The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman Burglar

M >> Maurice Leblanc >> The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman Burglar

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I crept cautiously to the side of the building. A slight noise
informed me that he was there; and, then, through an opening, I saw
him. His back was turned toward me. In two bounds, I was upon
him. He tried to fire a revolver that he held in his hand. But he
had no time. I threw him to the ground, in such a manner that his
arms were beneath him, twisted and helpless, whilst I held him down
with my knee on his breast.

"Listen, my boy," I whispered in his ear. "I am Arsene Lupin. You
are to deliver over to me, immediately and gracefully, my
pocketbook and the lady's jewels, and, in return therefore, I will
save you from the police and enroll you amongst my friends. One
word: yes or no?"

"Yes," he murmured.

"Very good. Your escape, this morning, was well planned. I
congratulate you."

I arose. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a large knife and
tried to strike me with it.

"Imbecile!" I exclaimed.

With one hand, I parried the attack; with the other, I gave him a
sharp blow on the carotid artery. He fell--stunned!

In my pocketbook, I recovered my papers and bank-notes. Out of
curiosity, I took his. Upon an envelope, addressed to him, I read
his name: Pierre Onfrey. It startled me. Pierre Onfrey, the
assassin of the rue Lafontaine at Auteuil! Pierre Onfrey, he who
had cut the throats of Madame Delbois and her two daughters. I
leaned over him. Yes, those were the features which, in the
compartment, had evoked in me the memory of a face I could not then
recall.

But time was passing. I placed in an envelope two bank-notes of
one hundred francs each, with a card bearing these words: "Arsene
Lupin to his worthy colleagues Honore Massol and Gaston Delivet, as
a slight token of his gratitude." I placed it in a prominent spot
in the room, where they would be sure to find it. Beside it, I
placed Madame Renaud's handbag. Why could I not return it to the
lady who had befriended me? I must confess that I had taken from
it everything that possessed any interest or value, leaving there
only a shell comb, a stick of rouge Dorin for the lips, and an
empty purse. But, you know, business is business. And then,
really, her husband is engaged in such a dishonorable vocation!

The man was becoming conscious. What was I to do? I was unable to
save him or condemn him. So I took his revolver and fired a shot
in the air.

"My two acolytes will come and attend to his case," I said to
myself, as I hastened away by the road through the ravine. Twenty
minutes later, I was seated in my automobile.

At four o'clock, I telegraphed to my friends at Rouen that an
unexpected event would prevent me from making my promised visit.
Between ourselves, considering what my friends must now know, my
visit is postponed indefinitely. A cruel disillusion for them!

At six o'clock I was in Paris. The evening newspapers informed me
that Pierre Onfrey had been captured at last.

Next day,--let us not despise the advantages of judicious
advertising,--the `Echo de France' published this sensational item:

"Yesterday, near Buchy, after numerous exciting incidents, Arsene
Lupin effected the arrest of Pierre Onfrey. The assassin of the
rue Lafontaine had robbed Madame Renaud, wife of the director in
the penitentiary service, in a railway carriage on the Paris-Havre
line. Arsene Lupin restored to Madame Renaud the hand-bag that
contained her jewels, and gave a generous recompense to the two
detectives who had assisted him in making that dramatic arrest."

V. The Queen's Necklace

Two or three times each year, on occasions of unusual importance,
such as the balls at the Austrian Embassy or the soirees of Lady
Billingstone, the Countess de Dreux-Soubise wore upon her white
shoulders "The Queen's Necklace."

It was, indeed, the famous necklace, the legendary necklace that
Bohmer and Bassenge, court jewelers, had made for Madame Du Barry;
the veritable necklace that the Cardinal de Rohan-Soubise intended
to give to Marie-Antoinette, Queen of France; and the same that the
adventuress Jeanne de Valois, Countess de la Motte, had pulled to
pieces one evening in February, 1785, with the aid of her husband
and their accomplice, Retaux de Villette.

To tell the truth, the mounting alone was genuine. Retaux de
Villette had kept it, whilst the Count de la Motte and his wife
scattered to the four winds of heaven the beautiful stones so
carefully chosen by Bohmer. Later, he sold the mounting to Gaston
de Dreux-Soubise, nephew and heir of the Cardinal, who re-purchased
the few diamonds that remained in the possession of the English
jeweler, Jeffreys; supplemented them with other stones of the same
size but of much inferior quality, and thus restored the marvelous
necklace to the form in which it had come from the hands of Bohmer
and Bassenge.

