Desmalions gave a start.
"What! What's that? Cosmo Mornington—?"
"I say that Cosmo Mornington did not die, as you think, of a carelessly administered injection, but that he died, as he feared he would, by foul play."
"But, Monsieur, your assertion is based on no evidence whatever!"
"It is based on fact, Monsieur le Préfet."
"Were you there? Do you know anything?"
"I was not there. A month ago I was still with the colours. I even admit
that, when I arrived in Paris, not having seen the newspapers regularly,
I did not know of Cosmo's death. In fact, I learned it from you just now,
Monsieur le Préfet."
"In that case, Monsieur, you cannot know more about it than I do, and you must accept the verdict of the doctor."
"I am sorry, but his verdict fails to satisfy me."
"But look here, Monsieur, what prompts you to make the accusation? Have you any evidence?"
"Yes."
"What evidence?"
"Your own words, Monsieur le Préfet."
"My own words? What do you mean?"
"I will tell you, Monsieur le Préfet. You began by saying that Cosmo Mornington had taken up medicine and practised it with great skill; next, you said that he had given himself an injection which, carelessly administered, set up inflammation and caused his death within a few hours."
"Yes."
"Well, Monsieur le Préfet, I maintain that a man who practises medicine with great skill and who is accustomed to treating sick people, as Cosmo Mornington was, is incapable of giving himself a hypodermic injection without first taking every necessary antiseptic precaution. I have seen Cosmo at work, and I know how he set about things."
"Well?"
"Well, the doctor just wrote a certificate as any doctor will when there is no sort of clue to arouse his suspicions."
"So your opinion is—"
"Maître Lepertuis," asked Perenna, turning to the solicitor, "did you notice nothing unusual when you were summoned to Mr. Mornington's death-bed?"
"No, nothing. Mr. Mornington was in a state of coma."
"It's a strange thing in itself," observed Don Luis, "that an injection, however badly administered, should produce such rapid results. Were there no signs of suffering?"
"No … or rather, yes. … Yes, I remember the face showed brown patches which I did not see on the occasion of my first visit."
"Brown patches? That confirms my supposition Cosmo Mornington was poisoned."
"But how?" exclaimed the Prefect.
"By some substance introduced into one of the phials of glycero-phosphate, or into the syringe which the sick man employed."
"But the doctor?" M. Desmalions objected.
"Maître Lepertuis," Perenna continued, "did you call the doctor's attention to those brown patches?"
"Yes, but he attached no importance to them."
"Was it his ordinary medical adviser?"
"No, his ordinary medical adviser, Doctor Pujol, who happens to be a friend of mine and who had recommended me to him as a solicitor, was ill. The doctor whom I saw at his death-bed must have been a local practitioner."
"I have his name and address here," said the Prefect of Police, who had turned up the certificate. "Doctor Bellavoine, 14 Rue d'Astorg."
"Have you a medical directory, Monsieur le Préfet?"
M. Desmalions opened a directory and turned over the pages. Presently he declared:
"There is no Doctor Bellavoine; and there is no doctor living at 14 Rue d'Astorg."
CHAPTER TWO
A MAN DEAD
The declaration was followed by a silence of some length. The Secretary of the American Embassy and the Peruvian attaché had followed the conversation with eager interest. Major d'Astrignac nodded his head with an air of approval. To his mind, Perenna could not be mistaken.
The Prefect of Police confessed:
"Certainly, certainly … we have a number of circumstances here … that are fairly ambiguous. … Those brown patches; that doctor. … It's a case that wants looking into." And, questioning Don Luis Perenna as though in spite of himself, he asked, "No doubt, in your opinion, there is a possible connection between the murder … and Mr. Mornington's will?"
"That, Monsieur le Préfet, I cannot tell. If there is, we should have to suppose that the contents of the will were known. Do you think they can have leaked out, Maître Lepertuis?"
"I don't think so, for Mr. Mornington seemed to behave with great caution."
"And there's no question, is there, of any indiscretion committed in your office?"
"By whom? No one handled the will except myself; and I alone have the key of the safe in which I put away documents of that importance every evening."
"The safe has not been broken into? There has been no burglary at your office?"
"No."
"You saw Cosmo Mornington in the morning?"
"Yes, on a Friday morning."
"What did you do with the will until the evening, until you locked it away up your safe?"
"I probably put it in the drawer of my desk."
"And the drawer was not forced?"
Maître Lepertuis seemed taken aback and made no reply.
"Well?" asked Perenna.
"Well, yes, I remember … there was something that day … that same Friday."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. When I came in from lunch I noticed that the drawer was not locked, although I had locked it beyond the least doubt. At the time I attached comparatively little importance to the incident. To-day, I understand, I understand—"
Thus, little by little, were all the suppositions conceived by Don Luis verified: suppositions resting, it is true, upon just one or two clues, but yet containing an amount of intuition, of divination, that was really surprising in a man who had been present at none of the events between which he traced the connection so skilfully.
"We will lose no time, Monsieur," said the Prefect of Police, "in checking your statements, which you will confess to be a little venturesome, by the more positive evidence of one of my detectives who has the case in charge … and who ought to be here by now."
"Does his evidence bear upon Cosmo Mornington's heirs?" asked the solicitor.
"Upon the heirs principally, because two days ago he telephoned to me that he had collected all the particulars, and also upon the very points which—But wait: I remember that he spoke to my secretary of a murder committed a month ago to-day. … Now it's a month to-day since Mr. Cosmo Mornington—"
M. Desmalions pressed hard on a bell. His private secretary at once appeared.
"Inspector Vérot?" asked the Prefect sharply.
"He's not back yet."
"Have him fetched! Have him brought here! He must be