The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman Burglar
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Maurice Leblanc >> The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman Burglar
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As a matter of fact, the police investigation threw no light on the
mystery. It was learned that Victor Danegre was a dangerous
criminal, a drunkard and a debauchee. But, as they proceeded with
the investigation, the mystery deepened and new complications
arose. In the first place, a young woman, Mlle. De Sincleves, the
cousin and sole heiress of the countess, declared that the
countess, a month before her death, had written a letter to her and
in it described the manner in which the black pearl was concealed.
The letter disappeared the day after she received it. Who had
stolen it?
Again, the concierge related how she had opened the door for a
person who had inquired for Doctor Harel. On being questioned, the
doctor testified that no one had rung his bell. Then who was that
person? And accomplice?
The theory of an accomplice was thereupon adopted by the press and
public, and also by Ganimard, the famous detective.
"Lupin is at the bottom of this affair," he said to the judge.
"Bah!" exclaimed the judge, "you have Lupin on the brain. You see
him everywhere."
"I see him everywhere, because he is everywhere."
"Say rather that you see him every time you encounter something you
cannot explain. Besides, you overlook the fact that the crime was
committed at twenty minutes past eleven in the evening, as is shown
by the clock, while the nocturnal visit, mentioned by the
concierge, occurred at three o'clock in the morning."
Officers of the law frequently form a hasty conviction as to the
guilt of a suspected person, and then distort all subsequent
discoveries to conform to their established theory. The deplorable
antecedents of Victor Danegre, habitual criminal, drunkard and
rake, influenced the judge, and despite the fact that nothing new
was discovered in corroboration of the early clues, his official
opinion remained firm and unshaken. He closed his investigation,
and, a few weeks later, the trial commenced. It proved to be slow
and tedious. The judge was listless, and the public prosecutor
presented the case in a careless manner. Under those circumstances,
Danegre's counsel had an easy task. He pointed out the defects and
inconsistencies of the case for the prosecution, and argued that the
evidence was quite insufficient to convict the accused. Who had made
the key, the indispensable key without which Danegre, on leaving the
apartment, could not have locked the door behind him? Who had ever
seen such a key, and what had become of it? Who had seen the
assassin's knife, and where is it now?
"In any event," argued the prisoner's counsel, "the prosecution
must prove, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the prisoner
committed the murder. The prosecution must show that the
mysterious individual who entered the house at three o'clock in the
morning is not the guilty party. To be sure, the clock indicated
eleven o'clock. But what of that? I contend, that proves nothing.
The assassin could turn the hands of the clock to any hour he
pleased, and thus deceive us in regard to the exact hour of the
crime."
Victor Danegre was acquitted.
He left the prison on Friday about dusk in the evening, weak and
depressed by his six months' imprisonment. The inquisition, the
solitude, the trial, the deliberations of the jury, combined to
fill him with a nervous fear. At night, he had been afflicted with
terrible nightmares and haunted by weird visions of the scaffold.
He was a mental and physical wreck.
Under the assumed name of Anatole Dufour, he rented a small room on
the heights of Montmartre, and lived by doing odd jobs wherever he
could find them. He led a pitiful existence. Three times, he
obtained regular employment, only to be recognized and then
discharged. Sometimes, he had an idea that men were following him--
detectives, no doubt, who were seeking to trap and denounce him.
He could almost feel the strong hand of the law clutching him by
the collar.
One evening, as he was eating his dinner at a neighboring
restaurant, a man entered and took a seat at the same table. He
was a person about forty years of age, and wore a frock-coat of
doubtful cleanliness. He ordered soup, vegetables, and a bottle of
wine. After he had finished his soup, he turned his eyes on
Danegre, and gazed at him intently. Danegre winced. He was
certain that this was one of the men who had been following him for
several weeks. What did he want? Danegre tried to rise, but
failed. His limbs refused to support him. The man poured himself
a glass of wine, and then filled Danegre's glass. The man raised
his glass, and said:
"To your health, Victor Danegre."
Victor started in alarm, and stammered:
"I!....I!....no, no....I swear to you...."
"You will swear what? That you are not yourself? The servant of
the countess?"
"What servant? My name is Dufour. Ask the proprietor."
"Yes, Anatole Dufour to the proprietor of this restaurant, but
Victor Danegre to the officers of the law."
"That's not true! Some one has lied to you."
