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Updated: June 9, 2025
There was nothing on the table. What had aroused his attention was the creaking of a piece of furniture or a movement made by one of the men with him. Suddenly they all uttered an exclamation. Something unusual, a rustling noise, had interrupted the silence. M. Desmalions at once switched on the light. He gave a cry. A letter lay not on the table, but beside it, on the floor, on the carpet.
It takes some one 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.
"What?... What?... What do you say? Marie!... No, you don't mean it! It's not true!" M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the Boulevard Suchet. Gaston Sauverand, beside himself, with his eyes starting from his head, muttered: "Is it true? Is Marie the victim of the same mistake as myself?
"But do explain yourself, Monsieur!" cried M. Desmalions, with a gesture of irritation. "If you have important things to tell us, why delay?" "It is better, Monsieur le Préfet, that you should arrive at the truth in the same way as I did.
M. Desmalions was there, together with all the men who had spent the night in the room and several important persons from the public prosecutor's office. Weber, the deputy chief detective, alone had gone, refusing to meet his enemy. Don Luis's arrival caused great excitement. The Prefect at once came up to him and said: "All our thanks, Monsieur. Your insight is above praise.
"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.
The man had a second of indecision which did not escape so clear-sighted an observer as M. Desmalions. He swayed from side to side, his eyes flickered and he said: "That does not concern the police; it concerns no one but myself." M. Desmalions smiled: "That is a poor argument.
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.
There's a providence which looks after that sort. He's making for the gate. He's hardly limping." "But where are my men?" "Why, they're all on the staircase, in the house, brought here by the shots, seeing to the wounded " "Oh, the demon!" muttered the Prefect. "He's played a masterly game!" Gaston Sauverand, in fact, was escaping unmolested. "Stop him! Stop him!" roared M. Desmalions.
Fauville of putting the turquoise in the safe." M. Desmalions asked: "Will you let me see the necklace, Madame?" "Certainly. It is with my other jewels, in my wardrobe. I will go for it." "Pray don't trouble, Madame. Does your maid know the necklace?" "Quite well." "In that case, Sergeant Mazeroux will tell her what is wanted."
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