813
by Maurice Leblanc · English · Gutenberg #34758 · 654,109 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: 813
Author: Maurice Leblanc
Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
Release date: December 27, 2010 [eBook #34758]
Most recently updated: August 19, 2022
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34758
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 813 ***
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "You are the visitor I was expecting"]
THE INTERNATIONAL
ADVENTURE LIBRARY
[Illustration]
THREE OWLS EDITION
813
BY MAURICE LEBLANC
Author of "Arsene Lupin," "The Blonde Lady,"
"The Hollow Needle," Etc.
_Translated by Alexander Teixeira De Mattos_
W. R. CALDWELL & CO.
NEW YORK
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY MAURICE LEBLANC
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
A zealous reader, collating the translation of this
book with the original, would hit upon certain
differences. These are due to alterations made, in
most case, by the author himself, and, in all cases,
with his full approval.
A. T. DE M.
CHELSEA, England, August, 1910.
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
Translator's Note v
I. THE TRAGEDY AT THE PALACE HOTEL 3
II. THE BLUE-EDGED LABEL 31
III. M. LENORMAND OPENS HIS CAMPAIGN 55
IV. PRINCE SERNINE AT WORK 75
V. M. LENORMAND AT WORK 114
VI. M. LENORMAND SUCCUMBS 137
VII. PARBURY-RIBEIRA-ALTENHEIM 162
VIII. THE OLIVE-GREEN FROCK-COAT 192
IX. "SANTÉ PALACE" 219
X. LUPIN'S GREAT SCHEME 254
XI. CHARLEMAGNE 272
XII. THE EMPEROR'S LETTERS 291
XIII. THE SEVEN SCOUNDRELS 324
XIV. THE MAN IN BLACK 352
XV. THE MAP OF EUROPE 379
XVI. ARSÈNE LUPIN'S THREE MURDERS 405
EPILOGUE. THE SUICIDE 434
813
CHAPTER I
THE TRAGEDY AT THE PALACE HOTEL
Mr. Kesselbach stopped short on the threshold of the sitting-room, took
his secretary's arm and, in an anxious voice, whispered:
"Chapman, some one has been here again."
"Surely not, sir," protested the secretary. "You have just opened the
hall-door yourself; and the key never left your pocket while we were
lunching in the restaurant."
"Chapman, some one has been here again," Mr. Kesselbach repeated. He
pointed to a traveling-bag on the mantelpiece. "Look, I can prove it.
That bag was shut. It is now open."
Chapman protested.
"Are you quite sure that you shut it, sir? Besides, the bag contains
nothing but odds and ends of no value, articles of dress. . . ."
"It contains nothing else, because I took my pocket-book out before we
went down, by way of precaution. . . . But for that. . . . No, Chapman,
I tell you, some one has been here while we were at lunch."
There was a telephone on the wall. He took down the receiver:
"Hallo! . . . I'm Mr. Kesselbach. . . . Suite 415 . . . That's right.
. . . Mademoiselle, would you please put me on to the Prefecture of
Police . . . the detective department. . . . I know the number . . . one
second . . . Ah, here it is! Number 822.48. . . . I'll hold the line."
A moment later he continued:
"Are you 822.48? I should like a word with M. Lenormand, the chief of
the detective-service. My name's Kesselbach. . . . Hullo! . . . Yes, the
chief detective knows what it's about. He has given me leave to ring him
up. . . . Oh, he's not there? . . . To whom am I speaking? . . .
Detective-sergeant Gourel? . . . You were there yesterday, were you not,
when I called on M. Lenormand? Well, the same thing that I told M.
Lenormand yesterday has occurred again to-day. . . . Some one has
entered the suite which I am occupying. And, if you come at once, you
may be able to discover some clues. . . . In an hour or two? All right;
thanks. . . . You have only to ask for suite 415. . . . Thank you
again."
* * * * *
Rudolf Kesselbach, nicknamed alternatively the King of Diamonds and the
Lord of the Cape, possessed a fortune estimated at nearly twenty
millions sterling. For the past week, he had occupied suite 415, on the
fourth floor of the Palace Hotel, consisting of three rooms, of which
the two larger, on the right, the sitting-room and the principal
bedroom, faced the avenue; while the other, on the left, in which
Chapman, the secretary, slept, looked out on the Rue de Judée.
Adjoining this bedroom, a suite of five rooms had been reserved for Mrs.
Kesselbach, who was to leave Monte Carlo, where she was at present
staying, and join her husband the moment she heard from him.
Rudolf Kesselbach walked up and down for a few minutes with a thoughtful
air. He was a tall man, with a ruddy complexion, and still young; and
his dreamy eyes, which showed pale blue through his gold-rimmed
spectacles, gave him an expression of gentleness and shyness that
contrasted curiously with the strength of the square forehead and the
powerfully-developed jaws.
He went to the window: it was fastened. Besides, how could any one have
entered that way? The private balcony that ran round the flat broke off
on the right and was separated on the left by a stone channel from the
balconies in the Rue de Judée.
He went to his bedroom: it had no communication with the neighboring
rooms. He went to his secretary's bedroom: the door that led into the
five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach was locked and bolted.
"I can't understand it at all, Chapman. Time after time I have noticed
things here . . . funny things, as you must admit. Yesterday, my
walking-stick was moved. . . . The day before that, my papers had
certainly been touched. . . . And yet how was it possible? . . .
"It is not possible, sir!" cried Chapman, whose honest, placid features
displayed no anxiety. "You're imagining things, that's all. . . . You
have no proof, nothing but impressions, to go upon. . . . Besides, look
here: there is no way into this suite except through the entrance-lobby.
Very well. You had a special key made on the day of our arrival: and
your own man, Edwards, has the only duplicate. Do you trust him?"
"Of course I do! . . . He's been with me for ten years! . . . But
Edwards goes to lunch at the same time that we do; and that's a mistake.
He must not go down, in future, until we come back."
Chapman gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. There was no doubt about
it, the Lord of the Cape was becoming a trifle eccentric, with those
incomprehensible fears of his. What risk can you run in an hotel,
especially when you carry no valuables, no important sum of money on you
or with you?
They heard the hall-door opening. It was Edwards. Mr. Kesselbach called
him:
"Are you dressed, Edwards? Ah, that's right! . . . I am expecting no
visitors to-day, Edwards . . . or, rather, one visitor only, M. Gourel.
Meantime, remain in the lobby and keep an eye on the door. Mr. Chapman
and I have some serious work to do."
The serious work lasted for a few minutes, during which Mr. Kesselbach
went through his correspondence, read three or four letters and gave
instructions how they were to be answered. But, suddenly, Chapman,
waiting with pen poised, saw that Mr. Kesselbach was thinking of
something quite different from his correspondence. He was holding
between his fingers and attentively examining a pin, a black pin bent
like a fish-hook:
"Chapman," he said, "look what I've found on the table. This bent pin
obviously means something. It's a proof, a material piece of evidence.
You can't pretend now that no one has been in the room. For, after all,
this pin did not come here of itself."
"Certainly not," replied the secretary. "It came here through me."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, it's a pin which I used to fasten my tie to my collar. I took it
out last night, while you were reading, and I twisted it mechanically."
Mr. Kesselbach rose from his chair, with a great air of vexation, took a
few steps and stopped.
"You're laughing at me, Chapman, I feel you are . . . and you're quite
right. . . . I won't deny it, I have been rather . . . odd, since my
last journey to the Cape. It's because . . . well . . . you don't know
the new factor in my life . . . a tremendous plan . . . a huge thing
. . . I can only see it, as yet, in the haze of the future . . . but
it's taking shape for all that . . . and it will be something colossal.
. . . Ah, Chapman, you can't imagine. . . . Money I don't care a fig
for: I have money, I have too much money. . . . But this, this means a
great deal more; it means power, might, authority. If the reality comes
up to my expectations, I shall be not only Lord of the Cape, but lord of
other realms as well. . . . Rudolf Kesselbach, the son of the Augsburg
ironmonger, will be on a par with many people who till now have looked
down upon him. . . . He will even take precedence of them, Chapman; he
will, take precedence of them, mark my words . . . and, if ever I . . ."
He interrupted himself, looked at Chapman as though he regretted having
said too much and, nevertheless, carried away by his excitement,
concluded:
"You now understand the reasons of my anxiety, Chapman. . . . Here, in
this brain, is an idea that is worth a great deal . . . and this idea
is suspected perhaps . . . and I am being spied upon. . . . I'm
convinced of it. . . ."
A bell sounded.
"The telephone," said Chapman.
"Could it," muttered Kesselbach, "by any chance be . . . ?" He took down
the instrument. "Hullo! . . . Who? The Colonel? Ah, good! Yes, it's I.
. . . Any news? . . . Good! . . . Then I shall expect you. . . . You
will come with one of your men? Very well. . . . What? No, we shan't be
disturbed. . . . I will give the necessary orders. . . . It's as serious
as that, is it? . . . I tell you, my instructions will be positive.
. . . my secretary and my man shall keep the door; and no one shall be
allowed in. . . . You know the way, don't you? . . . Then don't lose a
minute."
He hung up the receiver and said:
"Chapman, there are two gentlemen coming. Edwards will show them in.
. . ."
"But M. Gourel . . . the detective-sergeant. . . . ?"
"He will come later . . . in an hour. . . . And, even then, there's no
harm in their meeting. So send Edwards down to the office at once, to
tell them. I am at home to nobody . . . except two gentlemen, the
Colonel and his friend, and M. Gourel. He must make them take down the
names."
Chapman did as he was asked. When he returned to the room, he found Mr.
Kesselbach holding in his hand an envelope, or, rather, a little
pocket-case, in black morocco leather, apparently empty. He seemed to
hesitate, as though he did not know what to do with it. Should he put
it in his pocket or lay it down elsewhere? At last he went to the
mantelpiece and threw the leather envelope into his traveling-bag:
"Let us finish the mail, Chapman. We have ten minutes left. Ah, a letter
from Mrs. Kesselbach! Why didn't you tell me of it, Chapman? Didn't you
recognize the handwriting?"
He made no attempt to conceal the emotion which he felt in touching and
contemplating that paper which his wife had held in her fingers and to
which she had added a look of her eyes, an atom of her scent, a
suggestion of her secret thoughts. He inhaled its perfume and, unsealing
it, read the letter slowly in an undertone, in fragments that reached
Chapman's ears:
"Feeling a little tired. . . . Shall keep my room
to-day. . . . I feel so bored. . . . When can I come
to you? I am longing for your wire. . . ."
"You telegraphed this morning, Chapman? Then Mrs. Kesselbach will be
here to-morrow, Wednesday."
He seemed quite gay, as though the weight of his business had been
suddenly relieved and he freed from all anxiety. He rubbed his hands and
heaved a deep breath, like a strong man certain of success, like a lucky
man who possessed happiness and who was big enough to defend himself.
"There's some one ringing, Chapman, some one ringing at the hall door.
Go and see who it is."
But Edwards entered and said:
"Two gentlemen asking for you, sir. They are the ones. . . ."
"I know. Are they there, in the lobby?"
"Yes, sir."
"Close the hall-door and don't open it again except to M. Gourel, the
detective-sergeant. You go and bring the gentlemen in, Chapman, and tell
them that I would like to speak to the Colonel first, to the Colonel
alone."
Edwards and Chapman left the room, shutting the door after them. Rudolf
Kesselbach went to the window and pressed his forehead against the
glass.
Outside, just below his eyes, the carriages and motor-cars rolled along
in parallel furrows, marked by the double line of refuges. A bright
spring sun made the brass-work and the varnish gleam again. The trees
were putting forth their first green shoots; and the buds of the tall
chestnuts were beginning to unfold their new-born leaves.
"What on earth is Chapman doing?" muttered Kesselbach. "The time he
wastes in palavering! . . ."
He took a cigarette from the table, lit it and drew a few puffs. A faint
exclamation escaped him. Close before him stood a man whom he did not
know.
He started back:
"Who are you?"
The man--he was a well-dressed individual, rather smart-looking, with
dark hair, a dark moustache and hard eyes--the man gave a grin:
"Who am I? Why, the Colonel!"
"No, no. . . . The one I call the Colonel, the one who writes to me
under that . . . adopted . . . signature . . . is not you!"
"Yes, yes . . . the other was only . . . But, my dear sir, all this, you
know, is not of the smallest importance. The essential thing is that I
. . . am myself. And that, I assure you, I _am_!"
"But your name, sir? . . ."
"The Colonel . . . until further orders."
Mr. Kesselbach was seized with a growing fear. Who was this man? What
did he want with him?
He called out:
"Chapman!"
"What a funny idea, to call out! Isn't my company enough for you?"
"Chapman!" Mr. Kesselbach cried again. "Chapman! Edwards!"
"Chapman! Edwards!" echoed the stranger, in his turn. "What are you
doing? You're wanted!"
"Sir, I ask you, I order you to let me pass."
"But, my dear sir, who's preventing you?"
He politely made way. Mr. Kesselbach walked to the door, opened it and
gave a sudden jump backward. Behind the door stood another man, pistol
in hand. Kesselbach stammered:
"Edwards . . . Chap . . ."
He did not finish. In a corner of the lobby he saw his secretary and his
servant lying side by side on the floor, gagged and bound.
Mr. Kesselbach, notwithstanding his nervous and excitable nature, was
not devoid of physical courage; and the sense of a definite danger,
instead of depressing him, restored all his elasticity and vigor.
Pretending dismay and stupefaction, he moved slowly back to the
chimneypiece and leant against the wall. His hand felt for the electric
bell. He found it and pressed the button without removing his finger.
"Well?" asked the stranger.
Mr. Kesselbach made no reply and continued to press the button.
"Well? Do you expect they will come, that the whole hotel is in
commotion, because you are pressing that bell? Why, my dear sir, look
behind you and you will see that the wire is cut!"
Mr. Kesselbach turned round sharply, as though he wanted to make sure;
but, instead, with a quick movement, he seized the traveling-bag, thrust
his hand into it, grasped a revolver, aimed it at the man and pulled the
trigger.
"Whew!" said the stranger. "So you load your weapons with air and
silence?"
The cock clicked a second time and a third, but there was no report.
"Three shots more, Lord of the Cape! I shan't be satisfied till you've
lodged six bullets in my carcass. What! You give up? That's a pity . . .
you were making excellent practice!"
He took hold of a chair by the back, spun it round, sat down a-straddle
and, pointing to an arm-chair, said:
"Won't you take a seat, my dear sir, and make yourself at home? A
cigarette? Not for me, thanks: I prefer a cigar."
There was a box on the table: he selected an Upmann, light in color and
flawless in shape, lit it and, with a bow:
"Thank you! That's a perfect cigar. And now let's have a chat, shall
we?"
Rudolf Kesselbach listened to him in amazement. Who could this strange
person be? . . . Still, at the sight of his visitor sitting there so
quiet and so chatty, he became gradually reassured and began to think
that the situation might come to an end without any need to resort to
violence or brute force.
He took out a pocket-book, opened it, displayed a respectable bundle of
bank-notes and asked:
"How much?"
The other looked at him with an air of bewilderment, as though he found
a difficulty in understanding what Kesselbach meant. Then, after a
moment, he called:
"Marco!"
The man with the revolver stepped forward.
"Marco, this gentleman is good enough to offer you a few bits of paper
for your young woman. Take them, Marco."
Still aiming his revolver with his right hand, Marco put out his left,
took the notes and withdrew.
"Now that this question is settled according to your wishes," resumed
the stranger, "let us come to the object of my visit. I will be brief
and to the point. I want two things. In the first place, a little black
morocco pocket-case, shaped like an envelope, which you generally carry
on you. Secondly, a small ebony box, which was in that traveling-bag
yesterday. Let us proceed in order. The morocco case?"
"Burnt."
The stranger knit his brows. He must have had a vision of the good old
days when there were peremptory methods of making the contumacious
speak:
"Very well. We shall see about that. And the ebony box?"
"Burnt."
"Ah," he growled, "you're getting at me, my good man!" He twisted the
other's arm with a pitiless hand. "Yesterday, Rudolf Kesselbach, you
walked into the Crédit Lyonnais, on the Boulevard des Italiens, hiding a
parcel under your overcoat. You hired a safe . . . let us be exact: safe
No. 16, in recess No. 9. After signing the book and paying your
safe-rent, you went down to the basement; and, when you came up again,
you no longer had your parcel with you. Is that correct?"
"Quite."
"Then the box and the pocket-case are at the Crédit Lyonnais?"
"No."
"Give me the key of your safe."
"No."
"Marco!"
Marco ran up.
"Look sharp, Marco! The quadruple knot!"
Before he had even time to stand on the defensive, Rudolf Kesselbach was
tied up in a network of cords that cut into his flesh at the least
attempt which he made to struggle. His arms were fixed behind his back,
his body fastened to the chair and his legs tied together like the legs
of a mummy.
"Search him, Marco."
Marco searched him. Two minutes after, he handed his chief a little
flat, nickel-plated key, bearing the numbers 16 and 9.
"Capital. No morocco pocket-case?"
"No, governor."
"It is in the safe. Mr. Kesselbach, will you tell me the secret cypher
that opens the lock?"
"No."
"You refuse?"
"Yes."
"Marco!"
"Yes, governor."
"Place the barrel of your revolver against the gentleman's temple."
"It's there."
"Now put your finger to the trigger."
"Ready."
"Well, Kesselbach, old chap, do you intend to speak?"
"No."
"I'll give you ten seconds, and not one more. Marco!"
"Yes, governor."
"In ten seconds, blow out the gentleman's brains."
"Right you are, governor."
"Kesselbach, I'm counting. One, two, three, four, five, six . . ."
Rudolph Kesselbach made a sign.
"You want to speak?"
"Yes."
"You're just in time. Well, the cypher . . . the word for the lock?"
"Dolor."
"Dolor . . . Dolor . . . Mrs. Kesselbach's name is Dolores, I believe?
You dear boy! . . . Marco, go and do as I told you. . . . No mistake,
mind! I'll repeat it: meet Jérôme at the omnibus office, give him the
key, tell him the word: Dolor. Then, the two of you, go to the Crédit
Lyonnais. Jérôme is to walk in alone, sign the name-book, go down to the
basement and bring away everything in the safe. Do you quite
understand?"
"Yes, governor. But if the safe shouldn't open; if the word Dolor . . ."
"Silence, Marco. When you come out of the Crédit Lyonnais, you must
leave Jérôme, go to your own place and telephone the result of the
operation to me. Should the word Dolor by any chance fail to open the
safe, we (my friend Rudolf Kesselbach and I) will have one . . . _last_
. . . interview. Kesselbach, you're quite sure you're not mistaken?"
"Yes."
"That means that you rely upon the futility of the search. We shall see.
Be off, Marco!"
"What about you, governor?"
"I shall stay. Oh, I'm not afraid! I've never been in less danger than
at this moment. Your orders about the door were positive, Kesselbach,
were they not?"
"Yes."
"Dash it all, you seemed very eager to get that said! Can you have been
trying to gain time? If so, I should be caught in a trap like a fool.
. . ." He stopped to think, looked at his prisoner and concluded, "No
. . . it's not possible . . . we shall not be disturbed . . ."
He had not finished speaking, when the door-bell rang. He pressed his
hand violently on Rudolf Kesselbach's mouth:
"Oh, you old fox, you were expecting some one!"
The captive's eyes gleamed with hope. He could be heard chuckling under
the hand that stifled him.
The stranger shook with rage:
"Hold your tongue, or I'll strangle you! Here, Marco, gag him! Quick!
. . . That's it!"
The bell rang again. He shouted, as though he himself were Kesselbach
and as though Edwards were still there:
"Why don't you open the door, Edwards?"
Then he went softly into the lobby and, pointing to the secretary and
the manservant, whispered:
"Marco, help me shift these two into the bedroom . . . over there . . .
so that they can't be seen."
He lifted the secretary. Marco carried the servant.
"Good! Now go back to the sitting-room."
He followed him in and at once returned to the lobby and said, in a loud
tone of astonishment:
"Why, your man's not here, Mr. Kesselbach. . . . No, don't move . . .
finish your letter. . . . I'll go myself."
And he quietly opened the hall-door.
"Mr. Kesselbach?"
He found himself faced by a sort of jovial, bright-eyed giant, who stood
swinging from one foot to the other and twisting the brim of his hat
between his fingers. He answered:
"Yes, that's right. Who shall I say. . . ?"
"Mr. Kesselbach telephoned. . . . He expects me. . . ."
"Oh, it's you. . . . I'll tell him. . . . Do you mind waiting a minute?
. . . Mr. Kesselbach will speak to you."
He had the audacity to leave the visitor standing on the threshold of
the little entrance-hall, at a place from which he could see a portion
of the sitting-room through the open door, and, slowly, without so much
as turning round, he entered the room, went to his confederate by Mr.
Kesselbach's side and whispered:
"We're done! It's Gourel, the detective. . . ."
The other drew his knife. He caught him by the arm:
"No nonsense! I have an idea. But, for God's sake, Marco, understand me
and speak in your turn. Speak _as if you were Kesselbach_. . . . You
hear, Marco! You _are_ Kesselbach."
He expressed himself so coolly, so forcibly and with such authority that
Marco understood, without further explanation, that he himself was to
play the part of Kesselbach. Marco said, so as to be heard:
"You must apologize for me, my dear fellow. Tell M. Gourel I'm awfully
sorry, but I'm over head and ears in work. . . . I will see him
to-morrow morning, at nine . . . yes, at nine o'clock punctually."
"Good!" whispered the other. "Don't stir."
He went back to the lobby, found Gourel waiting, and said:
"Mr. Kesselbach begs you to excuse him. He is finishing an important
piece of work. Could you possibly come back at nine o'clock to-morrow
morning?"
There was a pause. Gourel seemed surprised, more or less bothered and
undecided. The other man's hand clutched the handle of a knife at the
bottom of his pocket. At the first suspicious movement, he was prepared
to strike.
