The Teeth of the Tiger. Leblanc Maurice

that they were to wait in different rooms."

      "Oh, it would not have mattered if they had met! However, perhaps it's better as it is. I hope that the American Ambassador did not trouble to come in person?"

      "No, Monsieur le Préfet."

      "Have you their cards?"

      "Yes."

      The Prefect of Police took the five visiting cards which his secretary handed him and read:

      "Mr. Archibald Bright, First Secretary United States Embassy; Maître Lepertuis, Solicitor; Juan Caceres, Attaché to the Peruvian Legation; Major Comte d'Astrignac, retired."

      The fifth card bore merely a name, without address or quality of any kind—

DON LUIS PERENNA

      "That's the one I'm curious to see!" said M. Desmalions. "He interests me like the very devil! Did you read the report of the Foreign Legion?"

      "Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and I confess that this gentleman puzzles me, too."

      "He does, eh? Did you ever hear of such pluck? A sort of heroic madman, something absolutely wonderful! And then there's that nickname of Arsène Lupin which he earned among his messmates for the way in which he used to boss them and astound them! … How long is it since the death of Arsène Lupin?"

      "It happened two years before your appointment, Monsieur le Préfet. His corpse and Mme. Kesselbach's were discovered under the ruins of a little chalet which was burnt down close to the Luxemburg frontier. It was found at the inquest that he had strangled that monster, Mrs. Kesselbach, whose crimes came to light afterward, and that he hanged himself after setting fire to the chalet."

      "It was a fitting end for that—rascal," said M. Desmalions, "and I confess that I, for my part, much prefer not having him to fight against. Let's see, where were we? Are the papers of the Mornington inheritance ready for me?"

      "On your desk, Monsieur le Préfet."

      "Good. But I was forgetting: is Inspector Vérot here?"

      "Yes, Monsieur le Préfet. I expect he's in the infirmary getting something to pull him together."

      "Why, what's the matter with him?"

      "He struck me as being in a queer state—rather ill."

      "How do you mean?"

      The secretary described his interview with Inspector Vérot.

      "And you say he left a letter for me?" said M. Desmalions with a worried air. "Where is it?"

      "Among the papers, Monsieur le Préfet."

      "Very odd: it's all very odd. Vérot is a first-rate inspector, a very sober-minded fellow; and he doesn't get frightened easily. You might go and fetch him. Meanwhile, I'll look through my letters."

      The secretary hurried away. When he returned, five minutes later, he stated, with an air of astonishment, that he had not seen Inspector Vérot.

      "And what's more curious still," he added, "is that the messenger who saw him leave this room saw him come in again almost at once and did not see him go out a second time."

      "Perhaps he only passed through here to go to you."

      "To me, Monsieur le Préfet? I was in my room all the time."

      "Then it's incomprehensible."

      "Yes … unless we conclude that the messenger's attention was distracted for a second, as Vérot is neither here nor next door."

      "That must be it. I expect he's gone to get some air outside; and he'll be back at any moment. For that matter, I shan't want him to start with."

      The Prefect looked at his watch.

      "Ten past five. You might tell the messenger to show those gentlemen in…. Wait, though—"

      M. Desmalions hesitated. In turning over the papers he had found Vérot's letter. It was a large, yellow, business envelope, with "Café du Pont-Neuf" printed at the top.

      The secretary suggested:

      "In view of Vérot's absence, Monsieur le Préfet, and of what he said, it might be as well for you to see what's in the letter first."

      M. Desmalions paused to reflect.

      "Perhaps you're right."

      And, making up his mind, he inserted a paper-knife into the envelope and cut it open. A cry escaped him.

      "Oh, I say, this is a little too much!"

      "What is it, Monsieur le Préfet?"

      "Why, look here, a blank … sheet of paper! That's all the envelope contains!"

      "Impossible!"

      "See for yourself—a plain sheet folded in four, with not a word on it."

      "But Vérot told me in so many words that he had said in that letter all that he knew about the case."

      "He told you so, no doubt, but there you are! Upon my word, if I didn't know Inspector Vérot, I should think he was trying to play a game with me."

      "It's a piece of carelessness, Monsieur le Préfet, at the worst."

      "No doubt, a piece of carelessness, but I'm surprised at him. It doesn't do to be careless when the lives of two people are at stake. For he must have told you that there is a double murder planned for to-night?"

      "Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and under particularly alarming conditions; infernal was the word he used."

      M. Desmalions was walking up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. He stopped at a small table.

      "What's this little parcel addressed to me? 'Monsieur le Préfet de Police—to be opened in case of accident.'"

      "Oh, yes," said the secretary, "I was forgetting! That's from Inspector Vérot, too; something of importance, he said, and serving to complete and explain the contents of the letter."

      "Well," said M. Desmalions, who could not help laughing, "the letter certainly needs explaining; and, though there's no question of 'accident,' I may as well open the parcel."

      As he spoke, he cut the string and discovered, under the paper, a box, a little cardboard box, which might have come from a druggist, but which was soiled and spoiled by the use to which it had been put.

      He raised the lid. Inside the box were a few layers of cotton wool, which were also rather dirty, and in between these layers was half a cake of chocolate.

      "What the devil does this mean?" growled the Prefect in surprise.

      He took the chocolate, looked at it, and at once perceived what was peculiar about this cake of chocolate, which was also undoubtedly the reason why Inspector Vérot had kept it. Above and below, it bore the prints of teeth, very plainly marked, very plainly separated one from the other, penetrating to a depth of a tenth of an inch or so into the chocolate. Each possessed its individual shape and width, and each was divided from its neighbours by a different interval. The jaws which had started eating the cake of chocolate had dug into it the mark of four upper and five lower teeth.

      M. Desmalions remained wrapped in thought and, with his head sunk on his chest, for some minutes resumed his walk up and down the room, muttering:

      "This is queer … There's a riddle here to which I should like to know the answer. That sheet of paper, the marks of those teeth: what does it all mean?"

      But he was not the man to waste much time over a mystery which was bound to be cleared up presently, as Inspector Vérot must be either at the police office or somewhere just outside; and he said to his secretary:

      "I can't keep those five gentlemen waiting any longer. Please have them shown in now. If Inspector Vérot arrives while they are here, as he is sure to do, let me know at once. I want to see him as soon as he comes. Except for that, see that I'm not disturbed on any pretext, won't you?"

* * * * *

      Two minutes later the messenger showed in Maître Lepertuis, a stout, red-faced man, with whiskers and spectacles, followed by Archibald Bright, the Secretary of Embassy, and Caceres, the Peruvian attaché. M.