Don Luis. I know the man. If he tells you that something is going to happen, it’s because he has his reasons.”

“Absurd reasons.”

“No, no, Monsieur le Préfet,” Mazeroux pleaded, growing more and more excited. “I swear that you must listen to him. The house will be blown up⁠—he said so⁠—at three o’clock. We have a few minutes left. Let us go. I entreat you, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“In other words, you want us to run away.”

“But it’s not running away, Monsieur le Préfet. It’s a simple precaution. After all, we can’t risk⁠—You, yourself, Monsieur le Préfet⁠—”

“That will do.”

“But, Monsieur le Préfet, as Don Luis said⁠—”

“That will do, I say!” repeated the Prefect harshly. “If you’re afraid, you can take advantage of the order which I gave you and go off after Don Luis.”

Mazeroux clicked his heels together and, old soldier that he was, saluted:

“I shall stay here, Monsieur le Préfet.”

And he turned and went back to his place at a distance.

Silence followed. M. Desmalions began to walk up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. Then, addressing the chief detective and the secretary general:

“You are of my opinion, I hope?” he said.

“Why, yes, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“Well, of course! To begin with, that supposition is based on nothing serious. And, besides, we are guarded, aren’t we? Bombs don’t come tumbling on one’s head like that. It takes someone to throw them. Well, how are they to come? By what way?”

“Same way as the letters,” the secretary general ventured to suggest.

“What’s that? Then you admit⁠—?”

The secretary general did not reply and M. Desmalions did not complete his sentence. He himself, like the others, experienced that same feeling of uneasiness which gradually, as the seconds sped past, was becoming almost intolerably painful.

Three o’clock in the morning!⁠ ⁠… The words kept on recurring to his mind. Twice he looked at his watch. There was twelve minutes left. There was ten minutes. Was the house really going to be blown up, by the mere effect of an infernal and all-powerful will?

“It’s senseless, absolutely senseless!” he cried, stamping his foot.

But, on looking at his companions, he was amazed to see how drawn their faces were; and he felt his courage sink in a strange way. He was certainly not afraid; and the others were no more afraid than he. But all of them, from the chiefs to the simple detectives, were under the influence of that Don Luis Perenna whom they had seen accomplishing such extraordinary feats, and who had shown such wonderful ability throughout this mysterious adventure.

Consciously or unconsciously, whether they wished it or no, they looked upon him as an exceptional being endowed with special faculties, a being of whom they could not think without conjuring up the image of the amazing Arsène Lupin, with his legend of daring, genius, and superhuman insight.

And Lupin was telling them to fly. Pursued and hunted as he was, he voluntarily gave himself up to warn them of their danger. And the danger was immediate. Seven minutes more, six minutes more⁠—and the house would be blown up.

With great simplicity, Mazeroux went on his knees, made the sign of the cross, and said his prayers in a low voice. The action was so impressive that the secretary general and the chief detective made a movement as though to go toward the Prefect of Police.

M. Desmalions turned away his head and continued his walk up and down the room. But his anguish increased; and the words which he had heard over the telephone rang in his ears; and all Perenna’s authority, his ardent entreaties, his frenzied conviction⁠—all this upset him. He had seen Perenna at work. He felt it borne in upon