At last, Gourel said:
"Very well. . . . At nine o'clock to-morrow. . . . But, all the same
. . . However, I shall be here at nine to-morrow. . . ."
And, putting on his hat, he disappeared down the passage of the hotel.
Marco, in the sitting-room, burst out laughing:
"That was jolly clever of you, governor! Oh, how nicely you spoofed
him!"
"Look alive, Marco, and follow him. If he leaves the hotel, let him be,
meet Jérôme at the omnibus-office as arranged . . . and telephone."
Marco went away quickly.
Then the man took a water-bottle on the chimneypiece, poured himself out
a tumblerful, which he swallowed at a draught, wetted his handkerchief,
dabbed his forehead, which was covered with perspiration, and then sat
down beside his prisoner and, with an affectation of politeness, said:
"But I must really have the honor, Mr. Kesselbach, of introducing myself
to you."
And, taking a card from his pocket, he said: "Allow me. . . . Arsène
Lupin, gentleman-burglar."
* * * * *
The name of the famous adventurer seemed to make the best of impressions
upon Mr. Kesselbach. Lupin did not fail to observe the fact and
exclaimed:
"Aha, my dear sir, you breathe again! Arsène Lupin is a delicate,
squeamish burglar. He loathes bloodshed, he has never committed a more
serious crime than that of annexing other people's property . . . a mere
peccadillo, eh? And what you're saying to yourself is that he is not
going to burden his conscience with a useless murder. Quite so. . . .
But will your destruction be so useless as all that? Everything depends
on the answer. And I assure you that I'm not larking at present. Come
on, old chap!"
He drew up his chair beside the arm-chair, removed the prisoner's gag
and, speaking very plainly:
"Mr. Kesselbach," he said, "on the day when you arrived in Paris you
entered into relations with one Barbareux, the manager of a confidential
inquiry agency; and, as you were acting without the knowledge of your
secretary, Chapman, it was arranged that the said Barbareux, when
communicating with you by letter or telephone, should call himself 'the
Colonel.' I hasten to tell you that Barbareux is a perfectly honest man.
But I have the good fortune to number one of his clerks among my own
particular friends. That is how I discovered the motive of your
application to Barbareux and how I came to interest myself in you and to
make a search or two here, with the assistance of a set of false keys
. . . in the course of which search or two, I may as well tell you, I
did not find what I was looking for."
He lowered his voice and, with his eyes fixed on the eyes of his
prisoner, watching his expression, searching his secret thoughts, he
uttered these words:
"Mr. Kesselbach, your instructions to Barbareux were that he should find
a man hidden somewhere in the slums of Paris who bears or used to bear
the name of Pierre Leduc. The man answers to this brief description:
height, five feet nine inches; hair and complexion, fair; wears a
moustache. Special mark: the tip of the little finger of the left hand
is missing, as the result of a cut. Also, he has an almost imperceptible
scar on the right cheek. You seem to attach enormous importance to this
man's discovery, as though it might lead to some great advantage to
yourself. Who is the man?"
"I don't know."
The answer was positive, absolute. Did he know or did he not know? It
made little difference. The great thing was that he was determined not
to speak.
"Very well," said his adversary, "but you have fuller particulars about
him than those with which you furnished Barbareux."
"I have not."
"You lie, Mr. Kesselbach. Twice, in Barbareux's presence, you consulted
papers contained in the morocco case."
"I did."
"And the case?"
"Burnt."
Lupin quivered with rage. The thought of torture and of the facilities
which it used to offer was evidently passing through his mind again.
"Burnt? But the box? . . . Come, own up . . . confess that the box is at
the Crédit Lyonnais."
"Yes."
"And what's inside it?"
"The finest two hundred diamonds in my private collection."
This statement did not seem to displease the adventurer.
"Aha, the finest two hundred diamonds! But, I say, that's a fortune!
. . . Yes, that makes you smile. . . . It's a trifle to you, no doubt.
. . . And your secret is worth more than that. . . . To you, yes . . .
but to me? . . ."
He took a cigar, lit a match, which he allowed to go out again
mechanically, and sat for some time thinking, motionless.
The minutes passed.
He began to laugh:
"I dare say you're hoping that the expedition will come to nothing and
that they won't open the safe? . . . Very likely, old chap! But, in that
case, you'll have to pay me for my trouble. I did not come here to see
what sort of figure you cut in an arm-chair. . . . The diamonds, since
diamonds there appear to be . . . or else the morocco case. . . .
There's your dilemma." He looked at his watch. "Half an hour. . . . Hang
it all! . . . Fate is moving very slowly. . . . But there's nothing for
you to grin at, Mr. Kesselbach. I shall not go back empty-handed, make
no mistake about that! . . . At last!"
It was the telephone-bell. Lupin snatched at the receiver and, changing
the sound of his voice, imitated the rough accent of his prisoner:
"Yes, Rudolf Kesselbach . . . you're speaking to him. . . . Yes, please,
mademoiselle, put me on. . . . Is that you, Marco? . . . Good. . . . Did
it go off all right? . . . Excellent! . . . No hitch? . . . My best
compliments! . . . Well, what did you pick up? . . . The ebony box?
. . . Nothing else? . . . No papers? . . . Tut, tut! . . . And what's in
the box? . . . Are they fine diamonds? . . . Capital, capital! . . . One
minute, Marco, while I think. . . . You see, all this. . . . If I were
to tell you my opinion. . . . Wait, don't go away . . . hold the line.
. . ."
He turned round.
"Mr. Kesselbach, are you keen on your diamonds?"
"Yes."
"Would you buy them back of me?"
"Possibly."
"For how much? Five hundred thousand francs?"
"Five hundred thousand . . . yes."
"Only, here's the rub: how are we to make the exchange? A cheque? No,
you'd swindle me . . . or else I'd swindle you. . . . Listen. On the day
after to-morrow, go to the Crédit Lyonnais in the morning, draw out your
five hundred bank-notes of a thousand each and go for a walk in the
Bois, on the Auteuil side. . . . I shall have the diamonds in a bag:
that's handier. . . . The box shows too much. . . ."
Kesselbach gave a start:
"No, no . . . the box, too. . . . I want everything. . . ."
"Ah," cried Lupin, shouting with laughter, "you've fallen into the trap!
. . . The diamonds you don't care about . . . they can be replaced.
. . . But you cling to that box as you cling to your skin. . . . Very
well, you shall have your box . . . on the word of Arsène . . . you
shall have it to-morrow morning, by parcel post!"
He went back to the telephone:
"Marco, have you the box in front of you? . . . Is there anything
particular about it? . . . Ebony inlaid with ivory. . . . Yes, I know
the sort of thing. . . . Japanese, from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
. . . No mark? . . . Ah, a little round label, with a blue border and a
number! . . . Yes, a shop-mark . . . no importance. And is the bottom of
the box thick? . . . Not very thick. . . . Bother! No false bottom,
then? . . . Look here, Marco: just examine the ivory inlay on the
outside . . . or, rather, no, the lid." He reveled with delight. "The
lid! That's it, Marco! Kesselbach blinked his eyes just now. . . . We're
burning! . . . Ah, Kesselbach, old chap, didn't you see me squinting at
you? You silly fellow!" And, to Marco, "Well, what do you see? . . . A
looking-glass inside the lid? . . . Does it slide? . . . Is it on
hinges? . . . No! . . . Well, then, break it. . . . Yes, yes, I tell you
to break it. . . . That glass serves no purpose there . . . it's been
added since!" He lost patience. "Mind your own business, idiot! . . . Do
as I say! . . ."
He must have heard the noise which Marco made at the other end of the
wire in breaking the glass, for he shouted, in triumph.
"Didn't I tell you, Mr. Kesselbach, that we should find something? . . .
Hullo! Have you done it? . . . Well? . . . A letter? Victory! All the
diamonds in the Cape and old man Kesselbach's secret into the bargain!"
He took down the second receiver, carefully put the two discs to his
ears and continued:
"Read it to me, Marco, read it to me slowly. . . . The envelope first.
. . . Good. . . . Now, repeat." He himself repeated, "'Copy of the
letter contained in the black morocco case.' And next? Tear the
envelope, Marco. . . . Have I your permission, Mr. Kesselbach? It's not
very good form, but, however . . . Go on, Marco, Mr. Kesselbach gives
you leave. . . . Done it? . . . Well, then, read it out."
He listened and, with a chuckle:
"The deuce! That's not quite as clear as a pikestaff! Listen. I'll
repeat: a plain sheet of paper folded in four, the folds apparently
quite fresh. . . . Good. . . . At the top of the page, on the right,
these words: 'Five feet nine, left little finger cut.' And so on. . . .
Yes, that's the description of Master Pierre Leduc. In Kesselbach's
handwriting, I suppose? . . . Good. . . . And, in the middle of the
page, this word in printed capitals: 'APOON.' Marco, my lad, leave the
paper as it is and don't touch the box or the diamonds. I shall have
done with our friend here in ten minutes and I shall be with you in
twenty. . . . Oh, by the way, did you send back the motor for me?
Capital! So long!"
He replaced the instrument, went into the lobby and into the bedroom,
made sure that the secretary and the manservant had not unloosed their
bonds and, on the other hand, that they were in no danger of being
choked by their gags. Then he returned to his chief prisoner.
He wore a determined and relentless look:
"We've finished joking, Kesselbach. If you don't speak, it will be the
worse for you. Have you made up your mind?"
"What about?"
"No nonsense, please. Tell me what you know."
"I know nothing."
"You lie. What does this word 'APOON' mean?"
"If I knew, I should not have written it down."
"Very well; but whom or what does it refer to? Where did you copy it?
Where did you get it from?"
Mr. Kesselbach made no reply. Lupin, now speaking in nervous, jerky
tones, resumed:
"Listen, Kesselbach, I have a proposal to make to you. Rich man, big man
though you may be, there is not so much difference between us. The son
of the Augsburg ironmonger and Arsène Lupin, prince of burglars, can
come to an understanding without shame on either side. I do my thieving
indoors; you do yours on the Stock Exchange. It's all much of a
muchness. So here we are, Kesselbach. Let's be partners in this
business. I have need of you, because I don't know what it's about. You
have need of me, because you will never be able to manage it alone.
Barbareux is an ass. I am Lupin. Is it a bargain?"
No answer. Lupin persisted, in a voice shaking with intensity:
"Answer, Kesselbach, is it a bargain? If so, I'll find your Pierre Leduc
for you in forty-eight hours. For he's the man you're after, eh? Isn't
that the business? Come along, answer! Who is the fellow? Why are you
looking for him? What do you know about him?"
He calmed himself suddenly, laid his hand on Kesselbach's shoulder and,
harshly:
"One word only. Yes or no?"
"No!"
He drew a magnificent gold watch from Kesselbach's fob and placed it on
the prisoner's knees. He unbuttoned Kesselbach's waistcoat, opened his
shirt, uncovered his chest and, taking a steel dagger, with a
gold-crusted handle, that lay on the table beside him, he put the point
of it against the place where the pulsations of the heart made the bare
flesh throb:
"For the last time?"
"No!"
"Mr. Kesselbach, it is eight minutes to three. If you don't answer
within eight minutes from now, you are a dead man!"
* * * * *
The next morning, Sergeant Gourel walked into the Palace Hotel
punctually at the appointed hour. Without stopping, scorning to take the
lift, he went up the stairs. On the fourth floor he turned to the right,
followed the passage and rang at the door of 415.
Hearing no sound, he rang again. After half-a-dozen fruitless attempts,
he went to the floor office. He found a head-waiter there:
"Mr. Kesselbach did not sleep here last night. We have not seen him
since yesterday afternoon."
"But his servant? His secretary?"
"We have not seen them either."
"Then they also did not sleep in the hotel?"
"I suppose not."
"You suppose not? But you ought to be certain."
"Why? Mr. Kesselbach is not staying in the hotel; he is at home here, in
his private flat. He is not waited on by us, but by his own man; and we
know nothing of what happens inside."
"That's true. . . . That's true. . . ."
Gourel seemed greatly perplexed. He had come with positive orders, a
precise mission, within the limits of which his mind was able to exert
itself. Outside those limits he did not quite know how to act:
"If the chief were here," he muttered, "if the chief were here. . . ."
He showed his card and stated his quality. Then he said, on the
off-chance:
"So you have not seen them come in?"
"No."
"But you saw them go out?"
"No, I can't say I did."
"In that case, how do you know that they went out?"
"From a gentleman who called yesterday afternoon."
"A gentleman with a dark mustache?"
"Yes. I met him as he was going away, about three o'clock. He said: 'The
people in 415 have gone out. Mr. Kesselbach will stay at Versailles
to-night, at the Reservoirs; you can send his letters on to him there.'"
"But who was this gentleman? By what right did he speak?"
"I don't know."
Gourel felt uneasy. It all struck him as rather queer.
"Have you the key?"
"No. Mr. Kesselbach had special keys made."
"Let's go and look."
Gourel rang again furiously. Nothing happened. He was about to go when,
suddenly, he bent down and clapped his ear to the keyhole:
"Listen. . . . I seem to hear . . . Why, yes . . . it's quite distinct.
. . . I hear moans. . . ."
He gave the door a tremendous blow with his fist.
"But, sir, you have not the right . . ."
"Oh, hang the right!"
He struck the door with renewed force, but to so little purpose that he
abandoned the attempt forthwith:
"Quick, quick, a locksmith!"
One of the waiters started off at a run. Gourel, blustering and
undecided, walked to and fro. The servants from the other floors
collected in groups. People from the office, from the manager's
department arrived. Gourel cried:
"But why shouldn't we go in though the adjoining rooms? Do they
communicate with this suite?"
"Yes; but the communicating doors are always bolted on both sides."
"Then I shall telephone to the detective-office," said Gourel, to whose
mind obviously there existed no salvation without his chief.
"And to the commissary of police," observed some one.
"Yes, if you like," he replied, in the tone of a gentleman who took
little or no interest in that formality.
When he returned from the telephone, the locksmith had nearly finished
trying the keys. The last worked the lock. Gourel walked briskly in.
He at once hastened in the direction from which the moans came and hit
against the bodies of Chapman the secretary, and Edwards the manservant.
One of them, Chapman, had succeeded, by dint of patience, in loosening
his gag a little and was uttering short, stifled moans. The other seemed
asleep.
They were released. But Gourel was anxious:
"Where's Mr. Kesselbach?"
He went into the sitting-room. Mr. Kesselbach was sitting strapped to
the back of the arm-chair, near the table. His head hung on his chest.
"He has fainted," said Gourel, going up to him. "He must have exerted
himself beyond his strength."
Swiftly he cut the cords that fastened the shoulders. The body fell
forward in an inert mass. Gourel caught it in his arms and started back
with a cry of horror:
"Why, he's dead! Feel . . . his hands are ice-cold! And look at his
eyes!"
Some one ventured the opinion:
"An apoplectic stroke, no doubt . . . or else heart-failure."
"True, there's no sign of a wound . . . it's a natural death."
They laid the body on the sofa and unfastened the clothes. But red
stains at once appeared on the white shirt; and, when they pushed it
back, they saw that, near the heart, the chest bore a little scratch
through which had trickled a thin stream of blood.
And on the shirt was pinned a card. Gourel bent forward. It was Arsène
Lupin's card, bloodstained like the rest.
Then Gourel drew himself up, authoritatively and sharply:
"Murdered! . . . Arsène Lupin! . . . Leave the flat. . . . Leave the
flat, all of you! . . . No one must stay here or in the bedroom. . . .
Let the two men be removed and seen to elsewhere! . . . Leave the flat
. . . and don't touch a thing . . .
"_The chief is on his way! . . ._"
CHAPTER II
THE BLUE-EDGED LABEL
"Arsène Lupin!"
Gourel repeated these two fateful words with an absolutely petrified
air. They rang within him like a knell. Arsène Lupin! The great, the
formidable Arsène Lupin. The burglar-king, the mighty adventurer! Was it
possible?
"No, no," he muttered, "it's not possible, _because he's dead_!"
Only that was just it . . . was he really dead?
Arsène Lupin!
Standing beside the corpse, he remained dull and stunned, turning the
card over and over with a certain dread, as though he had been
challenged by a ghost. Arsène Lupin! What ought he to do? Act? Take the
field with his resources? No, no . . . better not act . . . . He was
bound to make mistakes if he entered the lists with an adversary of that
stamp. Besides, the chief was on his way!
_The chief was on his way!_ All Gourel's intellectual philosophy was
summed up in that short sentence. An able, persevering officer, full of
courage and experience and endowed with Herculean strength, he was one
of those who go ahead only when obeying directions and who do good work
only when ordered. And this lack of initiative had become still more
marked since M. Lenormand had taken the place of M. Dudouis in the
detective-service. M. Lenormand was a chief indeed! With him, one was
sure of being on the right track. So sure, even, that Gourel stopped the
moment that the chief's incentive was no longer behind him.
But the chief was on his way! Gourel took out his watch and calculated
the exact time when he would arrive. If only the commissary of police
did not get there first, if only the examining-magistrate, who was no
doubt already appointed, or the divisional surgeon, did not come to make
inopportune discoveries before the chief had time to fix the essential
points of the case in his mind!
"Well, Gourel, what are you dreaming about?"
"The chief!"
M. Lenormand was still a young man, if you took stock only of the
expression of his face and his eyes gleaming through his spectacles; but
he was almost an old man when you saw his bent back, his skin dry and
yellow as wax, his grizzled hair and beard, his whole decrepit,
hesitating, unhealthy appearance. He had spent his life laboriously in
the colonies as government commissary, in the most dangerous posts. He
had there acquired a series of fevers; an indomitable energy,
notwithstanding his physical weariness; the habit of living alone, of
talking little and acting in silence; a certain misanthropy; and,
suddenly, at the age of fifty-five, in consequence of the famous case of
the three Spaniards at Biskra, a great and well-earned notoriety.
The injustice was then repaired; and he was straightway transferred to
Bordeaux, was next appointed deputy in Paris, and lastly, on the death
of M. Dudouis, chief of the detective-service. And in each of these
posts he displayed such a curious faculty of inventiveness in his
proceedings, such resourcefulness, so many new and original qualities;
and above all, he achieved such correct results in the conduct of the
last four or five cases with which public opinion had been stirred, that
his name was quoted in the same breath with those of the most celebrated
detectives.
Gourel, for his part, had no hesitation. Himself a favourite of the
chief, who liked him for his frankness and his passive obedience, he set
the chief above them all. The chief to him was an idol, an infallible
god.
M. Lenormand seemed more tired than usual that day. He sat down wearily,
parted the tails of his frock-coat--an old frock-coat, famous for its
antiquated cut and its olive-green hue--untied his neckerchief--an
equally famous maroon-coloured neckerchief, rested his two hands on his
stick, and said:
"Speak!"
Gourel told all that he had seen, and all that he had learnt, and told
it briefly, according to the habit which the chief had taught him.
But, when he produced Lupin's card, M. Lenormand gave a start:
"Lupin!"
"Yes, Lupin. The brute's bobbed up again."
"That's all right, that's all right," said M. Lenormand, after a
moment's thought.
"That's all right, of course," said Gourel, who loved to add a word of
his own to the rare speeches of a superior whose only fault in his eyes
was an undue reticence. "That's all right, for at last you will measure
your strength with an adversary worthy of you. . . . And Lupin will meet
his master. . . . Lupin will cease to exist. . . . Lupin . . ."
"Ferret!" said M. Lenormand, cutting him short.
It was like an order given by a sportsman to his dog. And Gourel
ferreted after the manner of a good dog, a lively and intelligent
animal, working under his master's eyes. M. Lenormand pointed his stick
to a corner, to an easy chair, just as one points to a bush or a tuft of
grass, and Gourel beat up the bush or the tuft of grass with
conscientious thoroughness.
"Nothing," said the sergeant, when he finished.
"Nothing for you!" grunted M. Lenormand.
"That's what I meant to say. . . . I know that, for you, chief, there
are things that talk like human beings, real living witnesses. For all
that, here is a murder well and duly added to our score against Master
Lupin."
"The first," observed M. Lenormand.
"The first, yes. . . . But it was bound to come. You can't lead that
sort of life without, sooner or later, being driven by circumstances to
serious crime. Mr. Kesselbach must have defended himself. . . ."
"No, because he was bound."
"That's true," owned Gourel, somewhat disconcertedly, "and it's rather
curious too. . . . Why kill an adversary who has practically ceased to
exist? . . . But, no matter, if I had collared him yesterday, when we
were face to face at the hall-door . . ."
M. Lenormand had stepped out on the balcony. Then he went to Mr.
Kesselbach's bedroom, on the right, and tried the fastenings of the
windows and doors.
"The windows of both rooms were shut when I came in," said Gourel.
"Shut, or just pushed to?"
"No one has touched them since. And they are shut, chief."
A sound of voices brought them back to the sitting-room. Here they found
the divisional surgeon, engaged in examining the body, and M. Formerie,
the magistrate. M. Formerie exclaimed:
"Arsène Lupin! I am glad that at last a lucky chance has brought me into
touch with that scoundrel again! I'll show the fellow the stuff I'm made
of! . . . And this time it's a murder! . . . It's a fight between you
and me now, Master Lupin!"
M. Formerie had not forgotten the strange adventure of the Princesse de
Lamballe's diadem, nor the wonderful way in which Lupin had tricked him
a few years before.[1] The thing had remained famous in the annals of
the law-courts. People still laughed at it; and in M. Formerie it had
left a just feeling of resentment, combined with the longing for a
striking revenge.
[Footnote 1: See _Arsène Lupin_. By Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc.
(Doubleday, Page & Co.).]
"The nature of the crime is self-evident," he declared, with a great air
of conviction, "and we shall have no difficulty in discovering the
motive. So all is well. . . . M. Lenormand, how do you do? . . . I am
delighted to see you. . . ."