For nearly a century, the house of Dreux-Soubise had prided itself
upon the possession of this historic jewel. Although adverse
circumstances had greatly reduced their fortune, they preferred to
curtail their household expenses rather than part with this relic
of royalty. More particularly, the present count clung to it as a
man clings to the home of his ancestors. As a matter of prudence,
he had rented a safety-deposit box at the Credit Lyonnais in which
to keep it. He went for it himself on the afternoon of the day on
which his wife wished to wear it, and he, himself, carried it back
next morning.

On this particular evening, at the reception given at the Palais de
Castille, the Countess achieved a remarkable success; and King
Christian, in whose honor the fete was given, commented on her
grace and beauty. The thousand facets of the diamond sparkled and
shone like flames of fire about her shapely neck and shoulders, and
it is safe to say that none but she could have borne the weight of
such an ornament with so much ease and grace.

This was a double triumph, and the Count de Dreux was highly elated
when they returned to their chamber in the old house of the
faubourg Saint-Germain. He was proud of his wife, and quite as
proud, perhaps, of the necklace that had conferred added luster to
his noble house for generations. His wife, also, regarded the
necklace with an almost childish vanity, and it was not without
regret that she removed it from her shoulders and handed it to her
husband who admired it as passionately as if he had never seen it
before. Then, having placed it in its case of red leather, stamped
with the Cardinal's arms, he passed into an adjoining room which
was simply an alcove or cabinet that had been cut off from their
chamber, and which could be entered only by means of a door at the
foot of their bed. As he had done on previous occasions, he hid it
on a high shelf amongst hat-boxes and piles of linen. He closed
the door, and retired.

Next morning, he arose about nine o'clock, intending to go to the
Credit Lyonnais before breakfast. He dressed, drank a cup of
coffee, and went to the stables to give his orders. The condition
of one of the horses worried him. He caused it to be exercised in
his presence. Then he returned to his wife, who had not yet left
the chamber. Her maid was dressing her hair. When her husband
entered, she asked:

"Are you going out?"

"Yes, as far as the bank."

"Of course. That is wise."

He entered the cabinet; but, after a few seconds, and without any
sign of astonishment, he asked:

"Did you take it, my dear?"

"What?....No, I have not taken anything."

"You must have moved it."

"Not at all. I have not even opened that door."

He appeared at the door, disconcerted, and stammered, in a scarcely
intelligible voice:

"You haven't....It wasn't you?....Then...."

She hastened to his assistance, and, together, they made a thorough
search, throwing the boxes to the floor and overturning the piles
of linen. Then the count said, quite discouraged:

"It is useless to look any more. I put it here, on this shelf."

"You must be mistaken."

"No, no, it was on this shelf--nowhere else."

They lighted a candle, as the room was quite dark, and then carried
out all the linen and other articles that the room contained. And,
when the room was emptied, they confessed, in despair, that the
famous necklace had disappeared. Without losing time in vain
lamentations, the countess notified the commissary of police, Mon.
Valorbe, who came at once, and, after hearing their story, inquired
of the count:

"Are you sure that no one passed through your chamber during the
night?"

"Absolutely sure, as I am a very light sleeper. Besides, the
chamber door was bolted, and I remember unbolting it this morning
when my wife rang for her maid."

"And there is no other entrance to the cabinet?"

"None."

"No windows?"

"Yes, but it is closed up."

"I will look at it."

Candles were lighted, and Mon. Valorbe observed at once that the
lower half of the window was covered by a large press which was,
however, so narrow that it did not touch the casement on either
side.

"On what does this window open?"

"A small inner court."

"And you have a floor above this?"

"Two; but, on a level with the servant's floor, there is a close
grating over the court. That is why this room is so dark."

When the press was moved, they found that the window was fastened,
which would not have been the case if anyone had entered that way.

"Unless," said the count, "they went out through our chamber."

"In that case, you would have found the door unbolted."

The commissary considered the situation for a moment, then asked
the countess:

"Did any of your servants know that you wore the necklace last
evening?"