The new-comer took a card from his pocket and handed it to Victor,
who read on it: "Grimaudan, ex-inspector of the detective force.
Private business transacted." Victor shuddered as he said:
"You are connected with the police?"
"No, not now, but I have a liking for the business and I continue
to work at it in a manner more--profitable. From time to time I
strike upon a golden opportunity--such as your case presents."
"My case?"
"Yes, yours. I assure you it is a most promising affair, provided
you are inclined to be reasonable."
"But if I am not reasonable?"
"Oh! my good fellow, you are not in a position to refuse me
anything I may ask."
"What is it....you want?" stammered Victor, fearfully.
"Well, I will inform you in a few words. I am sent by Mademoiselle
de Sincleves, the heiress of the Countess d'Andillot."
"What for?"
"To recover the black pearl."
"Black pearl?"
"That you stole."
"But I haven't got it."
"You have it."
"If I had, then I would be the assassin."
"You are the assassin."
Danegre showed a forced smile.
"Fortunately for me, monsieur, the Assizecourt was not of your
opinion. The jury returned an unanimous verdict of acquittal. And
when a man has a clear conscience and twelve good men in his favor--"
The ex-inspector seized him by the arm and said:
"No fine phrases, my boy. Now, listen to me and weigh my words
carefully. You will find they are worthy of your consideration.
Now, Danegre, three weeks before the murder, you abstracted the
cook's key to the servants' door, and had a duplicate key made by a
locksmith named Outard, 244 rue Oberkampf."
"It's a lie--it's a lie!" growled Victor. "No person has seen that
key. There is no such key."
"Here it is."
After a silence, Grimaudan continued:
"You killed the countess with a knife purchased by you at the Bazar
de la Republique on the same day as you ordered the duplicate key.
It has a triangular blade with a groove running from end to end."
"That is all nonsense. You are simply guessing at something you
don't know. No one ever saw the knife."
"Here it is."
Victor Danegre recoiled. The ex-inspector continued:
"There are some spots of rust upon it. Shall I tell you how they
came there?"
"Well!....you have a key and a knife. Who can prove that they
belong to me?"
"The locksmith, and the clerk from whom you bought the knife. I
have already refreshed their memories, and, when you confront them,
they cannot fail to recognize you."
His speech was dry and hard, with a tone of firmness and precision.
Danegre was trembling with fear, and yet he struggled desperately
to maintain an air of indifference.
"Is that all the evidence you have?"
"Oh! no, not at all. I have plenty more. For instance, after the
crime, you went out the same way you had entered. But, in the
centre of the wardrobe-room, being seized by some sudden fear, you
leaned against the wall for support."
"How do you know that? No one could know such a thing," argued the
desperate man.
"The police know nothing about it, of course. They never think of
lighting a candle and examining the walls. But if they had done
so, they would have found on the white plaster a faint red spot,
quite distinct, however, to trace in it the imprint of your thumb
which you had pressed against the wall while it was wet with blood.
Now, as you are well aware, under the Bertillon system, thumb-marks
are one of the principal means of identification."
Victor Danegre was livid; great drops of perspiration rolled down
his face and fell upon the table. He gazed, with a wild look, at
the strange man who had narrated the story of his crime as
faithfully as if he had been an invisible witness to it. Overcome
and powerless, Victor bowed his head. He felt that it was useless
to struggle against this marvelous man. So he said:
"How much will you give me, if I give you the pearl?"
"Nothing."
"Oh! you are joking! Or do you mean that I should give you an
article worth thousands and hundreds of thousands and get nothing
in return?"
"You will get your life. Is that nothing?"
The unfortunate man shuddered. Then Grimaudan added, in a milder
tone:
"Come, Danegre, that pearl has no value in your hands. It is quite
impossible for you to sell it; so what is the use of your keeping
it?"
"There are pawnbrokers....and, some day, I will be able to get
something for it."
"But that day may be too late."
"Why?"
"Because by that time you may be in the hands of the police, and,
with the evidence that I can furnish--the knife, the key, the thumb-
mark--what will become of you?"
Victor rested his head on his hands and reflected. He felt that he
was lost, irremediably lost, and, at the same time, a sense of
weariness and depression overcame him. He murmured, faintly:
"When must I give it to you?"
"To-night---within an hour."
"If I refuse?"
"If you refuse, I shall post this letter to the Procureur of the
Republic; in which letter Mademoiselle de Sincleves denounces you
as the assassin."