M. Formerie was not in the least delighted. On the contrary, M.
Lenormand's presence did not please him at all, seeing that the chief
detective hardly took the trouble to disguise the contempt in which he
held him. However, the magistrate drew himself up and, in his most
solemn tones:
"So, doctor, you consider that death took place about a dozen hours ago,
perhaps more! . . . That, in fact, was my own idea. . . . We are quite
agreed. . . . And the instrument of the crime?"
"A knife with a very thin blade, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction,"
replied the surgeon. "Look, the blade has been wiped on the dead man's
own handkerchief. . . ."
"Just so . . . just so . . . you can see the mark. . . . And now let us
go and question Mr. Kesselbach's secretary and man-servant. I have no
doubt that their examination will throw some more light on the case."
Chapman, who together with Edwards, had been moved to his own room, on
the left of the sitting-room, had already recovered from his
experiences. He described in detail the events of the previous day, Mr.
Kesselbach's restlessness, the expected visit of the Colonel and,
lastly, the attack of which they had been the victims.
"Aha!" cried M. Formerie. "So there's an accomplice! And you heard his
name! . . . Marco, you say? . . . This is very important. When we've got
the accomplice, we shall be a good deal further advanced. . . ."
"Yes, but we've not got him," M. Lenormand ventured to remark.
"We shall see. . . . One thing at a time. . . . And then, Mr. Chapman,
this Marco went away immediately after M. Gourel had rung the bell?"
"Yes, we heard him go."
"And after he went, did you hear nothing else?"
"Yes . . . from time to time, but vaguely. . . . The door was shut."
"And what sort of noises did you hear?"
"Bursts of voices. The man . . ."
"Call him by his name, Arsène Lupin."
"Arsène Lupin must have telephoned."
"Capital! We will examine the person of the hotel who has charge of the
branch exchange communicating with the outside. And, afterward, did you
hear him go out, too?"
"He came in to see if we were still bound; and, a quarter of an hour
later, he went away, closing the hall-door after him."
"Yes, as soon as his crime was committed. Good. . . . Good. . . . It all
fits in. . . . And, after that?"
"After that, we heard nothing more. . . . The night passed. . . . I fell
asleep from exhaustion. . . . So did Edwards. . . . And it was not until
this morning . . ."
"Yes, I know. . . . There, it's not going badly . . . it all fits in.
. . ."
And, marking off the stages of his investigation, in a tone as though he
were enumerating so many victories over the stranger, he muttered
thoughtfully:
"The accomplice . . . the telephone . . . the time of the murder . . .
the sounds that were heard. . . . Good. . . . Very good. . . . We have
still to establish the motive of the crime. . . . In this case, as we
have Lupin to deal with, the motive is obvious. M. Lenormand, have you
noticed the least sign of anything being broken open?"
"No."
"Then the robbery must have been effected upon the person of the victim
himself. Has his pocket-book been found?"
"I left it in the pocket of his jacket," said Gourel.
They all went into the sitting-room, where M. Formerie discovered that
the pocket-book contained nothing but visiting-cards and papers
establishing the murdered man's identity.
"That's odd. Mr. Chapman, can you tell us if Mr. Kesselbach had any
money on him?"
"Yes. On the previous day--that is, on Monday, the day before
yesterday--we went to the Crédit Lyonnais, where Mr. Kesselbach hired a
safe . . ."
"A safe at the Crédit Lyonnais? Good. . . . We must look into that."
"And, before we left, Mr. Kesselbach opened an account and drew out five
or six thousand francs in bank-notes."
"Excellent . . . that tells us just what we want to know."
Chapman continued:
"There is another point, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. Mr. Kesselbach,
who for some days had been very uneasy in his mind--I have told you the
reason: a scheme to which he attached the utmost importance--Mr.
Kesselbach seemed particularly anxious about two things. There was,
first, a little ebony box, which he put away safely at the Crédit
Lyonnais; and, next, a little black morocco note-case, in which he kept
a few papers."
"And where is that?"
"Before Lupin's arrival, he put it, in my presence, into that
travelling-bag."
M. Formerie took the bag and felt about in it. The note-case was not
there. He rubbed his hands:
"Ah, everything fits in! . . . We know the culprit, the conditions and
the motive of the crime. This case won't take long. Are we quite agreed
upon everything, M. Lenormand?"
"Upon not one single thing."
There was a moment of stupefaction. The commissary of police had
arrived: and, behind him, in spite of the constables keeping the door,
a troop of journalists, and the hotel staff had forced their way in and
were standing in the entrance-lobby.
Notorious though the old fellow was for his bluntness--a bluntness which
was not without a certain discourtesy and which had already procured him
an occasional reprimand in high quarters--the abruptness of this reply
took every one aback. And M. Formerie in particular appeared utterly
nonplussed:
"Still," he said, "I can see nothing that isn't quite simple. Lupin is
the thief. . . ."
"Why did he commit the murder?" M. Lenormand flung at him.
"In order to commit the theft."
"I beg your pardon; the witnesses' story proves that the theft took
place before the murder. Mr. Kesselbach was first bound and gagged, then
robbed. Why should Lupin, who has never resorted to murder, choose this
time to kill a man whom he had rendered helpless and whom he had already
robbed?"
The examining-magistrate stroked his long, fair whiskers, with the
gesture customary to him when a question seemed incapable of solution.
He replied in a thoughtful tone:
"There are several answers to that. . . ."
"What are they?"
"It depends . . . it depends upon a number of facts as yet unknown.
. . . And, moreover, the objection applies only to the nature of the
motives. We are agreed as to the remainder."
"No."
This time, again, the denial was flat, blunt, almost impolite; so much
so that the magistrate was absolutely nonplussed, dared not even raise
a protest, and remained abashed in the presence of this strange
collaborator. At last he said:
"We all have our theories. I should like to know yours."
"I have none."
The chief detective rose and, leaning on his stick, took a few steps
through the room. All the people around him were silent. . . . And it
was rather curious, in a group in which, after all, his position was
only that of an auxiliary, a subordinate, to see this ailing, decrepit,
elderly man dominate the others by the sheer force of an authority which
they had to feel, even though they did not accept it. After a long pause
he said:
"I should like to inspect the rooms which adjoin this suite."
The manager showed him the plan of the hotel. The only way out of the
right-hand bedroom, which was Mr. Kesselbach's, was through the little
entrance-hall of the suite. But the bedroom on the left, the room
occupied by the secretary, communicated with another apartment.
"Let us inspect it," said M. Lenormand.
M. Formerie could not help shrugging his shoulders and growling:
"But the communicating door is bolted and the window locked."
"Let us inspect it," repeated M. Lenormand.
He was taken into the apartment, which was the first of the five rooms
reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach. Then, at his request, he was taken to the
rooms leading out of it. All the communicating doors were bolted on both
sides.
"Are not any of these rooms occupied?" he asked.
"No."
"Where are the keys?"
"The keys are always kept in the office."
"Then no one can have got in? . . ."
"No one, except the floor-waiter who airs and dusts the rooms."
"Send for him, please."
The man, whose name was Gustave Beudot, replied that he had closed the
windows of five rooms on the previous day in accordance with his general
instructions.
"At what time?"
"At six o'clock in the evening."
"And you noticed nothing?"
"No, sir."
"And, this morning . . . ?"
"This morning, I opened the windows at eight o'clock exactly."
"And you found nothing?"
He hesitated. He was pressed with questions and ended by admitting:
"Well, I picked up a cigarette-case near the fireplace in 420. . . . I
intended to take it to the office this evening."
"Have you it on you?"
"No, it is in my room. It is a gun-metal case. It has a space for
tobacco and cigarette-papers on one side and for matches on the other.
There are two initials in gold: an L and an M. . . ."
"What's that?"
Chapman had stepped forward. He seemed greatly surprised and,
questioning the servant:
"A gun-metal cigarette-case, you say?"
"Yes."
"With three compartments--for tobacco, cigarette-papers, and matches.
. . . Russian tobacco, wasn't it, very fine and light?"
"Yes."
"Go and fetch it. . . . I should like to see it for myself . . . to make
sure. . . ."
At a sign from the chief detective, Gustave Beudot left the room.
M. Lenormand sat down and his keen eyes examined the carpet, the
furniture and the curtains. He asked:
"This is room 420, is it not?"
"Yes."
The magistrate grinned:
"I should very much like to know what connection you establish between
this incident and the tragedy. Five locked doors separate us from the
room in which Mr. Kesselbach was murdered."
M. Lenormand did not condescend to reply.
Time passed. Gustave did not return.
"Where does he sleep?" asked the chief detective.
"On the sixth floor," answered the manager. "The room is on the Rue de
Judée side: above this, therefore. It's curious that he's not back yet."
"Would you have the kindness to send some one to see?"
The manager went himself, accompanied by Chapman. A few minutes after,
he returned alone, running, with every mark of consternation on his
face.
"Well?"
"Dead!"
"Murdered?"
"Yes."
"Oh, by thunder, how clever these scoundrels are!" roared M. Lenormand,
"Off with you, Gourel, and have the doors of the hotel locked. . . .
Watch every outlet. . . . And you, Mr. Manager, please take us to
Gustave Beudot's room."
The manager led the way. But as they left the room, M. Lenormand stooped
and picked up a tiny little round piece of paper, on which his eyes had
already fixed themselves.
It was a label surrounded with a blue border and marked with the number
813. He put it in his pocket, on chance, and joined the others. . . .
* * * * *
A small wound in the back, between the shoulder-blades. . . .
"Exactly the same wound as Mr. Kesselbach's," declared the doctor.
"Yes," said M. Lenormand, "it was the same hand that struck the blow and
the same weapon was used."
Judging by the position of the body, the man had been surprised when on
his knees before the bed, feeling under the mattress for the
cigarette-case which he had hidden there. His arm was still caught
between the mattress and the bed, but the cigarette-case was not to be
found.
"That cigarette-case must have been devilish compromising!" timidly
suggested M. Formerie, who no longer dared put forward any definite
opinion.
"Well, of course!" said the chief detective.
"At any rate, we know the initials: an L and an M. And with that,
together with what Mr. Chapman appears to know, we shall easily learn.
. . ."
M. Lenormand gave a start:
"Chapman! But where is he?"
They looked in the passage among the groups of people crowded together.
Chapman was not there.
"Mr. Chapman came with me," said the manager.
"Yes, yes, I know, but he did not come back with you."
"No, I left him with the corpse."
"You left him! . . . Alone?"
"I said to him, 'Stay here . . . don't move.'"
"And was there no one about? Did you see no one?"
"In the passage? No."
"But in the other attics? . . . Or else, look here, round that corner:
was there no one hiding there?"
M. Lenormand seemed greatly excited. He walked up and down, he opened
the doors of the rooms. And, suddenly, he set off at a run, with an
agility of which no one would have thought him capable. He rattled down
the six storeys, followed at a distance by the manager and the
examining-magistrate. At the bottom, he found Gourel in front of the
main door.
"Has no one gone out?"
"No, chief."
"What about the other door, in the Rue Orvieto?"
"I have posted Dieuzy there."
"With firm orders?"
"Yes, chief."
The huge hall of the hotel was crowded with anxious visitors, all
commenting on the more or less accurate versions that had reached them
of the crime. All the servants had been summoned by telephone and were
arriving, one by one. M. Lenormand questioned them without delay. None
of them was able to supply the least information. But a fifth-floor
chambermaid appeared. Ten minutes earlier, or thereabouts, she had
passed two gentlemen who were coming down the servants' staircase
between the fifth and the fourth floors.
"They came down very fast. The one in front was holding the other by the
hand. I was surprised to see those two gentlemen on the servants'
staircase."
"Would you know them again?"
"Not the first one. He had his head turned the other way. He was a thin,
fair man. He wore a soft black hat . . . and black clothes."
"And the other?"
"Oh, the other was an Englishman, with a big, clean-shaven face and a
check suit. He had no hat on."
The description obviously referred to Chapman.
The woman added:
"He looked . . . he looked quite funny . . . as if he was mad."
Gourel's word was not enough for M. Lenormand. One after the other, he
questioned the under-porters standing at the two doors:
"Did you know Mr. Chapman?"
"Yes, sir, he always spoke to us."
"And you have not seen him go out?"
"No, sir. He has not been out this morning."
M. Lenormand turned to the commissary of police: "How many men have you
with you, Monsieur le Commissaire?"
"Four."
"That's not sufficient. Telephone to your secretary to send you all the
men available. And please be so good as yourself to organize the closest
watch at every outlet. The state of siege, Monsieur le Commissaire.
. . ."
"But I say," protested the manager, "my customers?"
"I don't care a hang, sir, for your customers! My duty comes before
everything; and my duty is at all costs to arrest. . . ."
"So you believe . . ." the examining-magistrate ventured to interpolate.
"I don't _believe_, monsieur . . . I am sure that the perpetrator of
both the murders is still in the hotel."
"But then Chapman . . ."
"At this moment, I cannot guarantee that Chapman is still alive. In any
case, it is only a question of minutes, of seconds. . . . Gourel, take
two men and search all the rooms on the fourth floor. . . . Mr. Manager,
send one of your clerks with them. . . . As for the other floors, I
shall proceed as soon as we are reënforced. Come, Gourel, off with you,
and keep your eyes open. . . . It's big game you're hunting!"
Gourel and his men hurried away. M. Lenormand himself remained in the
hall, near the office. This time, he did not think of sitting down, as
his custom was. He walked from the main entrance to the door in the Rue
Orvieto and returned to the point from which he had started. At
intervals he gave instructions:
"Mr. Manager, see that the kitchens are watched. They may try to escape
that way. . . . Mr. Manager, instruct your young lady at the telephone
not to put any of the people in the hotel into communication with
outside subscribers. If a call comes from the outside, she can connect
the caller with the person asked for, but she must take a note of that
person's name. . . . Mr. Manager, have a list made out of all your
visitors whose name begins with an L or an M."
The tension caught the spectators by the throat, as they stood
clustered in the middle of the hall, silent and gasping for breath,
shaking with fear at the least sound, obsessed by the infernal image of
the murderer. Where was he hiding? Would he show himself? Was he not one
of themselves: this one, perhaps . . . or that one? . . .
And all eyes were turned on the gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, an
olive-green frock-coat and a maroon-colored neckerchief, who was walking
about, with his bent back, on a pair of shaky legs.
At times, one of the waiters accompanying Sergeant Gourel on his search
would come running up.
"Any news?" asked M. Lenormand.
"No, sir, we've found nothing."
The manager made two attempts to induce him to relax his orders
regarding the doors. The situation was becoming intolerable. The office
was filled with loudly-protesting visitors, who had business outside, or
who had arranged to leave Paris.
"I don't care a hang!" said M. Lenormand again.
"But I know them all."
"I congratulate you."
"You are exceeding your powers."
"I know."
"The law will decide against you."
"I'm convinced of that."
"Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction himself. . . ."
"M. Formerie had better not interfere. He can mind his own business,
which is to examine the servants, as he is doing now. Besides, it has
nothing to do with the examining-magistrate, it has to do with the
police. It's my affair."
Just then a squad of police burst into the hotel. The chief detective
divided them into several sections which he sent up to the third floor.
Then, addressing the commissary of police:
"My dear commissary, I leave the task of watching the doors to you. No
weakness, I entreat you. I will take the responsibility for anything
that happens."
And, turning to the lift, he had himself conveyed to the second floor.
* * * * *
It was a difficult business and a long one, for they had to open the
doors of the sixty bedrooms, to inspect all the bathrooms, all the
recesses, all the cupboards, every nook and corner.
And it was also fruitless. An hour later, on the stroke of twelve, M.
Lenormand had just done the second floor; the other parties had not yet
finished the upper floors; and no discovery had been made.
M. Lenormand hesitated: had the murderer retreated to the attics?
He was deciding, however, to go downstairs, when he was told that Mrs.
Kesselbach had just arrived with her lady-companion. Edwards, the old
confidential man-servant, had accepted the task of informing her of Mr.
Kesselbach's death.
M. Lenormand found her in one of the drawing rooms, overcome by the
unexpected shock, dry-eyed, but with her features wrung with grief and
her body trembling all over, as though convulsed with fever. She was a
rather tall, dark woman; and her black and exceedingly beautiful eyes
were filled with gold, with little gold spots, like spangles gleaming in
the dark. Her husband had met her in Holland, where Dolores was born of
an old family of Spanish origin, the Amontis. He fell in love with her
at first sight; and for four years the harmony between them, built up
of mutual affection and devotion, had never been interrupted.
M. Lenormand introduced himself. She looked at him without replying; and
he was silent, for she did not appear, in her stupor, to understand what
he said. Then, suddenly, she began to shed copious tears and asked to be
taken to her husband.
In the hall, M. Lenormand found Gourel, who was looking for him and who
rushed at him with a hat which he held in his hand:
"I picked this up, chief. . . . There's no doubt whom it belongs to, is
there?"
It was a soft, black felt hat and resembled the description given. There
was no lining or label inside it.
"Where did you pick it up?"
"On the second-floor landing of the servants' staircase."
"Nothing on the other floors?"
"Nothing. We've searched everywhere. There is only the first floor left.
And this hat shows that the man went down so far. We're burning, chief!"
"I think so."
At the foot of the stairs M. Lenormand stopped:
"Go back to the commissary and give him my orders: he must post two men
at the foot of each of the four staircases, revolver in hand. And they
are to fire, if necessary. Understand this, Gourel: if Chapman is not
saved and if the fellow escapes, it means my resignation. I've been
wool-gathering for over two hours."
He went up the stairs. On the first floor he met two policemen leaving a
bedroom, accompanied by a servant of the hotel.
The passage was deserted. The hotel staff dared not venture into it.
Some of the permanent visitors had locked themselves in their rooms; and
the police had to knock for a long time and proclaim who they were
before they could get the doors opened.
Farther on, M. Lenormand saw another group of policemen searching the
maid's pantry and, at the end of a long passage, he saw some more men
who were approaching the turning, that is to say, that part of the
passage which contained the rooms overlooking the Rue de Judée.
And, suddenly, he heard these men shouting; and they disappeared at a
run.
He hurried after them.
The policemen had stopped in the middle of the passage. At their feet,
blocking their way, with its face on the carpet, lay a corpse.
M. Lenormand bent down and took the lifeless head in his hands:
"Chapman," he muttered. "He is dead."
He examined the body. A white knitted silk muffler was tied round the
neck. He undid it. Red stains appeared; and he saw that the muffler held
a thick wad of cotton-wool in position against the nape of the neck. The
wad was soaked with blood.
Once again there was the same little wound, clean, frank and pitiless.
M. Formerie and the commissary were at once told and came hastening up.
"No one gone out?" asked the chief detective. "No surprise?"
"No," said the commissary. "There are two men on guard at the foot of
each staircase."
"Perhaps he has gone up again?" said M. Formerie.
"No! . . . No! . . ."
"But some one must have met him. . . ."
"No. . . . This all happened quite a long time ago. The hands are cold.
. . . The murder must have been committed almost immediately after the
other . . . as soon as the two men came here by the servants'
staircase."
"But the body would have been seen! Think, fifty people must have passed
this spot during the last two hours. . . ."
"The body was not here."
"Then where was it?"
"Why, how can I tell?" snapped the chief detective. "Do as I'm doing,
look for yourself! You can't find things by talking."
He furiously patted the knob of his stick with a twitching hand; and he
stood there, with his eyes fixed on the body, silent and thoughtful. At
last he spoke:
"Monsieur le Commissaire, be so good as to have the victim taken to an
empty room. Let them fetch the doctor. Mr. Manager, would you mind
opening the doors of all the rooms on this passage for me?"
On the left were three bedrooms and two sitting-rooms, forming an empty
suite, which M. Lenormand inspected. On the right were four bedrooms.
Two were occupied respectively by a M. Reverdat and an Italian, Baron
Giacomini, who were both then out. In the third room they found an
elderly English maiden lady still in bed; and, in the fourth, an
Englishman who was placidly reading and smoking and who had not been in
the least disturbed by the noises in the passage. His name was Major
Parbury.
No amount of searching or questioning led to any result. The old maid
had heard nothing before the exclamations of the policeman: no noise of
a struggle, no cry of pain, no sound of quarreling; and Major Parbury
neither.
Moreover, there was no suspicious clue found, no trace of blood, nothing
to lead them to suppose that the unfortunate Chapman had been in one of
those rooms.
"It's queer," muttered the examining-magistrate, "it's all very queer.
. . ." And he confessed, ingenuously, "I feel more and more at sea.
. . . There is a whole series of circumstances that are partly beyond
me. What do you make of it, M. Lenormand?"
M. Lenormand was on the point of letting off one of those pointed
rejoinders in which he was wont to give vent to his chronic ill-temper,
when Gourel appeared upon the scene, all out of breath.
"Chief," he panted, "they've found this . . . downstairs . . . in the
office . . . on a chair. . . ."
It was a parcel of moderate dimensions, wrapped up in a piece of black
serge.
"Did they open it?" asked the chief.
"Yes, but when they saw what the parcel contained, they did it up again
exactly as it was . . . fastened very tight, as you can see. . . ."
"Untie it."
Gourel removed the wrapper and disclosed a black diagonal jacket and
trousers, which had evidently been packed up in a hurry, as the creases
in the cloth showed. In the middle was a towel, covered with blood,
which had been dipped in water, in order, no doubt, to destroy the marks
of the hands that had been wiped on it. Inside the napkin was a steel
dagger, with a handle encrusted with gold. This also was red with blood,
the blood of three men stabbed within the space of a few hours by an
invisible hand, amid the crowd of three hundred people moving about in
the huge hotel.
Edwards, the man-servant, at once identified the dagger as belonging to
Mr. Kesselbach. He had seen it on the table on the previous day, before
the assault committed by Lupin.
"Mr. Manager," said the chief detective, "the restriction is over.