"Certainly; I didn't conceal the fact. But nobody knew that it was
hidden in that cabinet."

"No one?"

"No one....unless...."

"Be quite sure, madam, as it is a very important point."

She turned to her husband, and said:

"I was thinking of Henriette."

"Henriette? She didn't know where we kept it."

"Are you sure?"

"Who is this woman Henriette?" asked Mon. Valorbe.

"A school-mate, who was disowned by her family for marrying beneath
her. After her husband's death, I furnished an apartment in this
house for her and her son. She is clever with her needle and has
done some work for me."

"What floor is she on?"

"Same as ours....at the end of the corridor....and I think....
the window of her kitchen...."

"Opens on this little court, does it not?"

"Yes, just opposite ours."

Mon. Valorbe then asked to see Henriette. They went to her
apartment; she was sewing, whilst her son Raoul, about six years
old, was sitting beside her, reading. The commissary was surprised
to see the wretched apartment that had been provided for the woman.
It consisted of one room without a fireplace, and a very small room
that served as a kitchen. The commissary proceeded to question
her. She appeared to be overwhelmed on learning of the theft.
Last evening she had herself dressed the countess and placed the
necklace upon her shoulders.

"Good God!" she exclaimed, "it can't be possible!"

"And you have no idea? Not the least suspicion? Is it possible
that the thief may have passed through your room?"

She laughed heartily, never supposing that she could be an object
of suspicion.

"But I have not left my room. I never go out. And, perhaps, you
have not seen?"

She opened the kitchen window, and said:

"See, it is at least three metres to the ledge of the opposite
window."

"Who told you that we supposed the theft might have been committed
in that way?"

"But....the necklace was in the cabinet, wasn't it?"

"How do you know that?"

"Why, I have always known that it was kept there at night. It had
been mentioned in my presence."

Her face, though still young, bore unmistakable traces of sorrow
and resignation. And it now assumed an expression of anxiety as if
some danger threatened her. She drew her son toward her. The
child took her hand, and kissed it affectionately.

When they were alone again, the count said to the commissary:

"I do not suppose you suspect Henriette. I can answer for her.
She is honesty itself."

"I quite agree with you," replied Mon. Valorbe. "At most, I
thought there might have been an unconscious complicity. But I
confess that even that theory must be abandoned, as it does not
help solve the problem now before us."

The commissary of police abandoned the investigation, which was now
taken up and completed by the examining judge. He questioned the
servants, examined the condition of the bolt, experimented with the
opening and closing of the cabinet window, and explored the little
court from top to bottom. All was in vain. The bolt was intact.
The window could not be opened or closed from the outside.

The inquiries especially concerned Henriette, for, in spite of
everything, they always turned in her direction. They made a
thorough investigation of her past life, and ascertained that,
during the last three years, she had left the house only four
times, and her business, on those occasions, was satisfactorily
explained. As a matter of fact, she acted as chambermaid and
seamstress to the countess, who treated her with great strictness
and even severity.

At the end of a week, the examining judge had secured no more
definite information than the commissary of police. The judge
said:

"Admitting that we know the guilty party, which we do not, we are
confronted by the fact that we do not know how the theft was
committed. We are brought face to face with two obstacles: a door
and a window--both closed and fastened. It is thus a double
mystery. How could anyone enter, and, moreover, how could any one
escape, leaving behind him a bolted door and a fastened window?"

At the end of four months, the secret opinion of the judge was that
the count and countess, being hard pressed for money, which was
their normal condition, had sold the Queen's Necklace. He closed
the investigation.

The loss of the famous jewel was a severe blow to the Dreux-
Soubise. Their credit being no longer propped up by the reserve
fund that such a treasure constituted, they found themselves
confronted by more exacting creditors and money-lenders. They were
obliged to cut down to the quick, to sell or mortgage every article
that possessed any commercial value. In brief, it would have been
their ruin, if two large legacies from some distant relatives had
not saved them.

Their pride also suffered a downfall, as if they had lost a
quartering from their escutcheon. And, strange to relate, it was
upon her former schoolmate, Henriette, that the countess vented her
spleen. Toward her, the countess displayed the most spiteful
feelings, and even openly accused her. First, Henriette was
relegated to the servants' quarters, and, next day, discharged.