Danegre poured out two glasses of wine which he drank in rapid
succession, then, rising, said:
"Pay the bill, and let us go. I have had enough of the cursed
affair."
Night had fallen. The two men walked down the rue Lepic and
followed the exterior boulevards in the direction of the Place de
l'Etoile. They pursued their way in silence; Victor had a stooping
carriage and a dejected face. When they reached the Parc Monceau,
he said:
"We are near the house."
"Parbleu! You only left the house once, before your arrest, and
that was to go to the tobacco-shop."
"Here it is," said Danegre, in a dull voice.
They passed along the garden wall of the countess' house, and
crossed a street on a corner of which stood the tobacco-shop. A
few steps further on, Danegre stopped; his limbs shook beneath him,
and he sank to a bench.
"Well! what now?" demanded his companion.
"It is there."
"Where? Come, now, no nonsense!"
"There--in front of us."
"Where?"
"Between two paving-stones."
"Which?"
"Look for it."
"Which stones?"
Victor made no reply.
"Ah; I see!" exclaimed Grimaudan, "you want me to pay for the
information."
"No....but....I am afraid I will starve to death."
"So! that is why you hesitate. Well, I'll not be hard on you. How
much do you want?"
"Enough to buy a steerage pass to America."
"All right."
"And a hundred francs to keep me until I get work there."
"You shall have two hundred. Now, speak."
"Count the paving-stones to the right from the sewer-hole. The
pearl is between the twelfth and thirteenth."
"In the gutter?"
"Yes, close to the sidewalk."
Grimaudan glanced around to see if anyone were looking. Some tram-
cars and pedestrians were passing. But, bah, they will not suspect
anything. He opened his pocketknife and thrust it between the
twelfth and thirteenth stones.
"And if it is not there?" he said to Victor.
"It must be there, unless someone saw me stoop down and hide it."
Could it be possible that the back pearl had been cast into the mud
and filth of the gutter to be picked up by the first comer? The
black pearl--a fortune!
"How far down?" he asked.
"About ten centimetres."
He dug up the wet earth. The point of his knife struck something.
He enlarged the hole with his finger. Then he abstracted the black
pearl from its filthy hiding-place.
"Good! Here are your two hundred francs. I will send you the
ticket for America."
On the following day, this article was published in the `Echo de
France,' and was copied by the leading newspapers throughout the
world:
"Yesterday, the famous black pearl came into the possession of
Arsene Lupin, who recovered it from the murderer of the Countess
d'Andillot. In a short time, fac-similes of that precious jewel
will be exhibited in London, St. Petersburg, Calcutta, Buenos Ayres
and New York.
"Arsene Lupin will be pleased to consider all propositions
submitted to him through his agents."
* * * * *
"And that is how crime is always punished and virtue rewarded,"
said Arsene Lupin, after he had told me the foregoing history of
the black pearl.
"And that is how you, under the assumed name of Grimaudan,
ex-inspector of detectives, were chosen by fate to deprive the
criminal of the benefit of his crime."
"Exactly. And I confess that the affair gives me infinite
satisfaction and pride. The forty minutes that I passed in the
apartment of the Countess d'Andillot, after learning of her death,
were the most thrilling and absorbing moments of my life. In those
forty minutes, involved as I was in a most dangerous plight, I
calmly studied the scene of the murder and reached the conclusion
that the crime must have been committed by one of the house
servants. I also decided that, in order to get the pearl, that
servant must be arrested, and so I left the wainscoat button; it
was necessary, also, for me to hold some convincing evidence of his
guilt, so I carried away the knife which I found upon the floor,
and the key which I found in the lock. I closed and locked the
door, and erased the finger-marks from the plaster in the wardrobe-
closet. In my opinion, that was one of those flashes--"
"Of genius," I said, interrupting.
"Of genius, if you wish. But, I flatter myself, it would not have
occurred to the average mortal. To frame, instantly, the two
elements of the problem--an arrest and an acquittal; to make use of
the formidable machinery of the law to crush and humble my victim,
and reduce him to a condition in which, when free, he would be
certain to fall into the trap I was laying for him!"
"Poor devil--"
"Poor devil, do you say? Victor Danegre, the assassin! He might
have descended to the lowest depths of vice and crime, if he had
retained the black pearl. Now, he lives! Think of that: Victor
Danegre is alive!"
"And you have the black pearl."