Gourel, go and give orders to leave the doors free."
"So you think that Lupin has succeeded in getting out?" asked M.
Formerie.
"No. The perpetrator of the three murders which we have discovered is in
one of the rooms of the hotel, or, rather, he is among the visitors in
the hall or in the reception-rooms. In my opinion, he was staying in the
hotel."
"Impossible! Besides, where would he have changed his clothes? And what
clothes would he have on now?"
"I don't know, but I am stating a fact."
"And you are letting him go? Why, he'll just walk out quietly, with his
hands in his pockets!"
"The one who walks away like that, without his luggage, and who does not
return, will be the criminal. Mr. Manager, please come with me to the
office. I should like to make a close inspection of your visitors'
book."
In the office, M. Lenormand found a few letters addressed to Mr.
Kesselbach. He handed them to the examining-magistrate. There was also a
parcel that had just come by the Paris parcel-post. The paper in which
it was packed was partly torn; and M. Lenormand saw that it held a small
ebony box, engraved with the name of Rudolf Kesselbach. Feeling
curious, he opened the parcel. The box contained the fragments of a
looking-glass which had evidently been fixed to the inside of the lid.
It also contained the card of Arsène Lupin.
But one detail seemed to strike the chief detective. On the outside, at
the bottom of the box, was a little blue-edged label, similar to the
label which he had picked up in the room on the fourth floor where the
cigarette-case was found, and this label bore the same number, 813.
CHAPTER III
M. LENORMAND OPENS HIS CAMPAIGN
"Auguste, show M. Lenormand in."
The messenger went out and, a few seconds later, announced the chief of
the detective-service.
There were three men in the prime minister's private room on the Place
Beauvau: the famous Valenglay, leader of the radical party for the past
thirty years and now president of the council and minister of the
interior; the attorney-general, M. Testard; and the prefect of police,
Delaume.
The prefect of police and the attorney-general did not rise from the
chairs which they had occupied during their long conversation with the
prime minister. Valenglay, however, stood up and, pressing the chief
detective's hand, said, in the most cordial tones:
"I have no doubt, my dear Lenormand, that you know the reason why I
asked you to come."
"The Kesselbach case?"
"Yes."
* * * * *
The Kesselbach case! Not one of us but is able to recall not only the
main details of this tragic affair, the tangled skein of which I have
set myself to unravel, but even its very smallest incidents, so greatly
did the tragedy excite us all during these recent years. Nor is there
one of us but remembers the extraordinary stir which it created both in
and outside France. And yet there was one thing that upset the public
even more than the three murders committed in such mysterious
circumstances, more than the detestable atrocity of that butchery, more
than anything else; and that was the reappearance--one might almost say
the resurrection--of Arsène Lupin.
Arsène Lupin! No one had heard speak of him for over four years, since
his incredible, his astounding adventure of the Hollow Needle,[2] since
the day when he had slunk away into the darkness before the eyes of
Holmlock Shears and Isidore Beautrelet, carrying on his back the dead
body of the woman whom he loved, and followed by his old servant,
Victoire.
[Footnote 2: See _The Hollow Needle_. By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos and published by Doubleday, Page & Co.]
From that day onward he had been generally believed to be dead. This was
the version put about by the police, who, finding no trace of their
adversary, were content purely and simply to bury him.
Some, however, believing him to be saved, described him as leading a
placid, Philistine existence. According to them, he was living with his
wife and children, growing his small potatoes; whereas others maintained
that, bent down with the weight of sorrow and weary of the vanities of
this world, he had sought the seclusion of a Trappist monastery.
And here he was once more looming large in the public view and resuming
his relentless struggle against society! Arsène Lupin was Arsène Lupin
again, the fanciful, intangible, disconcerting, audacious, genial Arsène
Lupin! But, this time, a cry of horror arose. Arsène Lupin had taken
human life! And the fierceness, the cruelty, the ruthless cynicism of
the crime were so great that, then and there, the legend of the popular
hero, of the chivalrous and occasionally sentimental adventurer, made
way for a new conception of an inhuman, bloodthirsty, and ferocious
monster. The crowd now loathed and feared its former idol with more
intensity than it had once shown in admiring him for his easy grace and
his diverting good-humor.
And, forthwith, the indignation of that frightened crowd turned against
the police. Formerly, people had laughed. They forgave the beaten
commissary of police for the comical fashion in which he allowed himself
to be beaten. But the joke had lasted too long; and, in a burst of
revolt and fury, they now called the authorities to account for the
unspeakable crimes which these were powerless to prevent.
In the press, at public meetings, in the streets and even in the tribune
of the Chamber of Deputies there was such an explosion of wrath that the
government grew alarmed and strove by every possible means to allay the
public excitement.
It so happened that Valenglay, the premier, took a great interest in all
these police questions and had often amused himself by going closely
into different cases with the chief of the detective-service, whose good
qualities and independent character he valued highly. He sent for the
prefect and the attorney-general to see him in his room, talked to them
and then sent for M. Lenormand.
* * * * *
"Yes, my dear Lenormand, it's about the Kesselbach case. But, before we
discuss it, I must call your attention to a point which more
particularly affects and, I may say, annoys Monsieur le Préfet de
Police. M. Delaume, will you explain to M. Lenormand . . . ?
"Oh, M. Lenormand knows quite well how the matter stands," said the
prefect, in a tone which showed but little good-will toward his
subordinate. "We have talked it over already and I have told him what I
thought of his improper conduct at the Palace Hotel. People are
generally indignant."
M. Lenormand rose, took a paper from his pocket and laid it on the
table.
"What is this?" asked Valenglay.
"My resignation, Monsieur le Président du Conseil."
Valenglay gave a jump:
"What! Your resignation! For a well-meaning remark which Monsieur le
Préfet thinks fit to address to you and to which, for that matter, he
attaches no importance whatever--do you, Delaume? No importance
whatever--and there you go, taking offence! You must confess, my dear
Lenormand, that you're devilish touchy! Come, put that bit of paper back
in your pocket and let's talk seriously."
The chief detective sat down again, and Valenglay, silencing the
prefect, who made no attempt to conceal his dissatisfaction, said:
"In two words, Lenormand, the thing is that Lupin's reappearance upon
the scene annoys us. The brute has defied us long enough. It used to be
funny, I confess, and I, for my part, was the first to laugh at it. But
it's no longer a question of that. It's a question of murder now. We
could stand Lupin, as long as he amused the gallery. But, when he takes
to killing people, no!"
"Then what is it that you ask, Monsieur le Président?"
"What we ask? Oh, it's quite simple! First, his arrest and then his
head!"
"I can promise you his arrest, some day or another, but not his head."
"What! If he's arrested, it means trial for murder, a verdict of guilty,
and the scaffold."
"No!"
"And why not?"
"Because Lupin has not committed murder."
"Eh? Why, you're mad, Lenormand! The corpses at the Palace Hotel are so
many inventions, I suppose! And the three murders were never committed!"
"Yes, but not by Lupin."
The chief spoke these words very steadily, with impressive calmness and
conviction. The attorney and the prefect protested.
"I presume, Lenormand," said Valenglay, "that you do not put forward
that theory without serious reasons?"
"It is not a theory."
"What proof have you?"
"There are two, to begin with, two proofs of a moral nature, which I at
once placed before Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction and which the
newspapers have laid stress upon. First and foremost, Lupin does not
kill people. Next, why should he have killed anybody, seeing that the
object which he set out to achieve, the theft, was accomplished and that
he had nothing to fear from an adversary who was gagged and bound?"
"Very well. But the facts?"
"Facts are worth nothing against reason and logic; and, moreover, the
facts also are on my side. What would be the meaning of Lupin's presence
in the room in which the cigarette-case was discovered? On the other
hand, the black clothes which were found and which evidently belonged to
the murderer are not in the least of a size to fit Lupin."
"You know him, then, do you?"
"I? No. But Edwards saw him, Gourel saw him; and the man whom they saw
is not the man whom the chambermaid saw, on the servants' staircase,
dragging Chapman by the hand."
"Then your idea . . ."
"You mean to say, the truth, M. le Président. Here it is, or, at least,
here is the truth as far as I know it. On Tuesday, the 16th of April, a
man---Lupin--broke into Mr. Kesselbach's room at about two o'clock in
the afternoon. . . ."
M. Lenormand was interrupted by a burst of laughter. It came from the
prefect of police.
"Let me tell you, M. Lenormand, that you are in rather too great a hurry
to state your precise facts. It has been shown that, at three o'clock on
that day, Mr. Kesselbach walked into the Crédit Lyonnais and went down
to the safe deposit. His signature in the register proves it."
M. Lenormand waited respectfully until his superior had finished
speaking. Then, without even troubling to reply directly to the attack,
he continued:
"At about two o'clock in the afternoon, Lupin, assisted by an
accomplice, a man named Marco, bound Mr. Kesselbach hand and foot,
robbed him of all the loose cash which he had upon him and compelled him
to reveal the cypher of his safe at the Crédit Lyonnais. As soon as the
secret was told, Marco left. He joined another accomplice, who,
profiting by a certain resemblance to Mr. Kesselbach--a resemblance
which he accentuated that day by wearing clothes similar to Mr.
Kesselbach's and putting on a pair of gold spectacles--entered the
Crédit Lyonnais, imitated Mr. Kesselbach's signature, emptied the safe
of its contents and walked off, accompanied by Marco. Marco at once
telephoned to Lupin. Lupin, as soon as he was sure that Mr. Kesselbach
had not deceived him and that the object of his expedition was attained,
went away."
Valenglay seemed to waver in his mind:
"Yes, yes . . . we'll admit that. . . . But what surprises me is that a
man like Lupin should have risked so much for such a paltry profit: a
few bank-notes and the hypothetical contents of a safe."
"Lupin was after more than that. He wanted either the morocco envelope
which was in the traveling-bag, or else the ebony box which was in the
safe. He had the ebony box, because he has sent it back empty.
Therefore, by this time, he knows, or is in a fair way for knowing, the
famous scheme which Mr. Kesselbach was planning, and which he was
discussing with his secretary a few minutes before his death."
"What was the scheme?"
"I don't exactly know. The manager of Barbareux's agency, to whom he had
opened his mind about it, has told me that Mr. Kesselbach was looking
for a man who went by the name of Pierre Leduc, a man who had lost
caste, it appears. Why and how the discovery of this person was
connected with the success of his scheme, I am unable to say."
"Very well," said Valenglay. "So much for Arsène Lupin. His part is
played. Mr. Kesselbach is bound hand and foot, robbed, but alive! . . .
What happens up to the time when he is found dead?"
"Nothing, for several hours, nothing until night. But, during the night,
some one made his way in."
"How?"
"Through room 420, one of the rooms reserved by Mr. Kesselbach. The
person in question evidently possessed a false key."
"But," exclaimed the prefect of police, "all the doors between that room
and Mr. Kesselbach's flat were bolted; and there were five of them!"
"There was always the balcony."
"The balcony!"
"Yes; the balcony runs along the whole floor, on the Rue de Judée side."
"And what about the spaces in between?"
"An active man can step across them. Our man did. I have found marks."
"But all the windows of the suite were shut; and it was ascertained,
after the crime, that they were still shut."
"All except one, the secretary's window, Chapman's, which was only
pushed to. I tried it myself."
This time the prime minister seemed a little shaken, so logical did M.
Lenormand's version seem, so precise and supported by such sound facts.
He asked, with growing interest:
"But what was the man's object in coming?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, you don't know!"
"Any more than I know his name."
"But why did he kill Mr. Kesselbach?"
"I don't know. This all remains a mystery. The utmost that we have the
right to suppose is that he did not come with the intention of killing,
but with the intention, he too, of taking the documents contained in
the morocco note-case and the ebony box; and that, finding himself by
accident in the presence of the enemy reduced to a state of
helplessness, he killed him."
Valenglay muttered:
"Yes, strictly speaking, that is possible. . . . And, according to you,
did he find the documents?"
"He did not find the box, because it was not there; but he found the
black morocco note-case. So that Lupin and . . . the other are in the
same position. Each knows as much as the other about the Kesselbach
scheme."
"That means," remarked the premier, "that they will fight."
"Exactly. And the fight has already begun. The murderer, finding a card
of Arsène Lupin's, pinned it to the corpse. All the appearances would
thus be against Arsène Lupin . . . therefore, Arsène Lupin would be the
murderer."
"True . . . true," said Valenglay. "The calculation seemed pretty
accurate."
"And the stratagem would have succeeded," continued M. Lenormand, "if in
consequence of another and a less favorable accident, the murderer had
not, either in coming or going, dropped his cigarette-case in room 420,
and if the floor-waiter, Gustave Beudot, had not picked it up. From that
moment, knowing himself to be discovered, or on the point of being
discovered . . ."
"How did he know it?"
"How? Why, through M. Formerie, the examining-magistrate, himself! The
investigation took place with open doors. It is certain that the
murderer was concealed among the people, members of the hotel staff and
journalists, who were present when Gustave Beudot was giving his
evidence; and when the magistrate sent Gustave Beudot to his attic to
fetch the cigarette-case, the man followed and struck the blow. Second
victim!"
No one protested now. The tragedy was being reconstructed before their
eyes with a realism and a probable accuracy which were equally striking.
"And the third victim?" asked Valenglay.
"He himself gave the ruffian his opportunity. When Beudot did not
return, Chapman, curious to see the cigarette-case for himself, went
upstairs with the manager of the hotel. He was surprised by the
murderer, dragged away by him, taken to one of the bedrooms and murdered
in his turn."
"But why did he allow himself to be dragged away like that and to be led
by a man whom he knew to be the murderer of Mr. Kesselbach and of
Gustave Beudot?"
"I don't know, any more than I know the room in which the crime was
committed, or the really miraculous way in which the criminal escaped."
"Something has been said about two blue labels."
"Yes, one was found on the box which Lupin sent back; and the other was
found by me and doubtless came from the morocco note-case stolen by the
murderer."
"Well?"
"I don't think that they mean anything. What does mean something is the
number 813, which Mr. Kesselbach wrote on each of them. His handwriting
has been recognized."
"And that number 813?"
"It's a mystery."
"Then?"
"I can only reply again that I don't know."
"Have you no suspicions?"
"None at all. Two of my men are occupying one of the rooms in the Palace
Hotel, on the floor where Chapman's body was found. I have had all the
people in the hotel watched by these two men. The criminal is not one of
those who have left."
"Did no one telephone while the murders were being committed?"
"Yes, some one telephoned from the outside to Major Parbury, one of the
four persons who occupied rooms on the first-floor passage."
"And this Major Parbury?"
"I am having him watched by my men. So far, nothing has been discovered
against him."
"And in which direction do you intend to seek?"
"Oh, in a very limited direction. In my opinion, the murderer must be
numbered among the friends or connections of Mr. and Mrs. Kesselbach. He
followed their scent, knew their habits, the reason of Mr. Kesselbach's
presence in Paris; and he at least suspected the importance of Mr.
Kesselbach's plans."
"Then he was not a professional criminal?"
"No, no, certainly not! The murder was committed with extraordinary
cleverness and daring, but it was due to circumstances. I repeat, we
shall have to look among the people forming the immediate circle of Mr.
and Mrs. Kesselbach. And the proof is that Mr. Kesselbach's murderer
killed Gustave Beudot for the sole reason that the waiter had the
cigarette-case in his possession; and Chapman for the sole reason that
the secretary knew of its existence. Remember Chapman's excitement: at
the mere description of the cigarette-case, Chapman received a sudden
insight into the tragedy. If he had seen the cigarette-case, we should
have been fully informed. The man, whoever he may be, was well aware of
that: and he put an end to Chapman. And we know nothing, nothing but the
initials L and M."
He reflected for a moment and said:
"There is another proof, which forms an answer to one of your questions,
Monsieur le Président: Do you believe that Chapman would have
accompanied that man along the passages and staircases of the hotel if
he did not already know him?"
The facts were accumulating. The truth or, at least, the probable truth
was gaining strength. Many of the points at issue, the most interesting,
perhaps, remained obscure. But what a light had been thrown upon the
subject! Short of the motives that inspired them, how clearly
Lenormand's hearers now perceived the sequence of acts performed on that
tragic morning!
There was a pause. Every one was thinking, seeking for arguments, for
objections. At last, Valenglay exclaimed:
"My dear Lenormand, this is all quite excellent. You have convinced me.
. . . But, taking one thing with another, we are no further than we
were."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. The object of our meeting is not to clear up a portion of
the mystery, which, one day, I am sure, you will clear up altogether,
but to satisfy the public demand as fully as we possibly can. Now
whether the murderer is Lupin or another; whether there are two
criminals, or three, or only one: all this gives us neither the
criminal's name nor his arrest. And the public continues under the
disastrous impression that the law is powerless."
"What can I do?"
"Give the public the definite satisfaction which it demands."
"But it seems to me that this explanation ought to be enough. . . ."
"Words! The public wants deeds! One thing alone will satisfy it: an
arrest."
"Hang it all! Hang it all! We can't arrest the first person that comes
along!"
"Even that would be better than arresting nobody," said Valenglay, with
a laugh. "Come, have a good look round! Are you sure of Edwards,
Kesselbach's servant?"
"Absolutely sure. Besides . . . No, Monsieur le Président, it would be
dangerous and ridiculous; and I am sure that Mr. Attorney-General
himself . . . There are only two people whom we have the right to
arrest: the murderer--I don't know who he is--and Arsène Lupin."
"Well?"
"There is no question of arresting Arsène Lupin, or, at least, it
requires time, a whole series of measures, which I have not yet had the
leisure to contrive, because I looked upon Lupin as settled down . . .
or dead."
Valenglay stamped his foot with the impatience of a man who likes to see
his wishes realized on the spot:
"And yet . . . and yet, my dear Lenormand, something must be done . . .
if only for your own sake. You know as well as I do that you have
powerful enemies . . . and that, if I were not there . . . In short,
Lenormand, you can't be allowed to get out of it like this. What are you
doing about the accomplices? There are others besides Lupin. There is
Marco; and there's the rogue who impersonated Mr. Kesselbach in order
to visit the cellars of the Crédit Lyonnais."
"Would you be satisfied if you got him, Monsieur le Président?"
"Would I be satisfied? Heavens alive, I should think I would!"
"Well, give me seven days."
"Seven days! Why, it's not a question of days, my dear Lenormand! It's a
question of hours!"
"How many will you give me, Monsieur le Président?"
Valenglay took out his watch and chuckled:
"I will give you ten minutes, my dear Lenormand!"
The chief took out his, and emphasizing each syllable, said calmly:
"That is four minutes more than I want, Monsieur le Président."
Valenglay looked at him in amazement.
"Four minutes more than you want? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, Monsieur le Président, that the ten minutes which you allow me
are superfluous. I want six, and not one minute more."
"Oh, but look here, Lenormand . . . if you imagine that this is the time
for joking . . ."
The chief detective went to the window and beckoned to two men who were
walking round the courtyard.
Then he returned:
"Mr. Attorney-General, would you have the kindness to sign a warrant for
the arrest of Auguste Maximin Philippe Daileron, aged forty-seven? You
might leave the profession open."
He went to the door:
"Come in, Gourel. You, too, Dieuzy."
Gourel entered, accompanied by Inspector Dieuzy.
"Have you the handcuffs, Gourel?"
"Yes, chief."
M. Lenormand went up to Valenglay:
"Monsieur le Président, everything is ready. But I entreat you most
urgently to forego this arrest. It upsets all my plans; it may render
them abortive; and, for the sake of what, after all, is a very trifling
satisfaction, it exposes us to the risk of jeopardizing the whole
business."
"M. Lenormand, let me remark that you have only eighty seconds left."
The chief suppressed a gesture of annoyance, strode across the room and,
leaning on his stick, sat down angrily, as though he had decided not to
speak. Then, suddenly making up his mind:
"Monsieur le Président, the first person who enters this room will be
the man whose arrest you asked for . . . against my wish, as I insist on
pointing out to you."
"Fifteen seconds, Lenormand!"
"Gourel . . . Dieuzy . . . the first person, do you understand? . . .
Mr. Attorney, have you signed the warrant?"
"Ten seconds, Lenormand!"
"Monsieur le Président, would you be so good as to ring the bell?"
Valenglay rang.
The messenger appeared in the doorway and waited.
Valenglay turned to the chief:
"Well, Lenormand, he's waiting for your orders. Whom is he to show in?"
"No one."
"But the rogue whose arrest you promised us? The six minutes are more
than past."
"Yes, but the rogue is here!"
"Here? I don't understand. No one has entered the room!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Oh, I say. . . . Look here, Lenormand, you're making fun of us. I tell
you again that no one has entered the room."
"There were six of us in this room, Monsieur le Président; there are
seven now. Consequently, some one has entered the room."
Valenglay started:
"Eh! But this is madness! . . . What! You mean to say . . ."
The two detectives had slipped between the messenger and the door. M.
Lenormand walked up to the messenger, clapped his hand on his shoulder
and, in a loud voice:
"In the name of the law, Auguste Maximin Philippe Daileron, chief
messenger at the Ministry of the Interior, I arrest you."
Valenglay burst out laughing.
"Oh, what a joke! What a joke! That infernal Lenormand! Of all the
first-rate notions! Well done, Lenormand! It's long since I enjoyed so
good a laugh."
M. Lenormand turned to the attorney-general:
"Mr. Attorney, you won't forget to fill in Master Daileron's profession
on the warrant, will you? Chief messenger at the Ministry of the
Interior."
"Oh, good! . . . Oh, capital! . . . Chief messenger at the Ministry of
the Interior!" spluttered Valenglay, holding his sides. "Oh, this
wonderful Lenormand gets hold of ideas that would never occur to anybody
else! The public is clamoring for an arrest. . . . Whoosh, he flings at
its head my chief messenger . . . Auguste . . . the model servant!
