The Teeth of the Tiger. Морис Леблан

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СКАЧАТЬ questions?"

      "They are necessary, Madame. They may throw a light on what we want to know. I beg you, therefore, to answer them. At what time did you reach your friend's house?"

      "I hardly know. I did not notice the time."

      "Did you go straight there?"

      "Almost."

      "How do you mean, almost?"

      "I had a little headache and told the driver to go up the Champs

       Elysées and the Avenue du Bois—very slowly—and then down the Champs

       Elysées again—"

      She was becoming more and more embarrassed. Her voice grew indistinct.

       She lowered her head and was silent.

      Certainly her silence contained no confession, and there was nothing entitling any one to believe that her dejection was other than a consequence of her grief. But yet she seemed so weary as to give the impression that, feeling herself lost, she was giving up the fight. And it was almost a feeling of pity that was entertained for this woman against whom all the circumstances seemed to be conspiring, and who defended herself so badly that her cross-examiner hesitated to press her yet further.

      M. Desmalions, in fact, wore an irresolute air, as if the victory had been too easy, and as if he had some scruple about pursuing it.

      Mechanically he observed Perenna, who passed him a slip of paper, saying:

      "Mme. d'Ersingen's telephone number."

      M. Desmalions murmured:

      "Yes, true, they may know—"

      And, taking down the receiver, he asked for number 325.04. He was connected at once and continued:

      "Who is that speaking? … The butler? Ah! Is Mme. d'Ersingen at home? … No? … Or Monsieur? … Not he, either? … Never mind, you can tell me what I want to know. I am M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, and I need certain information. At what time did Mme. Fauville come last night? … What do you say? … Are you sure? … At two o'clock in the morning? … Not before? … And she went away? … In ten minutes time? … Good … But you're certain you are not mistaken about the time when she arrived? I must know this positively: it is most important. … You say it was two o'clock in the morning? Two o'clock in the morning? … Very well. … Thank you."

      When M. Desmalions turned round, he saw Mme. Fauville standing beside him and looking at him with an expression of mad anguish. And one and the same idea occurred to the mind of all the onlookers. They were in the presence either of an absolutely innocent woman or else of an exceptional actress whose face lent itself to the most perfect simulation of innocence.

      "What do you want?" she stammered. "What does this mean? Explain yourself!"

      Then M. Desmalions asked simply:

      "What were you doing last night between half-past eleven in the evening and two o'clock in the morning?"

      It was a terrifying question at the stage which the examination had reached, a fatal question implying:

      "If you cannot give us an exact and strict account of the way in which you employed your time while the crime was being committed, we have the right to conclude that you were not alien to the murder of your husband and stepson—"

      She understood it in this sense and staggered on her feet, moaning:

      "It's horrible! … horrible!"

      The Prefect repeated:

      "What were you doing? The question must be quite easy to answer."

      "Oh," she cried, in the same piteous tone, "how can you believe! … Oh, no, no, it's not possible! How can you believe!"

      "I believe nothing yet," he said. "Besides, you can establish the truth with a single word."

      It seemed, from the movement of her lips and the sudden gesture of resolution that shook her frame, as though she were about to speak that word. But all at once she appeared stupefied and dumfounded, pronounced a few unintelligible syllables, and fell huddled into a chair, sobbing convulsively and uttering cries of despair.

      It was tantamount to a confession. At the very least, it was a confession of her inability to supply the plausible explanation which would have put an end to the discussion.

      The Prefect of Police moved away from her and spoke in a low voice to the examining magistrate and the public prosecutor. Perenna and Sergeant Mazeroux were left alone together, side by side.

      Mazeroux whispered:

      "What did I tell you? I knew you would find out! Oh, what a man you are!

       The way you managed!"

      He was beaming at the thought that the chief was clear of the matter and that he had no more crows to pluck with his, Mazeroux's, superiors, whom he revered almost as much as he did the chief. Everybody was now agreed; they were "friends all round"; and Mazeroux was choking with delight.

      "They'll lock her up, eh?"

      "No," said Perenna. "There's not enough 'hold' on her for them to issue a warrant."

      "What!" growled Mazeroux indignantly. "Not enough hold? I hope, in any case, that you won't let her go. She made no bones, you know, about attacking you! Come, Chief, polish her off, a she-devil like that!"

      Don Luis remained pensive. He was thinking of the unheard-of coincidences, the accumulation of facts that bore down on Mme. Fauville from every side. And the decisive proof which would join all these different facts together and give to the accusation the grounds which it still lacked was one which Perenna was able to supply. This was the marks of the teeth in the apple hidden among the shrubs in the garden. To the police these would be as good as any fingerprint, all the more as they could compare the marks with those on the cake of chocolate.

      Nevertheless, he hesitated; and, concentrating his anxious attention, he watched, with mingled feelings of pity and repulsion, that woman who, to all seeming, had killed her husband and her husband's son. Was he to give her the finishing stroke? Had he the right to play the part of judge? And supposing he were wrong?

      * * * * *

      Meantime, M. Desmalions had walked up to him and, while pretending to speak to Mazeroux, was really asking Perenna:

      "What do you think of it?"

      Mazeroux shook his head. Perenna replied:

      "I think, Monsieur le Préfet, that, if this woman is guilty, she is defending herself, for all her cleverness, with inconceivable lack of skill."

      "Meaning—?"

      "Meaning that she was doubtless only a tool in the hands of an accomplice."

      "An accomplice?"

      "Remember, Monsieur le Préfet, her husband's exclamation in your office yesterday: СКАЧАТЬ