CHAPTER XV. THE HEIR TO THE HUNDRED MILLIONS
On the fourth evening after the tragic events related, an old
cab-driver, almost entirely hidden in a huge great-coat, rang at
Perenna's door and sent up a letter to Don Luis. He was at once shown
into the study on the first floor. Hardly taking time to throw off his
great-coat, he rushed at Don Luis:
"It's all up with you this time, Chief!" he exclaimed. "This is no moment
for joking: pack up your trunks and be off as quick as you can!"
Don Luis, who sat quietly smoking in an easy chair, answered:
"Which will you have, Mazeroux? A cigar or a cigarette?"
Mazeroux at once grew indignant.
"But look here, Chief, don't you read the papers?"
"Worse luck!"
"In that case, the situation must appear as clear to you as it does to me
and everybody else. During the last three days, since the double suicide, or, rather, the double murder of Marie Fauville and her cousin Gaston Sauverand, there hasn't been a newspaper but has said this kind of thing: 'And, now that M. Fauville, his son, his wife, and his cousin Gaston Sauverand are dead, there's nothing standing between Don Luis Perenna and the Mornington inheritance!'
"Do you understand what that means? Of course, people speak of the
explosion on the Boulevard Suchet and of Fauville's posthumous
revelations; and they are disgusted with that dirty brute of a Fauville; and they don't know how to praise your cleverness enough. But there is one fact that forms the main subject of every conversation and every discussion.
"Now that the three branches of the Roussel family are extinct, who
remains? Don Luis Perenna. In default of the natural heirs, who inherits
the property? Don Luis Perenna."
"Lucky dog!"
"That's what people are saying, Chief. They say that this series of
murders and atrocities cannot be the effort of chance coincidences, but, on the contrary, points to the existence of an all-powerful will which began with the murder of Cosmo Mornington and ended with the capture of the hundred millions. And to give a name to that will, they pitch on the nearest, that of the extraordinary, glorious, ill-famed, bewildering, mysterious, omnipotent, and ubiquitous person who was Cosmo Mornington's intimate friend and who, from the beginning, has controlled events and pieced them together, accusing and acquitting people, getting them arrested, and helping them to escape.
"They say," he went on hurriedly, "that he manages the whole business and
that, if he works it in accordance with his interests, there are a
hundred millions waiting for him at the finish. And this person is Don
Luis Perenna, in other words, Arsène Lupin, the man with the unsavoury
reputation whom it would be madness not to think of in connection with so
colossal a job."
"Thank you!"
"That's what they say, Chief; I'm only telling you. As long as Mme. Fauville and Gaston Sauverand were alive, people did not give much thought to your claims as residuary legatee. But both of them died. Then, you see, people can't help remarking the really surprising persistence with which luck looks after Don Luis Perenna's interests. You know the legal maxim: _fecit cui prodest_. Who benefits by the disappearance of all the Roussel heirs? Don Luis Perenna."
"The scoundrel!"
"The scoundrel: that's the word which Weber goes roaring out all along
the passages of the police office and the criminal investigation
department. You are the scoundrel and Florence Levasseur is your
accomplice. And hardly any one dares protest.
"The Prefect of Police? What is the use of his defending you, of his
remembering that you have saved his life twice over and rendered
invaluable services to the police which he is the first to appreciate? What is the use of his going to the Prime Minister, though we all know that Valenglay protects you?
"There are others besides the Prefect of Police! There are others besides
the Prime Minister! There's the whole of the detective office, there's
the public prosecutor's staff, there's the examining magistrate, the
press and, above all, public opinion, which has to be satisfied and which
calls for and expects a culprit. That culprit is yourself or Florence
Levasseur. Or, rather, it's you and Florence Levasseur."
Don Luis did not move a muscle of his face. Mazeroux waited a moment
longer. Then, receiving no reply, he made a gesture of despair.