Well, Lenormand, my dear fellow, I knew you had a certain gift of
imagination, but I never suspected that it would go so far as this! The
impertinence of it!"
From the commencement of this scene, Auguste had not stirred a limb and
seemed to understand nothing of what was going on around him. His face,
the typical face of a good, loyal, faithful serving-man, seemed
absolutely bewildered. He looked at the gentlemen turn and turn about,
with a visible effort to catch the meaning of their words.
M. Lenormand said a few words to Gourel, who went out. Then, going up to
Auguste and speaking with great decision, he said:
"There's no way out of it. You're caught. The best thing to do, when the
game is lost, is to throw down your cards. What were you doing on
Tuesday?"
"I? Nothing. I was here."
"You lie. You were off duty. You went out for the day."
"Oh, yes . . . I remember . . . I had a friend to see me from the
country. . . . We went for a walk in the Bois."
"Your friend's name was Marco. And you went for a walk in the cellars of
the Crédit Lyonnais."
"I? What an idea! . . . Marco! . . . I don't know any one by that name."
"And these? Do you know these?" cried the chief, thrusting a pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles under his nose.
"No . . . certainly not. . . . I don't wear spectacles. . . ."
"Yes, you do; you wear them when you go to the Crédit Lyonnais and when
you pass yourself off as Mr. Kesselbach. These come from your room, the
room which you occupy, under the name of M. Jérôme, at No. 50 Rue du
Colisee."
"My room? _My_ room? I sleep here, at the office."
"But you change your clothes over there, to play your parts in Lupin's
gang."
A blow in the chest made him stagger back. Auguste reached the window at
a bound, climbed over the balcony and jumped into the courtyard.
"Dash it all!" shouted Valenglay. "The scoundrel!"
He rang the bell, ran to the window, wanted to call out. M. Lenormand,
with the greatest calm, said:
"Don't excite yourself, Monsieur le Président . . ."
"But that blackguard of an Auguste . . ."
"One second, please. . . . I foresaw this ending . . . in fact, I
allowed for it. . . . It's the best confession we could have. . . ."
Yielding in the presence of this coolness, Valenglay resumed his seat.
In a moment, Gourel entered, with his hand on the collar of Master
Auguste Maximin Philippe Daileron, _alias_ Jérôme, chief messenger at
the Ministry of the Interior.
"Bring him, Gourel!" said M. Lenormand, as who should say, "Fetch it!
Bring it!" to a good retriever carrying the game in its jaws. "Did he
come quietly?"
"He bit me a little, but I held tight," replied the sergeant, showing
his huge, sinewy hand.
"Very well, Gourel. And now take this chap off to the Dépôt in a cab.
Good-bye for the present, M. Jérôme."
Valenglay was immensely amused. He rubbed his hands and laughed. The
idea that his chief messenger was one of Lupin's accomplices struck him
as a most delightfully ludicrous thing.
"Well done, my dear Lenormand; this is wonderful! But how on earth did
you manage it?"
"Oh, in the simplest possible fashion. I knew that Mr. Kesselbach was
employing the Barbareux agency and that Lupin had called on him,
pretending to come from the agency. I hunted in that direction and
discovered that, when the indiscretion was committed to the prejudice of
Mr. Kesselbach and of Barbareux, it could only have been to the
advantage of one Jérôme, a friend of one of the clerks at the agency. If
you had not ordered me to hustle things, I should have watched the
messenger and caught Marco and then Lupin."
"You'll catch them, Lenormand, you'll catch them, I assure you. And we
shall be assisting at the most exciting spectacle in the world: the
struggle between Lupin and yourself. I shall bet on you."
* * * * *
The next morning the newspapers published the following letter:
"_Open Letter to M. Lenormand, Chief of the
Detective-service._
"All my congratulations, dear sir and dear friend, on
your arrest of Jérôme the messenger. It was a smart
piece of work, well executed and worthy of you.
"All my compliments, also, on the ingenious manner in
which you proved to the prime minister that I was not
Mr. Kesselbach's murderer. Your demonstration was
clear, logical, irrefutable and, what is more,
truthful. As you know, I do not kill people. Thank you
for proving it on this occasion. The esteem of my
contemporaries and of yourself, dear sir and dear
friend, are indispensable to my happiness.
"In return, allow me to assist you in the pursuit of
the monstrous assassin and to give you a hand with the
Kesselbach case, a very interesting case, believe me:
so interesting and so worthy of my attention that I
have determined to issue from the retirement in which
I have been living for the past four years, between my
books and my good dog Sherlock, to beat all my
comrades to arms and to throw myself once more into
the fray.
"What unexpected turns life sometimes takes! Here am
I, your fellow-worker! Let me assure you, dear sir and
dear friend, that I congratulate myself upon it, and
that I appreciate this favor of destiny at its true
value.
"ARSÈNE LUPIN.
"P.S.--One word more, of which I feel sure that you
will approve. As it is not right and proper that a
gentleman who has had the glorious privilege of
fighting under my banner should languish on the straw
of your prisons, I feel it my duty to give you fair
warning that, in five weeks' time, on Friday, the 31st
of May, I shall set at liberty Master Jérôme, promoted
by me to the rank of chief messenger at the Ministry
of the Interior. Don't forget the date: Friday, the
31st of May.
"A. L."
CHAPTER IV
PRINCE SERNINE AT WORK
A ground-floor flat, at the corner of the Boulevard Haussmann and the
Rue de Courcelles. Here lived Prince Sernine: Prince Sernine, one of the
most brilliant members of the Russian colony in Paris, whose name was
constantly recurring in the "Arrivals and Departures" column in the
newspapers.
Eleven o'clock in the morning. The prince entered his study. He was a
man of thirty-eight or forty years of age, whose chestnut hair was
mingled with a few silver threads on the temples. He had a fresh,
healthy complexion and wore a large mustache and a pair of whiskers cut
extremely short, so as to be hardly noticeable against the fresh skin of
his cheeks.
He was smartly dressed in a tight-fitting frock-coat and a white drill
waistcoat, which showed above the opening.
"Come on!" he said, in an undertone. "I have a hard day's work before
me, I expect."
He opened a door leading into a large room where a few people sat
waiting, and said:
"Is Varnier there? Come in, Varnier."
A man looking like a small tradesman, squat, solidly built, firmly set
upon his legs, entered at the summons. The prince closed the door behind
him:
"Well, Varnier, how far are you?"
"Everything's ready for this evening, governor."
"Good. Tell me in a few words."
"It's like this. After her husband's murder, Mrs. Kesselbach, on the
strength of the prospectuses which you ordered to be sent to her,
selected as her residence the establishment known as the Retreat for
Gentlewomen, at Garches. She occupies the last of the four small houses,
at the bottom of the garden, which the management lets to ladies who
prefer to live quite apart from the other boarders, the house known as
the Pavillon de l'Impératrice."
"What servants has she?"
"Her companion, Gertrude, with whom she arrived a few hours after the
crime, and Gertrude's sister Suzanne, whom she sent for to Monte Carlo
and who acts as her maid. The two sisters are devoted to her."
"What about Edwards, the valet?"
"She did not keep him. He has gone back to his own country."
"Does she see people?"
"No. She spends her time lying on a sofa. She seems very weak and ill.
She cries a great deal. Yesterday the examining-magistrate was with her
for two hours."
"Very good. And now about the young girl."
"Mlle. Geneviève Ernemont lives across the way . . . in a lane running
toward the open country, the third house on the right in the lane. She
keeps a free school for backward children. Her grandmother, Mme.
Ernemont, lives with her."
"And, according to what you wrote to me, Geneviève Ernemont and Mrs.
Kesselbach have become acquainted?"
"Yes. The girl went to ask Mrs. Kesselbach for a subscription for her
school. They must have taken a liking to each other, for, during the
past four days, they have been walking together in the Parc de
Villeneuve, of which the garden of the Retreat is only a dependency."
"At what time do they go out?"
"From five to six. At six o'clock exactly the young lady goes back to
her school."
"So you have arranged the thing?"
"For six o'clock to-day. Everything is ready."
"Will there be no one there?"
"There is never any one in the park at that hour."
"Very well. I shall be there. You can go."
He sent him out through the door leading to the hall, and, returning to
the waiting-room, called:
"The brothers Doudeville."
Two young men entered, a little overdressed, keen-eyed and
pleasant-looking.
"Good morning, Jean. Good morning, Jacques. Any news at the Prefecture?"
"Nothing much, governor."
"Does M. Lenormand continue to have confidence in you?"
"Yes. Next to Gourel, we are his favorite inspectors. A proof is that he
has posted us in the Palace Hotel to watch the people who were living on
the first-floor passage at the time of Chapman's murder. Gourel comes
every morning, and we make the same report to him that we do to you."
"Capital. It is essential that I should be informed of all that happens
and all that is said at the Prefecture of Police. As long as Lenormand
looks upon you as his men, I am master of the situation. And have you
discovered a trail of any kind in the hotel?"
Jean Doudeville, the elder of the two, replied:
"The Englishwoman who occupied one of the bedrooms has gone."
"That doesn't interest me. I know all about her. But her neighbor, Major
Parbury?"
They seemed embarrassed. At last, one of them replied:
"Major Parbury, this morning, ordered his luggage to be taken to the
Gare du Nord, for the twelve-fifty train, and himself drove away in a
motor. We were there when the train left. The major did not come."
"And the luggage?"
"He had it fetched at the station."
"By whom?"
"By a commissionaire, so we were told."
"Then his tracks are lost?"
"Yes."
"At last!" cried the prince, joyfully.
The others looked at him in surprise.
"Why, of course," he said, "that's a clue!"
"Do you think so?"
"Evidently. The murder of Chapman can only have been committed in one of
the rooms on that passage. Mr. Kesselbach's murderer took the secretary
there, to an accomplice, killed him there, changed his clothes there;
and, once the murderer had got away, the accomplice placed the corpse in
the passage. But which accomplice? The manner of Major Parbury's
disappearance goes to show that he knows something of the business.
Quick, telephone the good news to M. Lenormand or Gourel. The Prefecture
must be informed as soon as possible. The people there and I are
marching hand in hand."
He gave them a few more injunctions, concerning their double rôle as
police-inspectors in the service of Prince Sernine, and dismissed them.
Two visitors remained in the waiting-room. He called one of them in:
"A thousand pardons, Doctor," he said. "I am quite at your orders now.
How is Pierre Leduc?"
"He's dead."
"Aha!" said Sernine. "I expected it, after your note of this morning.
But, all the same, the poor beggar has not been long. . . ."
"He was wasted to a shadow. A fainting-fit; and it was all over."
"Did he not speak?"
"No."
"Are you sure that, from the day when the two of us picked him up under
the table in that low haunt at Belleville, are you sure that nobody in
your nursing-home suspected that he was the Pierre Leduc whom the police
were looking for, the mysterious Pierre Leduc whom Mr. Kesselbach was
trying to find at all costs?"
"Nobody. He had a room to himself. Moreover, I bandaged up his left hand
so that the injury to the little finger could not be seen. As for the
scar on the cheek, it is hidden by the beard."
"And you looked after him yourself?"
"Myself. And, according to your instructions, I took the opportunity of
questioning him whenever he seemed at all clear in his head. But I could
never get more than an inarticulate stammering out of him."
The prince muttered thoughtfully:
"Dead! . . . So Pierre Leduc is dead? . . . The whole Kesselbach case
obviously turned on him, and now he disappears . . . without a
revelation, without a word about himself, about his past. . . . Ought I
to embark on this adventure, in which I am still entirely in the dark?
It's dangerous. . . . I may come to grief. . . ."
He reflected for a moment and exclaimed:
"Oh, who cares? I shall go on for all that. It's no reason, because
Pierre Leduc is dead, that I should throw up the game. On the contrary!
And the opportunity is too tempting! Pierre Leduc is dead! Long live
Pierre Leduc! . . . Go, Doctor, go home. I shall ring you up before
dinner."
The doctor went out.
"Now then, Philippe," said Sernine to his last remaining visitor, a
little gray-haired man, dressed like a waiter at a hotel, a very
tenth-rate hotel, however.
"You will remember, governor," Philippe began, "that last week, you made
me go as boots to the Hôtel des Deux-Empereurs at Versailles, to keep my
eye on a young man."
"Yes, I know. . . . Gérard Baupré. How do things stand with him?"
"He's at the end of his resources."
"Still full of gloomy ideas?"
"Yes. He wants to kill himself."
"Is he serious?"
"Quite. I found this little note in pencil among his papers."
"Ah!" said Sernine, reading the note. "He announces his suicide . . .
and for this evening too!"
"Yes, governor, he has bought the rope and screwed the hook to the
ceiling. Thereupon, acting on your instructions, I talked to him. He
told me of his distress, and I advised him to apply to you: 'Prince
Sernine is rich,' I said; 'he is generous; perhaps he will help you.'"
"All this is first-rate. So he is coming?"
"He is here."
"How do you know?"
"I followed him. He took the train to Paris, and he is walking up and
down the boulevard at this minute. He will make up his mind from one
moment to the other."
Just then the servant brought in a card. The prince glanced at it and
said to the man:
"Show M. Gérard Baupré in."
Then, turning to Philippe:
"You go into the dressing-room, here; listen and don't stir."
Left alone, the prince muttered:
"Why should I hesitate? It's fate that sends him my way. . . ."
A few minutes later a tall young man entered. He was fair and slender,
with an emaciated face and feverish eyes, and he stood on the threshold
embarrassed, hesitating, in the attitude of a beggar who would like to
put out his hand for alms and dares not.
The conversation was brief:
"Are you M. Gérard Baupré?"
"Yes . . . yes . . . that is my name."
"I have not the honor . . ."
"It's like this, sir. . . . Some one told me . . ."
"Who?"
"A hotel servant . . . who said he had been in your service. . . ."
"Please come to the point. . . ."
"Well! . . ."
The young man stopped, taken aback and frightened by the haughty
attitude adopted by the prince, who exclaimed:
"But, sir, there must be some . . ."
"Well, sir, the man told me that you were very rich . . . and very
generous. . . . And I thought that you might possibly . . ."
He broke off short, incapable of uttering the word of prayer and
humiliation.
Sernine went up to him.
"M. Gérard Baupré, did you not publish a volume of poetry called _The
Smile of Spring_?"
"Yes, yes," cried the young man, his face lighting up. "Have you read
it?"
"Yes. . . . Very pretty, your poems, very pretty. . . . Only, do you
reckon upon being able to live on what they will bring you?"
"Certainly . . . sooner or later. . . ."
"Sooner or later? Later rather than sooner, I expect! And, meantime, you
have come to ask me for the wherewithal to live?"
"For the wherewithal to buy food, sir."
Sernine put his hand on the young man's shoulder and, coldly:
"Poets do not need food, monsieur. They live on rhymes and dreams. Do as
they do. That is better than begging for bread."
The young man quivered under the insult. He turned to the door without a
word.
Sernine stopped him:
"One thing more, monsieur. Have you no resources of any kind?"
"None at all."
"And you are not reckoning on anything?"
"I have one hope left: I have written to one of my relations, imploring
him to send me something. I shall have his answer to-day. It is my last
chance."
"And, if you have no answer, you have doubtless made up your mind, this
very evening, to . . ."
"Yes, sir."
This was said quite plainly and simply.
Sernine burst out laughing:
"Bless my soul, what a queer young man you are! And full of artless
conviction, too! Come and see me again next year, will you? We will talk
about all this . . . it's so curious, so interesting . . . and, above
all, so funny! . . . Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
And, shaking with laughter, with affected bows and gestures, he showed
him the door.
"Philippe," he said, admitting the hotel-servant, "did you hear?"
"Yes, governor."
"Gérard Baupré is expecting a telegram this afternoon, a promise of
assistance. . . ."
"Yes, it's his last hope."
"He must not receive that telegram. If it comes, intercept it and tear
it up."
"Very well, governor."
"Are you alone at your hotel?"
"Yes, with the cook, who does not sleep in. The boss is away."
"Good. So we are the masters. Till this evening, at eleven. Be off."
Prince Sernine went to his room and rang for his servant:
"My hat, gloves, and stick. Is the car there?"
"Yes, sir."
He dressed, went out, and sank into a large, comfortable limousine,
which took him to the Bois de Boulogne, to the Marquis and Marquise de
Gastyne's, where he was engaged for lunch.
At half-past two he took leave of his hosts, stopped in the Avenue
Kléber, picked up two of his friends and a doctor, and at five minutes
to three arrived at the Parc des Princes.
At three o'clock he fought a sword duel with the Italian Major Spinelli,
cut his adversary's ear in the first bout, and, at a quarter to four,
took a bank at the Rue Cambon Club, from which he retired, at twenty
minutes past five, after winning forty-seven thousand francs.
And all this without hurrying, with a sort of haughty indifference, as
though the feverish activity that sent his life whizzing through a whirl
of tempestuous deeds and events were the ordinary rule of his most
peaceful days.
"Octave," he said to his chauffeur, "go to Garches."
And at ten minutes to six he alighted outside the old walls of the Parc
de Villeneuve.
* * * * *
Although broken up nowadays and spoilt, the Villeneuve estate still
retains something of the splendor which it knew at the time when the
Empress Eugénie used to stay there. With its old trees, its lake and the
leafy horizon of the woods of Saint-Cloud, the landscape has a certain
melancholy grace.
An important part of the estate was made over to the Pasteur Institute.
A smaller portion, separated from the other by the whole extent of the
space reserved for the public, forms a property contained within the
walls which is still fairly large, and which comprises the House of
Retreat, with four isolated garden-houses standing around it.
"That is where Mrs. Kesselbach lives," said the prince to himself,
catching sight of the roofs of the house and the four garden-houses in
the distance.
He crossed the park and walked toward the lake.
Suddenly he stopped behind a clump of trees. He had seen two ladies
against the parapet of the bridge that crossed the lake:
"Varnier and his men must be somewhere near. But, by Jove, they are
keeping jolly well hidden! I can't see them anywhere. . . ."
The two ladies were now strolling across the lawns, under the tall,
venerable trees. The blue of the sky appeared between the branches,
which swayed in the peaceful breeze, and the scent of spring and of
young vegetation was wafted through the air.
On the grassy slopes that ran down to the motionless water, daisies,
violets, daffodils, lilies of the valley, all the little flowers of
April and May stood grouped, and, here and there, formed constellations
of every color. The sun was sinking on the horizon.
And, all at once, three men started from a thicket of bushes and made
for the two ladies.
They accosted them. A few words were exchanged. The ladies gave visible
signs of dread. One of the men went up to the shorter of the two and
tried to snatch the gold purse which she was carrying in her hand. They
cried out; and the three men flung themselves upon them.
"Now or never!" said the prince.
And he rushed forward. In ten seconds he had almost reached the brink of
the water. At his approach, the three men fled.
"Run away, you vagabonds," he chuckled; "run for all you are worth!
Here's the rescuer coming!"
And he set out in pursuit of them. But one of the ladies entreated him:
"Oh, sir, I beg of you . . . my friend is ill."
The shorter lady had fallen on the grass in a dead faint.
He retraced his steps and, anxiously:
"She is not wounded?" he asked. "Did those scoundrels . . ."
"No . . . no . . . it's only the fright . . . the excitement. . . .
Besides you will understand . . . the lady is Mrs. Kesselbach. . . ."
"Oh!" he said.
He produced a bottle of smelling-salts, which the younger woman at once
applied to her friend's nostrils. And he added:
"Lift the amethyst that serves as a stopper. . . . You will see a little
box containing some tabloids. Give madame one of them . . . one, no more
. . . they are very strong. . . ."
He watched the young woman helping her friend. She was fair-haired, very
simply dressed; and her face was gentle and grave, with a smile that lit
up her features even when she was not smiling.
"That is Geneviève," he thought. And he repeated with emotion,
"Geneviève . . . Geneviève. . . ."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Kesselbach gradually recovered consciousness. She was
astonished at first, seemed not to understand. Then, her memory
returning, she thanked her deliverer with a movement of the head.
He made a deep bow and said:
"Allow me to introduce myself. . . . I am Prince Sernine. . . ."
She said, in a faint voice:
"I do not know how to express my gratitude."
"By not expressing it at all, madame. You must thank chance, the chance
that turned my steps in this direction. May I offer you my arm?"
A few minutes later, Mrs. Kesselbach rang at the door of the House of
Retreat and said to the prince:
"I will ask one more service of you, monsieur. Do not speak of this
assault."
"And yet, madame, it would be the only way of finding out . . ."
"Any attempt to find out would mean an inquiry; and that would involve
more noise and fuss about me, examinations, fatigue; and I am worn out
as it is."
The prince did not insist. Bowing to her, he asked:
"Will you allow me to call and ask how you are?"
"Oh, certainly. . . ."
She kissed Geneviève and went indoors.
Meantime, night was beginning to fall. Sernine would not let Geneviève
return alone. But they had hardly entered the path, when a figure,
standing out against the shadow, hastened toward them.
"Grandmother!" cried Geneviève.
She threw herself into the arms of an old woman, who covered her with
kisses:
"Oh, my darling, my darling, what has happened? How late you are! . . .
And you are always so punctual!"
Geneviève introduced the prince:
"Prince Sernine . . . Mme. Ernemont, my grandmother. . . ."
Then she related the incident, and Mme. Ernemont repeated:
"Oh, my darling, how frightened you must have been! . . . I shall never
forget your kindness, monsieur, I assure you. . . . But how frightened
you must have been, my poor darling!"
"Come, granny, calm yourself, as I am here. . . ."
"Yes, but the fright may have done you harm. . . . One never knows the
consequences. . . . Oh, it's horrible! . . ."
They went along a hedge, through which a yard planted with trees, a few
shrubs, a playground and a white house were just visible. Behind the
house, sheltered by a clump of elder-trees arranged to form a covered
walk, was a little gate.
