He shut the door of his office and called his secretary:
“M. Lartigue, I am having a rather dangerous person shown in here. The chances are that he will have to leave my office with the bracelets on. As soon as he is in my room, make all the necessary arrangements: send for a dozen inspectors and have them posted in the waiting-room and in your office. And take this as a definite instruction: the moment I ring, you are all to come in, revolvers in hand, and surround the fellow. Do you quite understand?”
“Yes, monsieur le secrétaire-général.”
“Above all, no hesitation. A sudden entrance, in a body, revolvers in hand. Send M. Nicole in, please.”
As soon as he was alone, Prasville covered the push of an electric bell on his desk with some papers and placed two revolvers of respectable dimensions behind a rampart of books.
“And now,” he said to himself, “to sit tight. If he has the list, let’s collar it. If he hasn’t, let’s collar him. And, if possible, let’s collar both. Lupin and the list of the Twenty-Seven, on the same day, especially after the scandal of this morning, would be a scoop in a thousand.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Prasville.
And, rising from his seat:
“Come in, M. Nicole, come in.”
M. Nicole crept timidly into the room, sat down on the extreme edge of the chair to which Prasville pointed and said:
“I have come … to resume … our conversation of yesterday … Please excuse the delay, monsieur.”
“One second,” said Prasville. “Will you allow me?”
He stepped briskly to the outer room and, seeing his secretary:
“I was forgetting, M. Lartigue. Have the staircases and passages searched … in case of accomplices.”
He returned, settled himself comfortably, as though for a long and interesting conversation, and began:
“You were saying, M. Nicole?”
“I was saying, monsieur le secrétaire-général, that I must apologize for keeping you waiting yesterday evening. I was detained by different matters. First of all, Mme. Mergy. …”
“Yes, you had to see Mme. Mergy home.”
“Just so, and to look after her. You can understand the poor thing’s despair … Her son Gilbert so near death … And such a death! … At that time we could only hope for a miracle … an impossible miracle. I myself was resigned to the inevitable … You know as well as I do, when fate shows itself implacable, one ends by despairing.”
“But I thought,” observed Prasville, “that your intention, on leaving me, was to drag Daubrecq’s secret from him at all costs.”
“Certainly. But Daubrecq was not in Paris.”
“Oh?”
“No. He was on his way to Paris in a motorcar.”
“Have you a motorcar, M. Nicole?”
“Yes, when I need it: an out-of-date concern, an old tin kettle of sorts. Well, he was on his way to Paris in a motorcar, or rather on the roof of a motorcar, inside a trunk in which I packed him. But, unfortunately, the motor was unable to reach Paris until after the execution. Thereupon …”
Prasville stared at M. Nicole with an air of stupefaction. If he had retained the least doubt of the individual’s real identity, this manner of dealing with Daubrecq would have removed it. By Jingo! To pack a man in a trunk and pitch him on the top of a motorcar! … No one but Lupin would indulge in such a freak, no one but Lupin would confess it with that ingenuous coolness!
“Thereupon,” echoed Prasville, “you decided what?”
“I cast about for another method.”
“What method?”
“Why, surely, monsieur le secrétaire-général, you know as well as I do!”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, weren’t you at the execution?”
“I was.”
“In that case, you saw both Vaucheray and the executioner hit, one mortally, the other with a slight wound. And you can’t fail to see …”
“Oh,” exclaimed Prasville, dumbfounded, “you confess it? It was you who fired the shots, this morning?”
“Come, monsieur le secrétaire-général, think! What choice had I? The list of the Twenty-Seven which you examined was a forgery. Daubrecq, who possessed the genuine one, would not arrive until a few hours after the execution. There was therefore but one way for me to save Gilbert and obtain his pardon; and that was to delay the execution by a few hours.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, of course. By killing that infamous brute, that hardened criminal, Vaucheray, and wounding the executioner, I spread disorder and panic; I made Gilbert’s execution physically and morally impossible; and I thus gained the few hours which were indispensable for my purpose.”
“Obviously,” repeated Prasville.
“Well, of course,” repeated Lupin, “it gives us all—the government, the president and myself—time to reflect and to see the question in a clearer light. What do you think of it, monsieur le secrétaire-général?”
Prasville thought a number of things, especially that this Nicole was giving proof, to use a vulgar phrase, of the most infernal cheek, of a cheek so great that Prasville felt inclined to ask himself if he was really right in identifying Nicole with Lupin and Lupin with Nicole.
“I think, M. Nicole, that a man has to be a jolly good shot to kill a person whom he wants to kill, at a distance of a hundred yards, and to wound another person whom he only wants to wound.”
“I have had some little practice,” said M. Nicole, with modest air.
“And I also think that your plan can only be the fruit of a long preparation.”
“Not at all! That’s where you’re wrong! It was absolutely spontaneous! If my servant, or rather the servant of the friend who lent me his flat in the Place de Clichy, had not shaken me out of my sleep, to tell me that he had once served as a shopman in that little house on the Boulevard Arago, that it did not hold many tenants and that there