He took it out of one of the secret pockets of his wallet, examined
it, gazed at it tenderly, and caressed it with loving fingers, and
sighed, as he said:
"What cold Russian prince, what vain and foolish rajah may some day
possess this priceless treasure! Or, perhaps, some American
millionaire is destined to become the owner of this morsel of
exquisite beauty that once adorned the fair bosom of Leontine
Zalti, the Countess d'Andillot."
IX. SHERLOCK HOLMES ARRIVES TOO LATE
"It is really remarkable, Velmont, what a close resemblance you bear
to Arsene Lupin!"
"How do you know?"
"Oh! like everyone else, from photographs, no two of which are
alike, but each of them leaves the impression of a face....
something like yours."
Horace Velmont displayed some vexation.
"Quite so, my dear Devanne. And, believe me, you are not the first
one who has noticed it."
"It is so striking," persisted Devanne, "that if you had not been
recommended to me by my cousin d'Estevan, and if you were not the
celebrated artist whose beautiful marine views I so admire, I have
no doubt I should have warned the police of your presence in
Dieppe."
This sally was greeted with an outburst of laughter. The large
dining-hall of the Chateau de Thibermesnil contained on this
occasion, besides Valmont, the following guests: Father Gelis, the
parish priest, and a dozen officers whose regiments were quartered
in the vicinity and who had accepted the invitation of the banker
Georges Devanne and his mother. One of the officers then remarked:
"I understand that an exact description of Arsene Lupin has been
furnished to all the police along this coast since his daring
exploit on the Paris-Havre express."
"I suppose so," said Devanne. "That was three months ago; and a
week later, I made the acquaintance of our friend Velmont at the
casino, and, since then, he has honored me with several visits--an
agreeable preamble to a more serious visit that he will pay me one
of these days--or, rather, one of these nights."
This speech evoked another round of laughter, and the guests then
passed into the ancient "Hall of the Guards," a vast room with a
high ceiling, which occupied the entire lower part of the Tour
Guillaume--William's Tower--and wherein Georges Devanne had collected
the incomparable treasures which the lords of Thibermesnil had
accumulated through many centuries. It contained ancient chests,
credences, andirons and chandeliers. The stone walls were overhung
with magnificent tapestries. The deep embrasures of the four
windows were furnished with benches, and the Gothic windows were
composed of small panes of colored glass set in a leaden frame.
Between the door and the window to the left stood an immense
bookcase of Renaissance style, on the pediment of which, in letters
of gold, was the world "Thibermesnil," and, below it, the proud
family device: "Fais ce que veulx" (Do what thou wishest). When
the guests had lighted their cigars, Devanne resumed the
conversation.
"And remember, Velmont, you have no time to lose; in fact, to-night
is the last chance you will have."
"How so?" asked the painter, who appeared to regard the affair as a
joke. Devanne was about to reply, when his mother mentioned to him
to keep silent, but the excitement of the occasion and a desire to
interest his guests urged him to speak.
"Bah!" he murmured. "I can tell it now. It won't do any harm."
The guests drew closer, and he commenced to speak with the
satisfied air of a man who has an important announcement to make.
"To-morrow afternoon at four o'clock, Sherlock Holmes, the famous
English detective, for whom such a thing as mystery does not exist;
Sherlock Holmes, the most remarkable solver of enigmas the world
has ever known, that marvelous man who would seem to be the
creation of a romantic novelist--Sherlock Holmes will be my guest!"
Immediately, Devanne was the target of numerous eager questions.
"Is Sherlock Holmes really coming?" "Is it so serious as that?"
"Is Arsene Lupin really in this neighborhood?"
"Arsene Lupin and his band are not far away. Besides the robbery of
the Baron Cahorn, he is credited with the thefts at Montigny,
Gruchet and Crasville."
"Has he sent you a warning, as he did to Baron Cahorn?"
"No," replied Devanne, "he can't work the same trick twice."
"What then?"
"I will show you."
He rose, and pointing to a small empty space between the two
enormous folios on one of the shelves of the bookcase, he said:
"There used to be a book there--a book of the sixteenth century
entitled `Chronique de Thibermesnil,' which contained the history
of the castle since its construction by Duke Rollo on the site of a
former feudal fortress. There were three engraved plates in the
book; one of which was a general view of the whole estate; another,
the plan of the buildings; and the third--I call your attention to
it, particularly--the third was the sketch of a subterranean
passage, an entrance to which is outside the first line of
ramparts, while the other end of the passage is here, in this very
room. Well, that book disappeared a month ago."