The old lady asked Prince Sernine to come in and led the way to a little
drawing-room or parlor. Geneviève asked leave to withdraw for a moment,
to go and see her pupils, whose supper-time it was. The prince and Mme.
Ernemont remained alone.
The old lady had a sad and a pale face, under her white hair, which
ended in two long, loose curls. She was too stout, her walk was heavy
and, notwithstanding her appearance and her dress, which was that of a
lady, she had something a little vulgar about her; but her eyes were
immensely kind.
Prince Sernine went up to her, took her head in his two hands and kissed
her on both cheeks:
"Well, old one, and how are you?"
She stood dumfounded, wild-eyed, open-mouthed. The prince kissed her
again, laughing.
She spluttered:
"You! It's you! O mother of God! . . . O mother of God! . . . Is it
possible! . . . O mother of God! . . ."
"My dear old Victoire!"
"Don't call me that," she cried, shuddering. "Victoire is dead . . .
your old servant no longer exists.[3] I belong entirely to Geneviève."
And, lowering her voice, "O mother of God! . . . I saw your name in the
papers: then it's true that you have taken to your wicked life again?"
[Footnote 3: See _Arsène Lupin_, by Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc,
and _The Hollow Needle_, by Maurice Leblanc, translated by Alexander
Teixeira de Mattos.]
"As you see."
"And yet you swore to me that it was finished, that you were going away
for good, that you wanted to become an honest man."
"I tried. I have been trying for four years. . . . You can't say that I
have got myself talked about during those four years!"
"Well?"
"Well, it bores me."
She gave a sigh and asked:
"Always the same. . . . You haven't changed. . . . Oh, it's settled, you
never will change. . . . So you are in the Kesselbach case?"
"Why, of course! But for that, would I have taken the trouble to arrange
for an attack on Mrs. Kesselbach at six o'clock, so that I might have
the opportunity of delivering her from the clutches of my own men at
five minutes past? Looking upon me as her rescuer, she is obliged to
receive me. I am now in the heart of the citadel and, while protecting
the widow, can keep a lookout all round. Ah, you see, the sort of life
which I lead does not permit me to lounge about and waste my time on
little questions of politeness and such outside matters. I have to go
straight to the point, violently, brutally, dramatically. . . ."
She looked at him in dismay and gasped:
"I see . . . I see . . . it's all lies about the attack. . . . But then
. . . Geneviève . . ."
"Why, I'm killing two birds with one stone! It was as easy to rescue two
as one. Think of the time it would have taken, the efforts--useless
efforts, perhaps--to worm myself into that child's friendship! What was
I to her? What should I be now? An unknown person . . . a stranger.
Whereas now I am the rescuer. In an hour I shall be . . . the friend."
She began to tremble:
"So . . . so you did not rescue Geneviève. . . . So you are going to mix
us up in your affairs. . . ." And, suddenly, in a fit of rebellion,
seizing him by the shoulders, "No, I won't have it, do you understand?
You brought the child to me one day, saying, 'Here, I entrust her to you
. . . her father and mother are dead . . . take her under your
protection.' Well, she's under my protection now and I shall know how to
defend her against you and all your manœuvers!"
Standing straight upright, in a very determined attitude, Mme. Ernemont
seemed ready for all emergencies.
Slowly and deliberately Sernine loosened the two hands, one after the
other, that held him, and in his turn, took the old lady by the
shoulders, forced her into an arm-chair, stooped over and, in a very
calm voice, said:
"Rot!"
She began to cry and, clasping her hands together, implored him:
"I beseech you, leave us in peace. We were so happy! I thought that you
had forgotten us and I blessed Heaven every time a day had passed. Why,
yes . . . I love you just the same. But, Geneviève . . . you see,
there's nothing that I wouldn't do for that child. She has taken your
place in my heart."
"So I perceive," said he, laughing. "You would send me to the devil with
pleasure. Come, enough of this nonsense! I have no time to waste. I must
talk to Geneviève."
"You're going to talk to her?"
"Well, is that a crime?"
"And what have you to tell her?"
"A secret . . . a very grave secret . . . and a very touching one.
. . ."
The old lady took fright:
"And one that will cause her sorrow, perhaps? Oh, I fear everything, I
fear everything, where she's concerned! . . ."
"She is coming," he said.
"No, not yet."
"Yes, yes, I hear her. . . . Wipe your eyes and be sensible."
"Listen," said she, eagerly, "listen. I don't know what you are going to
say, what secret you mean to reveal to this child whom you don't know.
But I, who do know her, tell you this: Geneviève has a very plucky, very
spirited, but very sensitive nature. Be careful how you choose your
words. . . . You might wound feelings . . . the existence of which you
cannot even suspect. . . ."
"Lord bless me! And why not?"
"Because she belongs to another race than you, to a different world.
. . . I mean, a different moral world. . . . There are things which you
are forbidden to understand nowadays. Between you and her, the obstacle
is insurmountable. . . . Geneviève has the most unblemished and upright
conscience . . . and you . . ."
"And I?"
"And you are not an honest man!"
Geneviève entered, bright and charming:
"All my babies have gone to bed; I have ten minutes to spare. . . . Why,
grandmother, what's the matter? You look quite upset. . . . Is it still
that business with the . . ."
"No, mademoiselle," said Sernine, "I believe I have had the good fortune
to reassure your grandmother. Only, we were talking of you, of your
childhood; and that is a subject, it seems, which your grandmother
cannot touch upon without emotion."
"Of my childhood?" said Geneviève, reddening. "Oh, grandmother!"
"Don't scold her, mademoiselle. The conversation turned in that
direction by accident. It so happens that I have often passed through
the little village where you were brought up."
"Aspremont?"
"Yes, Aspremont, near Nice. You used to live in a new house, white all
over. . . ."
"Yes," she said, "white all over, with a touch of blue paint round the
windows. . . . I was only seven years old when I left Aspremont; but I
remember the least things of that period. And I have not forgotten the
glare of the sun on the white front of the house, nor the shade of the
eucalyptus-tree at the bottom of the garden."
"At the bottom of the garden, mademoiselle, was a field of olive-trees;
and under one of those olive-trees stood a table at which your mother
used to work on hot days. . . ."
"That's true, that's true," she said, quite excitedly, "I used to play
by her side. . . ."
"And it was there," said he, "that I saw your mother several times.
. . . I recognized her image the moment I set eyes on you . . . but it
was a brighter, happier image."
"Yes, my poor mother was not happy. My father died on the very day of my
birth, and nothing was ever able to console her. She used to cry a great
deal. I still possess a little handkerchief with which I used to dry her
tears at that time."
"A little handkerchief with a pink pattern."
"What!" she exclaimed, seized with surprise. "You know . . ."
"I was there one day when you were comforting her. . . . And you
comforted her so prettily that the scene remained impressed on my
memory."
She gave him a penetrating glance and murmured, almost to herself:
"Yes, yes. . . . I seem to . . . The expression of your eyes . . . and
then the sound of your voice. . . ."
She lowered her eyelids for a moment and reflected as if she were vainly
trying to bring back a recollection that escaped her. And she continued:
"Then you knew her?"
"I had some friends living near Aspremont and used to meet her at their
house. The last time I saw her, she seemed to me sadder still . . .
paler . . . and, when I came back again . . ."
"It was all over, was it not?" said Geneviève. "Yes, she went very
quickly . . . in a few weeks . . . and I was left alone with neighbors
who sat up with her . . . and one morning they took her away. . . . And,
on the evening of that day, some one came, while I was asleep, and
lifted me up and wrapped me in blankets. . . ."
"A man?" asked the prince.
"Yes, a man. He talked to me, quite low, very gently . . . his voice did
me good . . . and, as he carried me down the road and also in the
carriage, during the night, he rocked me in his arms and told me stories
. . . in the same voice . . . in the same voice . . ."
She broke off gradually and looked at him again, more sharply than
before and with a more obvious effort to seize the fleeting impression
that passed over her at moments. He asked:
"And then? Where did he take you?"
"I can't recollect clearly . . . it is just as though I had slept for
several days. . . . I can remember nothing before the little town of
Montégut, in the Vendée, where I spent the second half of my childhood,
with Father and Mother Izereau, a worthy couple who reared me and
brought me up and whose love and devotion I shall never forget."
"And did they die, too?"
"Yes," she said, "of an epidemic of typhoid fever in the district . . .
but I did not know that until later. . . . As soon as they fell ill, I
was carried off as on the first occasion and under the same conditions,
at night, by some one who also wrapped me up in blankets. . . . Only, I
was bigger, I struggled, I tried to call out . . . and he had to close
my mouth with a silk handkerchief."
"How old were you then?"
"Fourteen . . . it was four years ago."
"Then you were able to see what the man was like?"
"No, he hid his face better and he did not speak a single word to me.
. . . Nevertheless, I have always believed him to be the same one . . .
for I remember the same solicitude, the same attentive, careful
movements. . . ."
"And after that?"
"After that, came oblivion, sleep, as before. . . . This time, I was
ill, it appears; I was feverish. . . . And I woke in a bright, cheerful
room. A white-haired lady was bending over me and smiling. It was
grandmother . . . and the room was the one in which I now sleep
upstairs."
She had resumed her happy face, her sweet, radiant expression; and she
ended, with a smile:
"That was how she became my grandmother and how, after a few trials, the
little Aspremont girl now knows the delights of a peaceful life and
teaches grammar and arithmetic to little girls who are either naughty or
lazy . . . but who are all fond of her."
She spoke cheerfully, in a tone at once thoughtful and gay, and it was
obvious that she possessed a reasonable, well-balanced mind. Sernine
listened to her with growing surprise and without trying to conceal his
agitation:
"Have you never heard speak of that man since?" he asked.
"Never."
"And would you be glad to see him again?"
"Oh, very glad."
"Well, then, mademoiselle . . ."
Geneviève gave a start:
"You know something . . . the truth perhaps . . ."
"No . . . no . . . only . . ."
He rose and walked up and down the room. From time to time, his eyes
fell upon Geneviève; and it looked as though he were on the point of
giving a more precise answer to the question which she had put to him.
Would he speak?
Mme. Ernemont awaited with anguish the revelation of the secret upon
which the girl's future peace might depend.
He sat down beside Geneviève, appeared to hesitate, and said at last:
"No . . . no . . . just now . . . an idea occurred to me . . . a
recollection . . ."
"A recollection? . . . And . . ."
"I was mistaken. Your story contained certain details that misled me."
"Are you sure?"
He hesitated and then declared:
"Absolutely sure."
"Oh," said she, greatly disappointed. "I had half guessed . . . that
that man whom I saw twice . . . that you knew him . . . that . . ."
She did not finish her sentence, but waited for an answer to the
question which she had put to him without daring to state it completely.
He was silent. Then, insisting no further, she bent over Mme. Ernemont:
"Good night, grandmother. My children must be in bed by this time, but
they could none of them go to sleep before I had kissed them."
She held out her hand to the prince:
"Thank you once more. . . ."
"Are you going?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, if you will excuse me; grandmother will see you out."
He bowed low and kissed her hand. As she opened the door, she turned
round and smiled. Then she disappeared. The prince listened to the sound
of her footsteps diminishing in the distance and stood stock-still, his
face white with emotion.
"Well," said the old lady, "so you did not speak?"
"No. . . ."
"That secret . . ."
"Later. . . . To-day . . . oddly enough . . . I was not able to."
"Was it so difficult? Did not she herself feel that you were the
stranger who took her away twice. . . . A word would have been enough.
. . ."
"Later, later," he repeated, recovering all his assurance. "You can
understand . . . the child hardly knows me. . . . I must first gain the
right to her affection, to her love. . . . When I have given her the
life which she deserves, a wonderful life, such as one reads of in
fairy-tales, then I will speak."
The old lady tossed her head:
"I fear that you are making a great mistake. Geneviève does not want a
wonderful life. She has simple tastes."
"She has the tastes of all women; and wealth, luxury and power give joys
which not one of them despises."
"Yes, Geneviève does. And you would do much better . . ."
"We shall see. For the moment, let me go my own way. And be quite easy.
I have not the least intention, as you say, of mixing her up in any of
my manœuvers. She will hardly ever see me. . . . Only, we had to come
into contact, you know. . . . That's done. . . . Good-bye."
He left the school and walked to where his motor-car was waiting for
him. He was perfectly happy:
"She is charming . . . and so gentle, so grave! Her mother's eyes, eyes
that soften you . . . Heavens, how long ago that all is! And what a
delightful recollection! A little sad, but so delightful!" And he said,
aloud, "Certainly I shall look after her happiness! And that at once!
This very evening! That's it, this very evening she shall have a
sweetheart! Is not love the essential condition of any young girl's
happiness?"
He found his car on the high-road:
"Home," he said to Octave.
* * * * *
When Sernine reached home, he rang up Neuilly and telephoned his
instructions to the friend whom he called the doctor. Then he dressed,
dined at the Rue Cambon Club, spent an hour at the opera and got into
his car again:
"Go to Neuilly, Octave. We are going to fetch the doctor. What's the
time?"
"Half-past ten."
"Dash it! Look sharp!"
Ten minutes later, the car stopped at the end of the Boulevard Inkerman,
outside a villa standing in its own grounds. The doctor came down at the
sound of the hooter. The prince asked:
"Is the fellow ready?"
"Packed up, strung up, sealed up."
"In good condition?"
"Excellent. If everything goes as you telephoned, the police will be
utterly at sea."
"That's what they're there for. Let's get him on board."
They carried into the motor a sort of long sack shaped like a human
being and apparently rather heavy. And the prince said:
"Go to Versailles, Octave, Rue de la Vilaine. Stop outside the Hôtel des
Deux-Empereurs."
"Why, it's a filthy hotel," observed the doctor. "I know it well; a
regular hovel."
"You needn't tell me! And it will be a hard piece of work, for me, at
least. . . . But, by Jove, I wouldn't sell this moment for a fortune!
Who dares pretend that life is monotonous?"
They reached the Hôtel des Deux-Empereurs. A muddy alley; two steps
down; and they entered a passage lit by a flickering lamp.
Sernine knocked with his fist against a little door.
A waiter appeared, Philippe, the man to whom Sernine had given orders,
that morning, concerning Gérard Baupré.
"Is he here still?" asked the prince.
"Yes."
"The rope?"
"The knot is made."
"He has not received the telegram he was hoping for?"
"I intercepted it: here it is."
Sernine took the blue paper and read it:
"Gad!" he said. "It was high time. This is to promise him a thousand
francs for to-morrow. Come, fortune is on my side. A quarter to twelve.
. . . In a quarter of an hour, the poor devil will take a leap into
eternity. Show me the way, Philippe. You stay here, Doctor."
The waiter took the candle. They climbed to the third floor, and,
walking on tip-toe, went along a low and evil-smelling corridor, lined
with garrets and ending in a wooden staircase covered with the musty
remnants of a carpet.
"Can no one hear me?" asked Sernine.
"No. The two rooms are quite detached. But you must be careful not to
make a mistake: he is in the room on the left."
"Very good. Now go downstairs. At twelve o'clock, the doctor, Octave and
you are to carry the fellow up here, to where we now stand, and wait
till I call you."
The wooden staircase had ten treads, which the prince climbed with
definite caution. At the top was a landing with two doors. It took
Sernine quite five minutes to open the one of the right without breaking
the silence with the least sound of a creaking hinge.
A light gleamed through the darkness of the room. Feeling his way, so as
not to knock against one of the chairs, he made for that light. It came
from the next room and filtered through a glazed door covered with a
tattered hanging.
The prince pulled the threadbare stuff aside. The panes were of ground
glass, but scratched in parts, so that, by applying one eye, it was easy
to see all that happened in the other room.
Sernine saw a man seated at a table facing him. It was the poet, Gérard
Baupré. He was writing by the light of a candle.
Above his head hung a rope, which was fastened to a hook fixed in the
ceiling. At the end of the rope was a slip-knot.
A faint stroke sounded from a clock in the street.
"Five minutes to twelve," thought Sernine. "Five minutes more."
The young man was still writing. After a moment, he put down his pen,
collected the ten or twelve sheets of paper which he had covered and
began to read them over.
What he read did not seem to please him, for an expression of discontent
passed across his face. He tore up his manuscript and burnt the pieces
in the flame of the candle.
Then, with a fevered hand, he wrote a few words on a clean sheet, signed
it savagely and rose from his chair.
But, seeing the rope at ten inches above his head, he sat down again
suddenly with a great shudder of alarm.
Sernine distinctly saw his pale features, his lean cheeks, against which
he pressed his clenched fists. A tear trickled slowly down his face, a
single, disconsolate tear. His eyes gazed into space, eyes terrifying in
their unutterable sadness, eyes that already seemed to behold the dread
unknown.
And it was so young a face! Cheeks still so smooth, with not a blemish,
not a wrinkle! And blue eyes, blue like an eastern sky! . . .
Midnight . . . the twelve tragic strokes of midnight, to which so many a
despairing man has hitched the last second of his existence!
At the twelfth stroke, he stood up again and, bravely this time, without
trembling, looked at the sinister rope. He even tried to give a smile, a
poor smile, the pitiful grimace of the doomed man whom death has already
seized for its own.
Swiftly he climbed the chair and took the rope in one hand.
For a moment, he stood there, motionless: not that he was hesitating or
lacking in courage. But this was the supreme moment, the one minute of
grace which a man allows himself before the fatal deed.
He gazed at the squalid room to which his evil destiny had brought him,
the hideous paper on the walls, the wretched bed.
On the table, not a book: all were sold. Not a photograph, not a letter:
he had no father, no mother, no relations. What was there to make him
cling to life?
With a sudden movement he put his head into the slip-knot and pulled at
the rope until the noose gripped his neck.
And, kicking the chair from him with both feet, he leapt into space.
* * * * *
Ten seconds, fifteen seconds passed, twenty formidable, eternal seconds.
. . .
The body gave two or three jerks. The feet had instinctively felt for a
resting-place. Then nothing moved. . . .
A few seconds more. . . . The little glazed door opened.
Sernine entered.
Without the least haste he took the sheet of paper to which the young
man had set his signature, and read:
"Tired of living, ill, penniless, hopeless, I am
taking my own life. Let no one be accused of my death.
"GÉRARD BAUPRÉ.
"_30 April._"
He put back the paper on the table where it could be seen, picked up the
chair and placed it under the young man's feet. He himself climbed up on
the table and, holding the body close to him, lifted it up, loosened the
slip-knot and passed the head through it.
The body sank into his arms. He let it slide along the table and,
jumping to the floor, laid it on the bed.
Then, with the same coolness, he opened the door on the passage:
"Are you there, all the three of you?" he whispered.
Some one answered from the foot of the wooden staircase near him:
"We are here. Are we to hoist up our bundle?"
"Yes, come along!"
He took the candle and showed them a light.
The three men trudged up the stairs, carrying the sack in which the
"fellow" was tied up.
"Put him here," he said, pointing to the table.
With a pocket-knife, he cut the cords round the sack. A white sheet
appeared, which he flung back. In the sheet was a corpse, the corpse of
Pierre Leduc.
"Poor Pierre Leduc!" said Sernine. "You will never know what you lost by
dying so young! I should have helped you to go far, old chap. However,
we must do without your services. . . . Now then, Philippe, get up on
the table; and you, Octave, on the chair. Lift up his head and fasten
the slip-knot."
Two minutes later, Pierre Leduc's body was swinging at the end of the
rope.
"Capital, that was quite simple! Now you can all of you go. You, Doctor,
will call back here to-morrow morning; you will hear of the suicide of a
certain Gérard Baupré: you understand, Gérard Baupré. Here is his
farewell letter. You will send for the divisional surgeon and the
commissary; you will arrange that neither of them notices that the
deceased has a cut finger or a scar on one cheek. . . ."
"That's easy."
"And you will manage so as to have the report written then and there, to
your dictation."
"That's easy."
"Lastly, avoid having the body sent to the Morgue and make them give
permission for an immediate burial."
"That's not so easy."
"Try. Have you examined the other one?"
He pointed to the young man lying lifeless on the bed.
"Yes," said the doctor. "The breathing is becoming normal. But it was a
big risk to run . . . the carotid artery might have . . ."
"Nothing venture, nothing have. . . . How soon will he recover
consciousness?"
"In a few minutes."
"Very well. Oh, by the way, don't go yet, Doctor. Wait for me
downstairs. There is more for you to do."
The prince, when he found himself alone, lit a cigarette and puffed at
it quietly, sending little blue rings of smoke floating up to the
ceiling.
A sigh roused him from his thoughts. He went to the bed. The young man
was beginning to move; and his chest rose and fell violently, like that
of a sleeper under the influence of a nightmare. He put his hands to his
throat, as though he felt a pain there; and this action suddenly made
him sit up, terrified, panting. . . .
Then he saw Sernine in front of him:
"You?" he whispered, without understanding. "You? . . ."
He gazed at him stupidly, as though he had seen a ghost.
He again touched his throat, felt round his neck. . . . And suddenly he
gave a hoarse cry; a mad terror dilated his eyes, made his hair stand on
end, shook him from head to foot like an aspen-leaf! The prince had
moved aside; and he saw the man's corpse hanging from the rope.
He flung himself back against the wall. That man, that hanged man, was
himself! He was dead and he was looking at his own dead body! Was this a
hideous dream that follows upon death? A hallucination that comes to
those who are no more and whose distracted brain still quivers with a
last flickering gleam of life? . . .
His arms struck at the air. For a moment, he seemed to be defending
himself against the squalid vision. Then, exhausted, he fainted away for
the second time.
"First-rate," said the prince, with a grin. "A sensitive, impressionable
nature. . . . At present, the brain is out of gear. . . . Come, this is
a propitious moment. . . . But, if I don't get the business done in
twenty minutes . . . he'll escape me. . . ."
He pushed open the door between the two garrets, came back to the bed,
lifted the young man and carried him to the bed in the other room. Then
he bathed his temples with cold water and made him sniff at some salts.