For some time, the count and countess passed an uneventful life.
They traveled a great deal. Only one incident of record occurred
during that period. Some months after the departure of Henriette,
the countess was surprised when she received and read the following
letter, signed by Henriette:

"Madame,"
"I do not know how to thank you; for it was you, was it not, who
sent me that? It could not have been anyone else. No one but you
knows where I live. If I am wrong, excuse me, and accept my
sincere thanks for your past favors...."

What did the letter mean? The present or past favors of the
countess consisted principally of injustice and neglect. Why,
then, this letter of thanks?

When asked for an explanation, Henriette replied that she had
received a letter, through the mails, enclosing two bank-notes of
one thousand francs each. The envelope, which she enclosed with
her reply, bore the Paris post-mark, and was addressed in a
handwriting that was obviously disguised. Now, whence came those
two thousand francs? Who had sent them? And why had they sent
them?

Henriette received a similar letter and a like sum of money twelve
months later. And a third time; and a fourth; and each year for a
period of six years, with this difference, that in the fifth and
sixth years the sum was doubled. There was another difference:
the post-office authorities having seized one of the letters under
the pretext that it was not registered, the last two letters were
duly sent according to the postal regulations, the first dated from
Saint-Germain, the other from Suresnes. The writer signed the
first one, "Anquety"; and the other, "Pechard." The addresses that
he gave were false.

At the end of six years, Henriette died, and the mystery remained
unsolved.

* * * * *

All these events are known to the public. The case was one of
those which excite public interest, and it was a strange
coincidence that this necklace, which had caused such a great
commotion in France at the close of the eighteenth century, should
create a similar commotion a century later. But what I am about to
relate is known only to the parties directly interested and a few
others from whom the count exacted a promise of secrecy. As it is
probable that some day or other that promise will be broken, I have
no hesitation in rending the veil and thus disclosing the key to
the mystery, the explanation of the letter published in the morning
papers two days ago; an extraordinary letter which increased, if
possible, the mists and shadows that envelope this inscrutable
drama.

Five days ago, a number of guests were dining with the Count de
Dreux-Soubise. There were several ladies present, including his
two nieces and his cousin, and the following gentlemen: the
president of Essaville, the deputy Bochas, the chevalier Floriani,
whom the count had known in Sicily, and General Marquis de
Rouzieres, and old club friend.

After the repast, coffee was served by the ladies, who gave the
gentlemen permission to smoke their cigarettes, provided they would
not desert the salon. The conversation was general, and finally
one of the guests chanced to speak of celebrated crimes. And that
gave the Marquis de Rouzieres, who delighted to tease the count, an
opportunity to mention the affair of the Queen's Necklace, a
subject that the count detested.

Each one expressed his own opinion of the affair; and, of course,
their various theories were not only contradictory but impossible.

"And you, monsieur," said the countess to the chevalier Floriani,
"what is your opinion?"

"Oh! I--I have no opinion, madame."

All the guests protested; for the chevalier had just related in an
entertaining manner various adventures in which he had participated
with his father, a magistrate at Palermo, and which established his
judgment and taste in such manners.

"I confess," said he, "I have sometimes succeeded in unraveling
mysteries that the cleverest detectives have renounced; yet I do
not claim to be Sherlock Holmes. Moreover, I know very little
about the affair of the Queen's Necklace."

Everybody now turned to the count, who was thus obliged, quite
unwillingly, to narrate all the circumstances connected with the
theft. The chevalier listened, reflected, asked a few questions,
and said:

"It is very strange....at first sight, the problem appears to be a
very simple one."

The count shrugged his shoulders. The others drew closer to the
chevalier, who continued, in a dogmatic tone:

"As a general rule, in order to find the author of a crime or a
theft, it is necessary to determine how that crime or theft was
committed, or, at least, how it could have been committed. In the
present case, nothing is more simple, because we are face to face,
not with several theories, but with one positive fact, that is to
say: the thief could only enter by the chamber door or the window
of the cabinet. Now, a person cannot open a bolted door from the
outside. Therefore, he must have entered through the window."

"But it was closed and fastened, and we found it fastened
afterward," declared the count.