"The deuce!" said Velmont, "that looks bad. But it doesn't seem to
be a sufficient reason for sending for Sherlock Holmes."
"Certainly, that was not sufficient in itself, but another incident
happened that gives the disappearance of the book a special
significance. There was another copy of this book in the National
Library at Paris, and the two books differed in certain details
relating to the subterranean passage; for instance, each of them
contained drawings and annotations, not printed, but written in ink
and more or less effaced. I knew those facts, and I knew that the
exact location of the passage could be determined only by a
comparison of the two books. Now, the day after my book
disappeared, the book was called for in the National Library by a
reader who carried it away, and no one knows how the theft was
effected."
The guests uttered many exclamations of surprise.
"Certainly, the affair looks serious," said one.
"Well, the police investigated the matter, and, as usual,
discovered no clue whatever."
"They never do, when Arsene Lupin is concerned in it."
"Exactly; and so I decided to ask the assistance of Sherlock
Holmes, who replied that he was ready and anxious to enter the
lists with Arsene Lupin."
"What glory for Arsene Lupin!" said Velmont. "But if our national
thief, as they call him, has no evil designs on your castle,
Sherlock Holmes will have his trip in vain."
"There are other things that will interest him, such as the
discovery of the subterranean passage."
"But you told us that one end of the passage was outside the
ramparts and the other was in this very room!"
"Yes, but in what part of the room? The line which represents the
passage on the charts ends here, with a small circle marked with
the letters `T.G.,' which no doubt stand for `Tour Guillaume.' But
the tower is round, and who can tell the exact spot at which the
passage touches the tower?"
Devanne lighted a second cigar and poured himself a glass of
Benedictine. His guests pressed him with questions and he was
pleased to observe the interest that his remarks had created. The
he continued:
"The secret is lost. No one knows it. The legend is to the effect
that the former lords of the castle transmitted the secret from
father to son on their deathbeds, until Geoffroy, the last of the
race, was beheaded during the Revolution in his nineteenth year."
"That is over a century ago. Surely, someone has looked for it
since that time?"
"Yes, but they failed to find it. After I purchased the castle, I
made a diligent search for it, but without success. You must
remember that this tower is surrounded by water and connected with
the castle only by a bridge; consequently, the passage must be
underneath the old moat. The plan that was in the book in the
National Library showed a series of stairs with a total of forty-
eight steps, which indicates a depth of more than ten meters. You
see, the mystery lies within the walls of this room, and yet I
dislike to tear them down."
"Is there nothing to show where it is?"
"Nothing."
"Mon. Devanne, we should turn our attention to the two quotations,"
suggested Father Gelis.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mon. Devanne, laughing, "our worthy father is fond
of reading memoirs and delving into the musty archives of the
castle. Everything relating to Thibermesnil interests him greatly.
But the quotations that he mentions only serve to complicate the
mystery. He has read somewhere that two kings of France have known
the key to the puzzle."
"Two kings of France! Who were they?"
"Henry the Fourth and Louis the Sixteenth. And the legend runs
like this: On the eve of the battle of Arques, Henry the Fourth
spent the night in this castle. At eleven o'clock in the evening,
Louise de Tancarville, the prettiest woman in Normandy, was brought
into the castle through the subterranean passage by Duke Edgard,
who, at the same time, informed the king of the secret passage.
Afterward, the king confided the secret to his minister Sully, who,
in turn, relates the story in his book, "Royales Economies d'Etat,"
without making any comment upon it, but linking with it this
incomprehensible sentence: `Turn one eye on the bee that shakes,
the other eye will lead to God!'"
After a brief silence, Velmont laughed and said:
"Certainly, it doesn't throw a dazzling light upon the subject."
"No; but Father Gelis claims that Sully concealed the key to the
mystery in this strange sentence in order to keep the secret from
the secretaries to whom he dictated his memoirs."
"That is an ingenious theory," said Velmont.
"Yes, and it may be nothing more; I cannot see that it throws any
light on the mysterious riddle."
"And was it also to receive the visit of a lady that Louis the
Sixteenth caused the passage to be opened?"
"I don't know," said Mon. Devanne. "All I can say is that the king
stopped here one night in 1784, and that the famous Iron Casket
found in the Louvre contained a paper bearing these words in the
king's own writing: `Thibermesnil 3-4-11.'"
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