This time, the swoon did not last long.
Gérard timidly opened his eyes and raised them to the ceiling. The
vision was gone. But the arrangement of the furniture, the position of
the table and the fireplace, and certain other details all surprised him
. . . And then came the remembrance of his act, the pain which he felt
at his throat. . . .
He said to the prince:
"I have had a dream, have I not?"
"No."
"How do you mean, no?" And, suddenly recollecting, "Oh, that's true, I
remember. . . . I meant to kill myself . . . and I even . . ." Bending
forward anxiously, "But the rest, the vision . . ."
"What vision?"
"The man . . . the rope . . . was that a dream? . . ."
"No," said Sernine. "That also was real."
"What are you saying? What are you saying? . . . Oh, no, no! . . . I
entreat you! . . . Wake me, if I am asleep . . . or else let me die!
. . . But I am dead, am I not? And this is the nightmare of a corpse!
. . . Oh, I feel my brain going! . . . I entreat you. . . ."
Sernine placed his hand gently on the young man's head and, bending over
him:
"Listen to me . . . listen to me carefully and understand what I say.
You are alive. Your matter and your mind are as they were and live. But
Gérard Baupré is dead. You understand me, do you not? That member of
society who was known as Gérard Baupré has ceased to exist. You have
done away with that one. To-morrow, the registrar will write in his
books, opposite the name you bore, the word 'Dead,' with the date of
your decease."
"It's a lie!" stammered the terrified lad. "It's a lie! Considering that
I, Gérard Baupré, am here!"
"You are not Gérard Baupré," declared Sernine. And, pointing to the open
door, "Gérard Baupré is there, in the next room. Do you wish to see
him? He is hanging from the nail to which you hooked him. On the table
is a letter in which you certify his death with your signature. It is
all quite regular, it is all final. There is no getting away from the
irrevocable, brutal fact: Gérard Baupré has ceased to exist!"
The young man listened in despair. Growing calmer, now that facts were
assuming a less tragic significance, he began to understand:
"And then . . ." he muttered.
"And then . . . let us talk."
"Yes, yes . . . let us talk. . . ."
"A cigarette?" asked the prince. "Will you have one? Ah, I see that you
are becoming reconciled to life! So much the better: we shall understand
each other; and that quickly."
He lit the young man's cigarette and his own and, at once, in a few
words uttered in a hard voice, explained himself:
"You, the late Gérard Baupré, were weary of life, ill, penniless,
hopeless. . . . Would you like to be well, rich, and powerful?"
"I don't follow you."
"It is quite simple. Accident has placed you on my path. You are young,
good-looking, a poet; you are intelligent and--your act of despair shows
it--you have a fine sense of conduct. These are qualities which are
rarely found united in one person. I value them . . . and I take them
for my account."
"They are not for sale."
"Idiot! Who talks of buying or selling? Keep your conscience. It is too
precious a jewel for me to relieve you of it."
"Then what do you ask of me?"
"Your life!" And, pointing to the bruises on the young man's throat,
"Your life, which you have not known how to employ! Your life, which you
have bungled, wasted, destroyed and which, I propose to build up again,
in accordance with an ideal of beauty, greatness and dignity that would
make you giddy, my lad, if you saw the abyss into which my secret
thought plunges. . . ." He had taken Gérard's head between his hands and
he continued, eagerly: "You are free! No shackles! You have no longer
the weight of your name to bear! You have got rid of that number with
which society had stamped you as though branding you on the shoulder.
You are free! In this world of slaves where each man bears his label you
can either come and go unknown, invisible, as if you owned Gyges' ring
. . . or else you can choose your own label, the one you like best! Do
you understand the magnificent treasure which you represent to an artist
. . . to yourself, if you like? A virgin life, a brand-new life! Your
life is the wax which you have the right to fashion as you please,
according to the whims of your imagination and the counsels of your
reason."
The young man made a gesture expressive of weariness:
"Ah, what would you have me do with that treasure? What have I done with
it so far? Nothing!"
"Give it to me."
"What can you do with it?"
"Everything. If you are not an artist, I am; and an enthusiastic artist,
inexhaustible, indomitable, exuberant. If you have not the Promethean
fire, I have! Where you failed, I shall succeed. Give me your life."
"Words, promises!" cried the young man, whose features began to glow
with animation. "Empty dreams! I know my own worthlessness! I know my
cowardice, my despondency, my efforts that come to nothing, all my
wretchedness. To begin life anew, I should need a will which I do not
possess. . . ."
"I possess mine."
"Friends. . . ."
"You shall have them."
"Means. . . ."
"I am providing you with means . . . and such means! You will only have
to dip, as one would dip into a magic coffer."
"But who are you?" cried the young man, wildly.
"To others, Prince Sernine. . . . To you . . . what does it matter? I am
more than a prince, more than a king, more than an emperor. . . ."
"Who are you? . . . Who are you?" stammered Baupré.
"The Master . . . he who will and who can . . . he who acts. . . . There
are no bounds to my will, there is none to my power. I am richer than
the richest man alive, for his fortune is mine. . . . I am more powerful
than the mightiest, for their might is at my service!"
He took the other's head in his hands again and, looking deep into his
eyes:
"Be rich, too . . . be mighty. . . . I offer you happiness . . . and the
joy of living . . . and peace for your poet's brain . . . and fame and
glory also. . . . Do you accept?"
"Yes . . . yes . . ." whispered Gérard, dazzled and overmastered. "What
am I to do?"
"Nothing."
"But . . ."
"Nothing, I say. The whole scaffolding of my plans rests on you, but
you do not count. You have no active part to play. You are, for the
moment, but a silent actor, or not even that, but just a pawn which I
move along the board."
"What shall I do?"
"Nothing. Write poetry. You shall live as you please. You shall have
money. You shall enjoy life. I will not even bother my head about you. I
repeat, you play no part in my venture."
"And who shall I be?"
Sernine stretched out his arm and pointed to the next room:
"You shall take that man's place. _You are that man!_"
Gérard shuddered with revolt and disgust:
"Oh, no, he is dead! . . . And then . . . it is a crime! . . . No, I
want a new life, made for me, thought out for me . . . an unknown name.
. . ."
"That man, I tell you!" cried Sernine, irresistible in his energy and
authority. "You shall be that man and none other! That man, because his
destiny is magnificent, because his name is illustrious, and because he
hands down to you a thrice-venerable heritage of ancestral dignity and
pride."
"It is a crime!" moaned Baupré, faltering.
"You shall be that man!" spoke Sernine, with unparalleled vehemence.
"You shall be that man! If not, you become Baupré again; and over Baupré
I own rights of life and death. Choose."
He drew his revolver, cocked it and took aim at the young man:
"Choose," he repeated.
The expression of his face was implacable. Gérard was frightened and
sank down on his bed sobbing:
"I wish to live!"
"You wish it firmly, irrevocably?"
"Yes, a thousand times yes! After the terrible thing which I attempted,
death appals me. . . . Anything . . . anything rather than death! . . .
Anything! . . . Pain . . . hunger . . . illness . . . every torture,
every shame . . . crime itself, if need be . . . but not death!"
He shivered with fever and agony, as though the great enemy were still
prowling round him and as though he felt himself powerless to escape
from its clutches. The prince redoubled his efforts and, in a fervent
voice, holding him under him like a prey:
"I will ask nothing impossible of you, nothing wrong. . . . If there is
anything, I am responsible. . . . No, no crime . . . a little pain at
most. . . . A little of your blood must flow. But what is that, compared
with the dread of dying?"
"Pain is indifferent to me."
"Then here and now!" shouted Sernine. "Here and now! Ten seconds of pain
and that is all. . . . Ten seconds and the other's life is yours. . . ."
He had seized him round the body and forced him down on a chair; and he
now held the young man's left hand flat on the table, with his five
fingers spread out. He swiftly took a knife from his pocket, pressed the
blade against the little finger, between the first and second joints,
and commanded:
"Strike! Strike your own blow. One blow of the fist and that is all!"
He had taken Gérard's right hand and was trying to bring it down upon
the other like a hammer.
Gérard writhed and twisted, convulsed with horror. He understood:
"Never!" he stuttered. "Never!"
"Strike! One blow and it's done! One blow and you will be like that man:
no one will recognize you."
"Tell me his name. . . ."
"Strike first!"
"Never! Oh, what torture! . . . I beseech you . . . presently. . . ."
"Now. . . . I insist . . . you must . . ."
"No . . . no . . . I can't do it. . . ."
"Strike, you fool! It means fortune, fame, love. . . ."
Gérard raised his fist with a sudden movement.
"Love," he said, "yes . . . for that, yes. . . ."
"You will love and be loved," said Sernine. "Your betrothed awaits you.
I have chosen her myself. She is the purest of the pure, the fairest of
the fair. But you must win her. Strike!"
The lad's arm stiffened for the fatal blow; but the instinct of
self-preservation was too strong for him. His body was wrung with a
superhuman effort. He suddenly released himself from Sernine's hold and
fled.
He rushed like a madman to the other room. A yell of terror escaped him,
at the sight of the abominable vision, and he came back and fell on his
knees before Sernine, beside the table.
"Strike!" said the prince, again spreading out the lad's fingers and
fixing the blade of the knife.
What followed was done mechanically. With an automatic movement, with
haggard eyes and a livid face, the young man raised his fist and struck:
"Ah!" he cried, with a moan of pain.
A small piece of flesh was separated from the little finger. Blood
flowed. For the third time, Gérard fainted.
Sernine looked at him for a second or two and said, gently:
"Poor little chap! . . . There, I'll reward you for what you've done;
and a hundred times over. I always pay generously."
He went downstairs and found the doctor waiting below:
"It's done. Go upstairs, you, and make a little cut in his right cheek,
similar to Pierre Leduc's. The two scars must be exactly alike. I shall
come back for you in an hour."
"Where are you going?"
"To take the air. My heart feels anyhow."
Outside he drew a long breath and lit another cigarette:
"A good day's work," he muttered. "A little over-crowded, a little
tiring, but fruitful, really fruitful. I am Dolores Kesselbach's friend.
I am Geneviève's friend. I have manufactured a new Pierre Leduc, a very
presentable one and entirely at my disposal. Lastly, I have found
Geneviève a husband of the sort that you don't find by the dozen. Now my
task is done. I have only to gather the fruit of my efforts. It's your
turn to work, M. Lenormand. I, for my part, am ready." And he added,
thinking of the poor mutilated lad whom he had dazzled with his
promises, "Only--for there is an 'only'--I have not the slightest notion
who this Pierre Leduc was, whose place I have magnanimously awarded to
that good young man. And that's very annoying. . . . For when all is
said, there's nothing to prove to me that Pierre Leduc was not the son
of a pork-butcher! . . ."
CHAPTER V
M. LENORMAND AT WORK
On the morning of the 31st of May, all the newspapers reminded their
readers that Lupin, in a letter addressed to M. Lenormand, had announced
the escape of the messenger Jérôme for that date. And one of them summed
up the situation, as it then stood, in very able terms:
"The horrible carnage at the Palace Hotel took place
as far back as the 17th of April. What has been
discovered since? Nothing.
"There were three clues: the cigarette-case, the
initials L and M and the parcel of clothes left behind
in the office of the hotel. What advantage has been
taken of these clues? None.
"It appears that the police suspect one of the
visitors who was staying on the first floor and who
disappeared in a doubtful manner. Have they found him?
Have they established his identity? No.
"The tragedy, therefore, remains as mysterious as at
the beginning, the gloom is impenetrable.
"To complete the picture, we are told that dissension
prevails between the prefect of police and his
subordinate, M. Lenormand, and that the latter,
finding himself less vigorously supported by the prime
minister, virtually sent in his resignation several
days ago. According to our information, the conduct of
the Kesselbach case is now in the hands of the
deputy-chief of the detective-service, M. Weber, a
personal enemy of M. Lenormand's.
"In short, disorder and confusion reign; and this in
the face of Lupin, who stands for method, energy and
steadfastness of mind.
"What conclusion do we draw from these facts? Briefly,
this: Lupin will release his accomplice to-day, the
31st of May, as he foretold."
This conclusion, which was echoed in all the other newspapers, was also
the conclusion at which the general public had arrived. And we must take
it that the threat was not considered devoid of importance in high
places, for the prefect of police and, in the absence of M. Lenormand,
who was said to be unwell, the deputy-chief of the detective-service, M.
Weber, had adopted the most stringent measures, both at the Palais de
Justice and at the Santé Prison, where the prisoner was confined.
They did not dare, for sheer reasons of shame, to suspend on that
particular day the examinations conducted daily by M. Formerie; but,
from the prison to the Boulevard du Palais, a regular mobilization of
police-forces guarded the streets along the line.
To the intense astonishment of one and all, the 31st of May passed and
the threatened escape did not take place.
One thing did happen, an attempt to execute the plan, as was betrayed by
a block of tramway-cars, omnibuses and drays along the road taken by the
prison-van and the unaccountable breaking of one of the wheels of the
van itself. But the attempt assumed no more definite form.
Lupin, therefore, had met with a check. The public felt almost
disappointed and the police triumphed loudly.
On the next day, Saturday, an incredible rumour spread through the
Palais and the newspaper-offices: Jérôme the messenger had disappeared.
Was it possible? Although the special editions confirmed the news,
people refused to believe it. But, at six o'clock, a note published by
the _Dépêche du Soir_ made it official:
"We have received the following communication signed
by Arsène Lupin. The special stamp affixed to it, in
accordance with the circular which Lupin recently sent
to the press, guarantees the genuineness of the
document:
"'_To the Editor of the_ Dépêche du Soir.
"SIR,
"'Pray make my apologies to the public for not keeping
my word yesterday. I remembered, at the last moment,
that the 31st of May fell on a Friday! Could I set my
friend at liberty on a Friday? I did not think it
right to assume that responsibility.
"'I must also apologize for not on this occasion
explaining, with my customary frankness, how this
little event was managed. My process is so ingenious
and so simple that I fear lest, if I revealed it,
every criminal should be inspired by it. How surprised
people will be on the day when I am free to speak! "Is
that all?" I shall be asked. That is all; but it had
to be thought of.
"'Permit me to be, Sir,
"'Your obedient servant,
"'ARSÈNE LUPIN.'"
An hour later, M. Lenormand was rung up on the telephone and informed
that Valenglay, the prime minister, wished to see him at the Ministry of
the Interior.
* * * * *
"How well you're looking, my dear Lenormand! And I who thought that you
were ill and dared not leave your room!"
"I am not ill, Monsieur le Président."
"So you were sulking in your tent! . . . But you were always a
bad-tempered fellow."
"I confess to the bad temper, Monsieur le Président, but not to the
sulking."
"But you stay at home! And Lupin takes advantage of it to release his
friends. . . ."
"How could I stop him?"
"How? Why, Lupin's trick was of the plainest. In accordance with his
usual method, he announced the date of the escape beforehand; everybody
believed in it; an apparent attempt was planned; the escape was not
made; and, on the next day, when nobody is thinking about
it--whoosh!--the bird takes flight."
"Monsieur le Président," said the chief of the detective-service,
solemnly, "Lupin disposes of such means that we are not in a position to
prevent what he has decided on. The escape was mathematically certain. I
preferred to pass the hand . . . and leave the laughter for others to
face."
Valenglay chuckled:
"It's a fact that Monsieur le Préfet de Police and M. Weber cannot be
enjoying themselves at the present moment. . . . But, when all is said,
can you explain to me, M. Lenormand . . ."
"All that we know, Monsieur le Président, is that the escape took place
from the Palais de Justice. The prisoner was brought in a prison-van and
taken to M. Formerie's room. He left M. Formerie's room, but he did not
leave the Palais de Justice. And yet nobody knows what became of him."
"It's most bewildering."
"Most bewildering."
"And has nothing else been discovered?"
"Yes. The inner corridor leading to the examining magistrates' rooms was
blocked by an absolutely unprecedented crowd of prisoners, warders,
counsel and doorkeepers; and it was discovered that all those people had
received forged notices to appear at the same hour. On the other hand,
not one of the examining-magistrates who were supposed to have summoned
them sat in his room that day; and this because of forged notices from
the public prosecutor's office, sending them to every part of Paris
. . . and of the outskirts."
"Is that all?"
"No. Two municipal guards and a prisoner were seen to cross the
courtyards. A cab was waiting for them outside and all three stepped in.
"And your supposition, Lenormand, your opinion. . . ."
"My supposition, Monsieur le Président, is that the two municipal guards
were accomplices who, profiting by the disorder in the corridor, took
the place of the three warders. And my opinion is that this escape
succeeded only through such special circumstances and so strange a
combination of facts that we must look upon the most unlikely cases of
complicity as absolutely certain. Lupin, for that matter, has
connections at the Palais that balk all our calculations. He has agents
in your ministry. He has agents at the Prefecture of Police. He has
agents around me. It is a formidable organization, a detective-service a
thousand times more clever, more daring, more varied and more supple
than that under my own orders."
"And you stand this, Lenormand?"
"No, I do not."
"Then why this slackness on your part since the beginning of the case?
What have you done against Lupin?"
"I have prepared for the struggle."
"Ah, capital! And, while you were preparing, he was acting."
"So was I."
"And do you know anything?"
"I know a great deal."
"What? Speak!"
Leaning on his stick, M. Lenormand took a little contemplative walk
across the spacious room. Then he sat down opposite Valenglay, brushed
the facings of his olive-green coat with his finger-tips, settled his
spectacles on his nose and said, plainly:
"M. le Président, I hold three trump-cards in my hand. First, I know the
name under which Arsène Lupin is hiding at this moment, the name under
which he lived on the Boulevard Haussmann, receiving his assistants
daily, reconstructing and directing his gang."
"But then why, in heaven's name, don't you arrest him?"
"I did not receive these particulars until later. The prince--let us
call him Prince Dash--has disappeared. He is abroad, on other
business."
"And, if he does not return . . ."
"The position which he occupies, the manner in which he has flung
himself into the Kesselbach case, necessitate his return and under the
same name."
"Nevertheless . . ."
"Monsieur le Président, I come to my second trump. I have at last
discovered Pierre Leduc."
"Nonsense!"
"Or rather Lupin discovered him, and before disappearing, settled him in
a little villa in the neighborhood of Paris."
"By Jove! But how did you know . . ."
"Oh, easily! Lupin has placed two of his accomplices with Pierre Leduc,
to watch him and defend him. Now these accomplices are two of my own
detectives, two brothers whom I employ in the greatest secrecy and who
will hand him over to me at the first opportunity!"
"Well done you! So that . . ."
"So that, as Pierre Leduc, we may say, is the central point of the
efforts of all those who are trying to solve the famous Kesselbach
secret, I shall, sooner or later, through Pierre Leduc, catch, first,
the author of the treble murder, because that miscreant substituted
himself for Mr. Kesselbach in the accomplishment of an immense scheme
and because Mr. Kesselbach had to find Pierre Leduc in order to be able
to accomplish that scheme; and, secondly, Arsène Lupin, because Arsène
Lupin is pursuing the same object."
"Splendid! Pierre Leduc is the bait which you are throwing to the
enemy."
"And the fish is biting, Monsieur le Président. I have just had word
that a suspicious person was seen, a short time ago, prowling round the
little villa where Pierre Leduc is living under the protection of my
officers. I shall be on the spot in four hours."
"And the third trump, Lenormand?"
"Monsieur le Président, a letter arrived yesterday, addressed to Mr.
Rudolf Kesselbach, which I intercepted. . . ."
"Intercepted, eh? You're getting on!"
"Yes, I intercepted it, opened it and kept it for myself. Here it is. It
is dated two months back. It bears the Capetown postmark and contains
these words: 'My dear Rudolf, I shall be in Paris on the 1st of June and
in just as wretched a plight as when you came to my assistance. But I
have great hopes of this Pierre Leduc affair of which I told you. What a
strange story it is! Have you found the man I mean? Where do we stand? I
am most anxious to know.' The letter is signed, 'Steinweg.' The first of
June," continued M. Lenormand, "is to-day. I have ordered one of my
inspectors to hunt me out this Steinweg. I have no doubt that he will
succeed."
"Nor I, no doubt at all," cried Valenglay, rising from his chair, "and I
make you every apology, my dear Lenormand, and my humble confession: I
was on the point of letting you slide . . . for good and all! To-morrow
I was expecting the prefect of police and M. Weber."
"I knew that, Monsieur le Président."
"Impossible!"
"But for that, should I have put myself out? You now see my plan of
campaign. On the one side, I am setting traps in which the murderer will
be caught sooner or later. Pierre Leduc or Steinweg will deliver him
into my hands. On the other side, I am on Arsène Lupin's heels. Two of
his agents are in my pay and he believes them to be his most devoted
helpers. In addition to this, he is working for me, because he is
pursuing the perpetrator of the threefold crime as I am. Only, he
imagines that he is dishing me, whereas it is I who am dishing him. So I
shall succeed, but on one condition. . . ."
"What is that?"
"That I am given free scope and allowed to act according to the needs of
the moment, without troubling about the public, who are growing
impatient, or my superiors, who are intriguing against me."
"I agree."
"In that case, Monsieur le Président, in a few days from this I shall be
the victor . . . or I shall be dead."
* * * * *
At Saint-Cloud. A little villa situated on one of the highest points of
the upland, in an unfrequented road.
It was eleven o'clock at night. M. Lenormand left his car at Saint-Cloud
and walked cautiously along the road. A shadow appeared.
"Is that you, Gourel?"
"Yes, chief."
"Did you tell the brothers Doudeville that I was coming?"
"Yes, your room is ready, you can go to bed and sleep . . . unless they
try to carry off Pierre Leduc to-night, which would not surprise me,
considering the behavior of the fellow whom the Doudevilles saw."
They walked across the garden, softly entered the house and went up to
the first floor. The two brothers, Jean and Jacques Doudeville, were
there.