"In order to do that," continued Floriani, without heeding the
interruption, "he had simply to construct a bridge, a plank or a
ladder, between the balcony of the kitchen and the ledge of the
window, and as the jewel-case---"

"But I repeat that the window was fastened," exclaimed the count,
impatiently.

This time, Floriani was obliged to reply. He did so with
the greatest tranquility, as if the objection was the most
insignificant affair in the world.

"I will admit that it was; but is there not a transom in the upper
part of the window?"

"How do you know that?"

"In the first place, that was customary in houses of that date;
and, in the second place, without such a transom, the theft cannot
be explained."

"Yes, there is one, but it was closed, the same as the window.
Consequently, we did not pay attention to it."

"That was a mistake; for, if you had examined it, you would have
found that it had been opened."

"But how?"

"I presume that, like all others, it opens by means of a wire with
a ring on the lower end."

"Yes, but I do not see---"

"Now, through a hole in the window, a person could, by the aid of
some instrument, let us say a poker with a hook at the end, grip
the ring, pull down, and open the transom."

The count laughed and said:

"Excellent! excellent! Your scheme is very cleverly constructed,
but you overlook one thing, monsieur, there is no hole in the
window."

"There was a hole."

"Nonsense, we would have seen it."

"In order to see it, you must look for it, and no one has looked.
The hole is there; it must be there, at the side of the window, in
the putty. In a vertical direction, of course."

The count arose. He was greatly excited. He paced up and down the
room, two or three times, in a nervous manner; then, approaching
Floriani, said:

"Nobody has been in that room since; nothing has been changed."

"Very well, monsieur, you can easily satisfy yourself that my
explanation is correct."

"It does not agree with the facts established by the examining
judge. You have seen nothing, and yet you contradict all that we
have seen and all that we know."

Floriani paid no attention to the count's petulance. He simply
smiled and said:

"Mon Dieu, monsieur, I submit my theory; that is all. If I am
mistaken, you can easily prove it."

"I will do so at once....I confess that your assurance---"

The count muttered a few more words; then suddenly rushed to the
door and passed out. Not a word was uttered in his absence; and
this profound silence gave the situation an air of almost tragic
importance. Finally, the count returned. He was pale and nervous.
He said to his friends, in a trembling voice:

"I beg your pardon....the revelations of the chevalier were so
unexpected....I should never have thought...."

His wife questioned him, eagerly:

"Speak....what is it?"

He stammered: "The hole is there, at the very spot, at the side of
the window---"

He seized the chevalier's arm, and said to him in an imperious
tone:

"Now, monsieur, proceed. I admit that you are right so far, but
now....that is not all....go on....tell us the rest of it."

Floriani disengaged his arm gently, and, after a moment, continued:

"Well, in my opinion, this is what happened. The thief, knowing
that the countess was going to wear the necklace that evening, had
prepared his gangway or bridge during your absence. He watched you
through the window and saw you hide the necklace. Afterward, he
cut the glass and pulled the ring."

"Ah! but the distance was so great that it would be impossible for
him to reach the window-fastening through the transom."

"Well, then, if he could not open the window by reaching through
the transom, he must have crawled through the transom."

"Impossible; it is too small. No man could crawl through it."

"Then it was not a man," declared Floriani.

"What!"

"If the transom is too small to admit a man, it must have been a
child."

"A child!"

"Did you not say that your friend Henriette had a son?"

"Yes; a son named Raoul."

"Then, in all probability, it was Raoul who committed the theft."

"What proof have you of that?"

"What proof! Plenty of it....For instance---"

He stopped, and reflected for a moment, then continued:

"For instance, that gangway or bridge. It is improbable that the
child could have brought it in from outside the house and carried
it away again without being observed. He must have used something
close at hand. In the little room used by Henriette as a kitchen,
were there not some shelves against the wall on which she placed
her pans and dishes?"

"Two shelves, to the best of my memory."

"Are you sure that those shelves are really fastened to the wooden
brackets that support them? For, if they are not, we could be
justified in presuming that the child removed them, fastened them
together, and thus formed his bridge. Perhaps, also, since there
was a stove, we might find the bent poker that he used to open the
transom."

Without saying a word, the count left the room; and, this time,
those present did not feel the nervous anxiety they had experienced
the first time. They were confident that Floriani was right, and
no one was surprised when the count returned and declared:

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