The Teeth of the Tiger. Морис Леблан
and examined it.
"What!" he exclaimed, with a start. "Can it be possible?"
He stood dumfounded, a prey to real excitement, refusing to admit the inadmissible thing which nevertheless presented itself to his eyes with the direct evidence of actuality. Some one had bitten into the apple; into the apple which was too sour to eat. And the teeth had left their mark!
"Is it possible?" repeated Don Luis. "Is it possible that one of them can have been guilty of such an imprudence! The apple must have fallen without his knowing … or he must have been unable to find it in the dark."
He could not get over his surprise. He cast about for plausible explanations. But the fact was there before him. Two rows of teeth, cutting through the thin red peel, had left their regular, semicircular bite clearly in the pulp of the fruit. They were clearly marked on the top, while the lower row had melted into a single curved line.
"The teeth of the tiger!" murmured Perenna, who could not remove his eyes from that double imprint. "The teeth of the tiger! The teeth that had already left their mark on Inspector Vérot's piece of chocolate! What a coincidence! It can hardly be fortuitous. Must we not take it as certain that the same person bit into this apple and into that cake of chocolate which Inspector Vérot brought to the police office as an incontestable piece of evidence?"
He hesitated a second. Should he keep this evidence for himself, for the personal inquiry which he meant to conduct? Or should he surrender it to the investigations of the police? But the touch of the object filled him with such repugnance, with such a sense of physical discomfort, that he flung away the apple and sent it rolling under the leaves of the shrubs.
And he repeated to himself:
"The teeth of the tiger! The teeth of the wild beast!"
He locked the garden door behind him, bolted it, put back the keys on the table and said to Mazeroux:
"Have you spoken to the Chief of Police?"
"Yes."
"Is he coming?"
"Yes."
"Didn't he order you to telephone for the commissary of police?"
"No."
"That means that he wants to see everything by himself. So much the better. But the detective office? The public prosecutor?"
"He's told them."
"What's the matter with you, Alexandre? I have to drag your answers out of you. Well, what is it? You're looking at me very queerly. What's up?"
"Nothing."
"That's all right. I expect this business has turned your head. And no wonder. … The Prefect won't enjoy himself, either, … especially as he put his faith in me a bit light-heartedly and will be called upon to give an explanation of my presence here. By the way, it's much better that you should take upon yourself the responsibility for all that we have done. Don't you agree? Besides, it'll do you all the good in the world.
"Put yourself forward, flatly; suppress me as much as you can; and, above all—I don't suppose that you will have any objection to this little detail—don't be such a fool as to say that you went to sleep for a single second, last night, in the passage. First of all, you'd only be blamed for it. And then … well, that's understood, eh? So we have only to say good-bye.
"If the Prefect wants me, as I expect he will, telephone to my address,
Place du Palais-Bourbon. I shall be there. Good-bye. It is not necessary
for me to assist at the inquiry; my presence would be out of place.
Good-bye, old chap."
He turned toward the door of the passage.
"Half a moment!" cried Mazeroux.
"Half a moment? … What do you mean?"
The detective sergeant had flung himself between him and the door and was blocking his way.
"Yes, half a moment … I am not of your opinion. It's far better that you should wait until the Prefect comes."
"But I don't care a hang about your opinion!"
"May be; but you shan't pass."
"What! Why, Alexandre, you must be ill!"
"Look here, Chief," said Mazeroux feebly. "What can it matter to you?
It's only natural that the Prefect should wish to speak to you."
"Ah, it's the Prefect who wishes, is it? … Well, my lad, you can tell him that I am not at his orders, that I am at nobody's orders, and that, if the President of the Republic, if Napoleon I himself were to bar my way … Besides, rats! Enough said. Get out of the road!"
"You shall not pass!" declared Mazeroux, in a resolute tone, extending his arms.
"Well, I like that!"
"You shall not pass."
"Alexandre, just count ten."
"A hundred, if you like, but you shall not. … "
"Oh, blow your catchwords! Get out of this."
He seized Mazeroux by both shoulders, made him spin round on his heels and, with a push, sent him floundering over the sofa. Then he opened the door.
"Halt, or I fire!"
It was Mazeroux, who had scrambled to his feet and now stood with his revolver in his hand and a determined expression on his face.
Don Luis stopped in amazement. The threat was absolutely indifferent to him, and the barrel of that revolver aimed at him left him as cold as could be. But by what prodigy did Mazeroux, his former accomplice, his ardent disciple, his devoted servant, by what prodigy did Mazeroux dare to act as he was doing?
Perenna went up to him and pressed gently on the detective's outstretched arm.
"Prefect's orders?" he asked.
"Yes," muttered the sergeant, uncomfortably.
"Orders to keep me here until he comes?"
"Yes."
"And if I betrayed an intention of leaving, to prevent me?"
"Yes."
"By every means?"
"Yes."
"Even by putting a bullet through my skin?"
"Yes."
Perenna reflected; and then, in a serious voice:
"Would you have fired, Mazeroux?"
The sergeant lowered his head and said faintly:
"Yes, Chief."
Perenna looked at him without anger, with a glance of affectionate sympathy; and it was an absorbing sight for him to see his former companion dominated by such a sense of discipline and duty. Nothing was able to prevail against that sense, not even the fierce admiration, the almost animal attachment which Mazeroux retained for his master.
"I'm not angry, Mazeroux. In fact, I approve. Only you must tell me the reason why the Prefect of Police—"
The detective did not reply, but his eyes wore an expression of such sadness that Don Luis started, suddenly understanding.
"No," he cried, "no! … It's absurd … he can't have thought that! … And you, Mazeroux, do you believe me guilty?"
"Oh, I, Chief, am as sure of you as I am of myself! … You don't take life! … But, all the same, there are things … coincidences—"
"Things … coincidences … " repeated Don Luis slowly.
He remained pensive; and, in a low voice, he said:
"Yes, after all, there's truth in what you say. … Yes,