"No news of Prince Sernine?" asked Lenormand.
"No, chief."
"What about Pierre Leduc?"
"He spends the whole day lying flat on his back in his room on the
ground-floor, or else in the garden. He never comes up to see us."
"Is he better?"
"Much better. The rest has made a great change in his appearance."
"Is he wholly devoted to Lupin?"
"To Prince Sernine, rather, for he does not suspect that the two are one
and the same man. At least, I suppose so. One never knows, with him. He
does not speak at all. Oh, he's a queer fish! There's only one person
who has the gift of cheering him up, of making him talk and even laugh.
That's a young girl from Garches, to whom Prince Sernine introduced him.
Geneviève Ernemont her name is. She has been here three times already
. . . she was here to-day." He added, jestingly, "I believe there's a
little flirting going on. . . . It's like his highness Prince Sernine
and Mrs. Kesselbach. . . . It seems he's making eyes at her! . . . That
devil of a Lupin!"
M. Lenormand did not reply. But it was obvious that all these details,
to which he seemed to attach no importance, were noted in the recesses
of his memory, to be used whenever he might need to draw the logical
inferences from them. He lit a cigar, chewed it without smoking it, lit
it again and dropped it.
He asked two or three more questions and then, dressed as he was, threw
himself on his bed:
"If the least thing happens, let me be awakened. . . . If not, I shall
sleep through the night. . . . Go to your posts, all of you."
The others left the room.
An hour passed, two hours.
Suddenly, M. Lenormand felt some one touch him and Gourel said to him:
"Get up, chief; they have opened the gate."
"One man or two?"
"I only saw one . . . the moon appeared just then . . . he crouched down
against a hedge."
"And the brothers Doudeville?"
"I sent them out by the back. They will cut off his retreat when the
time comes."
Gourel took M. Lenormand's hand, led him downstairs and then into a
little dark room:
"Don't stir, chief; we are in Pierre Leduc's dressing-room. I am opening
the door of the recess in which his bed stands. . . . Don't be afraid
. . . he has taken his veronal as he does every evening . . . nothing
can wake him. Come this way. . . . It's a good hiding-place, isn't it?
. . . These are the curtains of his bed. . . . From here you can see the
window and the whole side of the room between the window and the bed."
The casement stood open and admitted a vague light, which became very
precise at times, when the moon burst through her veil of clouds. The
two men did not take their eyes from the empty window-frame, feeling
certain that the event which they were awaiting would come from that
side.
A slight, creaking noise . . .
"He is climbing the trellis," whispered Gourel.
"Is it high?"
"Six feet or so."
The creaking became more distinct.
"Go, Gourel," muttered M. Lenormand, "find the Doudevilles, bring them
back to the foot of the wall and bar the road to any one who tries to
get down this way."
Gourel went. At the same moment, a head appeared at the level of the
window. Then a leg was flung over the balcony. M. Lenormand
distinguished a slenderly-built man, below the middle height, dressed in
dark colours and without a hat.
The man turned and, leaning over the balcony, looked for a few seconds
into space, as though to make sure that no danger threatened him. Then
he stooped down and lay at full length on the floor. He appeared
motionless. But soon M. Lenormand realized that the still blacker shadow
which he formed against the surrounding darkness was coming forward,
nearer.
It reached the bed.
M. Lenormand had an impression that he could hear the man's breathing
and, at the same time, that he could just see his eyes, keen, glittering
eyes, which pierced the darkness like shafts of fire and which
themselves could see through that same darkness.
Pierre Leduc gave a deep sigh and turned over.
A fresh silence. . . .
The man had glided along the bed with imperceptible movements and his
dark outline now stood out against the whiteness of the sheets that hung
down to the floor.
M. Lenormand could have touched him by putting out his arm. This time,
he clearly distinguished the breathing, which alternated with that of
the sleeper, and he had the illusion that he also heard the sound of a
heart beating.
Suddenly, a flash of light. . . . The man had pressed the spring of an
electric lantern; and Pierre Leduc was lit full in the face, but the man
remained in the shade, so that M. Lenormand was unable to see his
features.
All that he saw was something that shone in the bright space; and he
shuddered. It was the blade of a knife; and that thin, tapering knife,
more like a stiletto than a dagger, seemed to him identical with the
weapon which he had picked up by the body of Chapman, Mr. Kesselbach's
secretary.
He put forth all his will-power to restrain himself from springing upon
the man. He wanted first to know what the man had come to do.
The hand was raised. Was he going to strike? M. Lenormand calculated the
distance in order to stop the blow. . . . But no, it was not a murderous
gesture, but one of caution. The hand would only fall if Pierre Leduc
stirred or tried to call out. And the man bent over the sleeper, as
though he were examining something.
"The right cheek," thought M. Lenormand, "the scar on the right cheek.
. . . He wants to make sure that it is really Pierre Leduc."
The man had turned a little to one side, so that only his shoulders were
visible. But his clothes, his overcoat, were so near that they brushed
against the curtains behind which M. Lenormand was hiding.
"One movement on his part," thought the chief detective, "a thrill of
alarm; and I shall collar him."
But the man, entirely absorbed in his examination, did not stir. At
last, after shifting the dagger to the hand that held the lantern, he
raised the sheet, at first hardly at all, then a little more, then more
still, until the sleeper's left arm was uncovered and the hand laid
bare. The flash of the lantern shone upon the hand. The fingers lay
outspread. The little finger was cut on the second joint.
Again Pierre Leduc made a movement. The light was immediately put out;
and, for an instant, the man remained beside the bed, motionless,
standing straight up. Would he make up his mind to strike? M. Lenormand
underwent the agony of the crime which he could so easily prevent, but
which he did not want to forestall before the very last second.
A long, a very long silence. Suddenly, he saw or rather fancied that he
saw an arm uplifted. Instinctively he moved, stretching his hand above
the sleeper. In making this gesture, he hit against the man.
A dull cry. The fellow struck out at space, defended himself at random
and fled toward the window. But M. Lenormand had leapt upon him and had
his two arms around the man's shoulders.
He at once felt him yielding and, as the weaker of the two, powerless in
Lenormand's hands, trying to avoid the struggle and to slip from between
his arms. Lenormand, exerting all his strength, held him flat against
his chest, bent him in two and stretched him on his back on the floor.
"Ah, I've got him, I've got him!" he muttered triumphantly.
And he felt a singular elation at imprisoning that terrifying criminal,
that unspeakable monster, in his irresistible grip. He felt him living
and quivering, enraged and desperate, their two lives mingled, their
breaths blended:
"Who are you?" he asked. "Who are you? . . . You'll have to speak.
. . ."
And he clasped the enemy's body with still greater force, for he had an
impression that that body was diminishing between his arms, that it was
vanishing. He gripped harder . . . and harder. . . .
And suddenly he shuddered from head to foot. He had felt, he still felt
a tiny prick in the throat. . . . In his exasperation, he gripped harder
yet: the pain increased! And he observed that the man had succeeded in
twisting one arm round, slipping his hand to his chest and holding the
dagger on end. The arm, it was true, was incapable of motion; but the
closer M. Lenormand tightened his grip, the deeper did the point of the
dagger enter the proffered flesh.
He flung back his head a little to escape the point: the point followed
the movement and the wound widened.
Then he moved no more, remembering the three crimes and all the
alarming, atrocious and prophetic things represented by that same little
steel needle which was piercing his skin and which, in its turn, was
implacably penetrating. . . .
Suddenly, he let go and gave a leap backwards. Then, at once, he tried
to resume the offensive. It was too late. The man flung his legs across
the window-sill and jumped.
"Look out, Gourel!" he cried, knowing that Gourel was there, ready to
catch the fugitive.
He leant out. A crunching of pebbles . . . a shadow between two trees,
the slam of the gate. . . . And no other sound . . . no interference.
. . .
Without giving a thought to Pierre Leduc, he called:
"Gourel! . . . Doudeville!"
No answer. The great silence of the countryside at night. . . .
In spite of himself, he continued to think of the treble murder, the
steel dagger. But no, it was impossible, the man had not had time, had
not even had the need to strike, as he had found the road clear.
M. Lenormand jumped out in his turn and, switching on his lantern,
recognized Gourel lying on the ground:
"Damn it!" he swore. "If they've killed him, they'll have to pay dearly
for it."
But Gourel was not dead, only stunned; and, a few minutes later, he came
to himself and growled:
"Only a blow of the fist, chief . . . just a blow of the fist which
caught me full in the chest. But what a fellow!"
"There were two of them then?"
"Yes, a little one, who went up, and another, who took me unawares while
I was watching."
"And the Doudevilles?"
"Haven't seen them."
One of them, Jacques, was found near the gate, bleeding from a punch in
the jaw; the other a little farther, gasping for breath from a blow full
on the chest.
"What is it? What happened?" asked M. Lenormand.
Jacques said that his brother and he had knocked up against an
individual who had crippled them before they had time to defend
themselves.
"Was he alone?"
"No; when he passed near us, he had a pal with him, shorter than
himself."
"Did you recognize the man who struck you?"
"Judging by the breadth of his shoulders, I thought he might be the
Englishman of the Palace Hotel, the one who left the hotel and whose
traces we lost."
"The major?"
"Yes, Major Parbury."
After a moment's reflection, M. Lenormand said:
"There is no doubt possible. There were two of them in the Kesselbach
case: the man with the dagger, who committed the murders, and his
accomplice, the major."
"That is what Prince Sernine thinks," muttered Jacques Doudeville.
"And to-night," continued the chief detective, "it is they again: the
same two." And he added, "So much the better. The chance of catching two
criminals is a hundred times greater than the chance of catching one."
M. Lenormand attended to his men, had them put to bed and looked to see
if the assailants had dropped anything or left any traces. He found
nothing and went back to bed again himself.
In the morning, as Gourel and the Doudevilles felt none the worse for
their injuries, he told the two brothers to scour the neighborhood and
himself set out with Gourel for Paris, in order to hurry matters on and
give his orders.
* * * * *
He lunched in his office. At two o'clock, he heard good news. One of his
best detectives, Dieuzy, had picked up Steinweg, Rudolf Kesselbach's
correspondent, as the German was stepping out of a train from
Marseilles.
"Is Dieuzy there?"
"Yes, chief," said Gourel. "He's here with the German."
"Have them brought in to me."
At that moment, the telephone-bell rang. It was Jean Doudeville,
speaking from the post-office at Garches. The conversation did not take
long:
"Is that you, Jean? Any news?"
"Yes, chief, Major Parbury. . . ."
"Well?"
"We have found him. He has become a Spaniard and has darkened his skin.
We have just seen him. He was entering the Garches free-school. He was
received by that young lady . . . you know, the girl who knows Prince
Sernine, Geneviève Ernemont."
"Thunder!"
M. Lenormand let go the receiver, made a grab at his hat, flew into the
passage, met Dieuzy and the German, shouted to them to meet him in his
office at six o'clock, rushed down the stairs, followed by Gourel and
two inspectors whom he picked up on the way, and dived into a taxi-cab:
"Quick as you can to Garches . . . ten francs for yourself!"
He stopped the car a little before the Parc de Villeneuve, at the turn
of the lane that led to the school. Jean Doudeville was waiting for him
and at once exclaimed:
"He slipped away, ten minutes ago, by the other end of the lane."
"Alone?"
"No, with the girl."
M. Lenormand took Doudeville by the collar:
"Wretch! You let him go! But you ought to have . . . you ought to have
. . ."
"My brother is on his track."
"A lot of good that will do us! He'll stick your brother. You're no
match for him, either of you!"
He himself took the steering-wheel of the taxi, and resolutely drove
into the lane, regardless of the cart-ruts and of the bushes on each
side. They soon emerged on a parish-road, which took them to a crossway
where five roads met. M. Lenormand, without hesitation chose the one on
the left, the Saint-Cucufa Road. As a matter of fact, at the top of the
slope that runs down to the lake, they met the other Doudeville brother,
who shouted:
"They are in a carriage . . . half a mile away."
The chief did not stop. He sent the car flying down the incline, rushed
along the bends, drove round the lake and suddenly uttered an
exclamation of triumph. Right at the top of a little hill that stood in
front of them, he had seen the hood of a carriage.
Unfortunately, he had taken the wrong road and had to back the machine.
When he reached the place where the roads branched, the carriage was
still there, stationary. And, suddenly, while he was turning, he saw a
girl spring from the carriage. A man appeared on the step. The girl
stretched out her arm. Two reports rang out.
She had taken bad aim, without a doubt, for a head looked round the
other side of the hood and the man, catching sight of the motor-cab,
gave his horse a great lash with the whip and it started off at a
gallop. The next moment, a turn of the road hid the carriage from sight.
M. Lenormand finished his tacking in a few seconds, darted straight up
the incline, passed the girl without stopping and turned round boldly.
He found himself on a steep, pebbly forest road, which ran down between
dense woods and which could only be followed very slowly and with the
greatest caution. But what did he care! Twenty yards in front of him,
the carriage, a sort of two-wheeled cabriolet, was dancing over the
stones, drawn, or rather held back, by a horse which knew enough only to
go very carefully, feeling its way and taking no risks. There was
nothing to fear; escape was impossible.
And the two conveyances went shaking and jolting down-hill. At one
moment, they were so close together that M. Lenormand thought of
alighting and running with his men. But he felt the danger of putting on
the brake on so steep a slope; and he went on, pressing the enemy
closely, like a prey which one keeps within sight, within touch. . . .
"We've got him, chief, we've got him!" muttered the inspectors, excited
by the unexpected nature of the chase.
At the bottom, the way flattened out into a road that ran towards the
Seine, towards Bougival. The horse, on reaching level ground, set off at
a jog-trot, without hurrying itself and keeping to the middle of the
road.
A violent effort shook the taxi. It appeared, instead of rolling, to
proceed by bounds, like a darting fawn, and, slipping by the roadside
slope, ready to smash any obstacle, it caught up the carriage, came
level with it, passed it. . . .
An oath from M. Lenormand . . . shouts of fury. . . . The carriage was
empty!
The carriage was empty. The horse was going along peacefully, with the
reins on its back, no doubt returning to the stable of some inn in the
neighborhood, where it had been hired for the day. . . .
Suppressing his inward rage, the chief detective merely said:
"The major must have jumped out during the few seconds when we lost
sight of the carriage, at the top of the descent."
"We have only to beat the woods, chief, and we are sure . . ."
"To return empty-handed. The beggar is far away by this time. He's not
one of those who are caught twice in one day. Oh, hang it all, hang it
all!"
They went back to the young girl, whom they found in the company of
Jacques Doudeville and apparently none the worse for her adventure. M.
Lenormand introduced himself, offered to take her back home and at once
questioned her about the English major, Parbury.
She expressed astonishment:
"He is neither English nor a major; and his name is not Parbury."
"Then what is his name?"
"Juan Ribeira. He is a Spaniard sent by his government to study the
working of the French schools."
"As you please. His name and his nationality are of no importance. He is
the man we are looking for. Have you known him long?"
"A fortnight or so. He had heard about a school which I have founded at
Garches and he interested himself in my experiment to the extent of
proposing to make me an annual grant, on the one condition that he might
come from time to time to observe the progress of my pupils. I had not
the right to refuse. . . ."
"No, of course not; but you should have consulted your acquaintances. Is
not Prince Sernine a friend of yours? He is a man of good counsel."
"Oh, I have the greatest confidence in him; but he is abroad at
present."
"Did you not know his address?"
"No. And, besides, what could I have said to him? That gentleman behaved
very well. It was not until to-day . . . But I don't know if . . ."
"I beg you, mademoiselle, speak frankly. You can have confidence in me
also."
"Well, M. Ribeira came just now. He told me that he had been sent by a
French lady who was paying a short visit to Bougival, that this lady
had a little girl whose education she would like to entrust to me and
that she wished me to come and see her without delay. The thing seemed
quite natural. And, as this is a holiday and as M. Ribeira had hired a
carriage which was waiting for him at the end of the road, I made no
difficulty about accepting a seat in it."
"But what was his object, after all?"
She blushed and said:
"To carry me off, quite simply. He confessed it to me after half an
hour. . . ."
"Do you know nothing about him?"
"No."
"Does he live in Paris?"
"I suppose so."
"Has he ever written to you? Do you happen to have a few lines in his
handwriting, anything which he left behind, that may serve us as a
clue?"
"No clue at all. . . . Oh, wait a minute . . . but I don't think that
has any importance. . . ."
"Speak, speak . . . please. . . ."
"Well, two days ago, the gentleman asked permission to use my
typewriting machine; and he typed out--with difficulty, for he evidently
had no practice--a letter of which I saw the address by accident."
"What was the address?"
"He was writing to the _Journal_ and he put about twenty stamps into the
envelope."
"Yes . . . the agony-column, no doubt," said M. Lenormand.
"I have to-day's number with me, chief," said Gourel.
M. Lenormand unfolded the sheet and looked at the eighth page.
Presently, he gave a start. He had read the following sentence, printed
with the usual abbreviation:[4]
"To any person knowing Mr. Steinweg. Advertiser wishes
to know if he is in Paris and his address. Reply
through this column."
[Footnote 4: Personal advertisements in the French newspapers are
charged by the line, not by the word; and consequently nearly every word
is clipped down to two, three or four letters.--_Translator's Note._]
"Steinweg!" exclaimed Gourel. "But that's the very man whom Dieuzy is
bringing to you!"
"Yes, yes," said M. Lenormand, to himself, "it's the man whose letter to
Mr. Kesselbach I intercepted, the man who put Kesselbach on the track of
Pierre Leduc. . . . So they, too, want particulars about Pierre Leduc
and his past? . . . They, too, are groping in the dark? . . ."
He rubbed his hands: Steinweg was at his disposal. In less than an hour,
Steinweg would have spoken. In less than an hour, the murky veil which
oppressed him and which made the Kesselbach case the most agonizing and
the most impenetrable that he had ever had in hand: that veil would be
torn asunder.
CHAPTER VI
M. LENORMAND SUCCUMBS
M. Lenormand was back in his room at the Prefecture of Police at six
o'clock in the evening. He at once sent for Dieuzy:
"Is your man here?"
"Yes, chief."
"How far have you got with him?"
"Not very. He won't speak a word. I told him that, by a new regulation,
foreigners were 'bliged to make a declaration at the Prefecture as to
the object and the probable length of their stay in Paris; and I brought
him here, to your secretary's office."
"I will question him."
But, at that moment, an office-messenger appeared:
"There's a lady asking to see you at once, chief."
"Have you her card?"
"Here, chief."
"Mrs. Kesselbach! Show her in."
He walked across the room to receive the young widow at the door and
begged her to take a seat. She still wore the same disconsolate look,
the same appearance of illness and that air of extreme lassitude which
revealed the distress of her life.
She held out a copy of the _Journal_ and pointed to the line in the
agony-column which mentioned Steinweg:
"Old Steinweg was a friend of my husband's," she said, "and I have no
doubt that he knows a good many things."
"Dieuzy," said M. Lenormand, "bring the person who is waiting. . . .
Your visit, madame, will not have been useless. I will only ask you,
when this person enters, not to say a word."
The door opened. A man appeared, an old man with white whiskers meeting
under his chin and a face furrowed with deep wrinkles, poorly clad and
wearing the hunted look of those wretches who roam about the world in
search of their daily pittance.
He stood on the threshold, blinking his eyelids, stared at M. Lenormand,
seemed confused by the silence that greeted him on his entrance and
turned his hat in his hands with embarrassment.
But, suddenly, he appeared stupefied, his eyes opened wide and he
stammered:
"Mrs. . . . Mrs. Kesselbach!"
He had seen the young widow. And, recovering his serenity, smiling,
losing his shyness, he went up to her and in a strong German accent:
"Oh, I am glad! . . . At last! . . . I thought I should never . . . I
was so surprised to receive no news down there . . . no telegrams. . . .
And how is our dear Rudolf Kesselbach?"
The lady staggered back, as though she had been struck in the face, and
at once fell into a chair and began to sob.
"What's the matter? . . . Why, what's the matter?" asked Steinweg.
M. Lenormand interposed:
"I see, sir, that you know nothing about certain events that have taken
place recently. Have you been long travelling?"
"Yes, three months. . . . I had been up to the Rand. Then I went back to
Capetown and wrote to Rudolf from there. But, on my way home by the East
Coast route, I accepted some work at Port Said. Rudolf has had my
letter, I suppose?"
"He is away. I will explain the reason of his absence. But, first, there
is a point on which we should be glad of some information. It has to do
with a person whom you knew and to whom you used to refer, in your
intercourse with Mr. Kesselbach, by the name of Pierre Leduc."
"Pierre Leduc! What! Who told you?"
The old man was utterly taken aback.
He spluttered out again:
"Who told you? Who disclosed to you . . . ?"
"Mr. Kesselbach."
"Never! It was a secret which I confided to him and Rudolf keeps his
secrets . . . especially this one . . ."
"Nevertheless, it is absolutely necessary that you should reply to our
questions. We are at this moment engaged on an inquiry about Pierre
Leduc which must come to a head without delay; and you alone can
enlighten us, as Mr. Kesselbach is no longer here."
"Well, then," cried Steinweg, apparently making up his mind, "what do
you want?"
"Do you know Pierre Leduc?"
"I have never seen him, but I have long been the possessor of a secret
which concerns him. Through a number of incidents which I need not
relate and thanks to a series of chances, I ended by acquiring the
certainty that the man in whose discovery I was interested was leading a
dissolute life in Paris and that he was calling himself Pierre Leduc,
which is not his real name."
"But does he know his real name himself?"
"I presume so."
"And you?"
"Yes, I know it."
"Well, tell it to us."
He hesitated; then, vehemently:
"I can't," he said. "No, I can't."
"But why not?"
"I have no right to. The whole secret lies there. When I revealed the
secret to Rudolf, he attached so much importance to it that
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