The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman Burglar
M >>
Maurice Leblanc >> The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman Burglar
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13
"It was the child. Everything proves it."
"You have seen the shelves and the poker?"
"Yes. The shelves have been unnailed, and the poker is there yet."
But the countess exclaimed:
"You had better say it was his mother. Henriette is the guilty
party. She must have compelled her son---"
"No," declared the chevalier, "the mother had nothing to do with
it."
"Nonsense! they occupied the same room. The child could not have
done it without the mother's knowledge."
"True, they lived in the same room, but all this happened in the
adjoining room, during the night, while the mother was asleep."
"And the necklace?" said the count. "It would have been found
amongst the child's things."
"Pardon me! He had been out. That morning, on which you found him
reading, he had just come from school, and perhaps the commissary
of police, instead of wasting his time on the innocent mother,
would have been better employed in searching the child's desk
amongst his school-books."
"But how do you explain those two thousand francs that Henriette
received each year? Are they not evidence of her complicity?"
"If she had been an accomplice, would she have thanked you for that
money? And then, was she not closely watched? But the child,
being free, could easily go to a neighboring city, negotiate with
some dealer and sell him one diamond or two diamonds, as he might
wish, upon condition that the money should be sent from Paris, and
that proceeding could be repeated from year to year."
An indescribable anxiety oppressed the Dreux-Soubise and their
guests. There was something in the tone and attitude of Floriani--
something more than the chevalier's assurance which, from the
beginning, had so annoyed the count. There was a touch of irony,
that seemed rather hostile than sympathetic. But the count
affected to laugh, as he said:
"All that is very ingenious and interesting, and I congratulate you
upon your vivid imagination."
"No, not at all," replied Floriani, with the utmost gravity, "I
imagine nothing. I simply describe the events as they must have
occurred."
"But what do you know about them?"
"What you yourself have told me. I picture to myself the life of
the mother and child down there in the country; the illness of the
mother, the schemes of and inventions of the child sell the
precious stones in order to save his mother's life, or, at least,
soothe her dying moments. Her illness overcomes her. She dies.
Years roll on. The child becomes a man; and then--and now I will
give my imagination a free rein--let us suppose that the man feels a
desire to return to the home of his childhood, that he does so, and
that he meets there certain people who suspect and accuse his
mother....do you realize the sorrow and anguish of such an
interview in the very house wherein the original drama was played?"
His words seemed to echo for a few seconds in the ensuing silence,
and one could read upon the faces of the Count and Countess de
Dreux a bewildered effort to comprehend his meaning and, at the
same time, the fear and anguish of such a comprehension. The count
spoke at last, and said:
"Who are you, monsieur?"
"I? The chevalier Floriani, whom you met at Palermo, and whom you
have been gracious enough to invite to your house on several
occasions."
"Then what does this story mean?"
"Oh! nothing at all! It is simply a pastime, so far as I am
concerned. I endeavor to depict the pleasure that Henriette's son,
if he still lives, would have in telling you that he was the guilty
party, and that he did it because his mother was unhappy, as she
was on the point of losing the place of a....servant, by which she
lived, and because the child suffered at sight of his mother's
sorrow."
He spoke with suppressed emotion, rose partially and inclined
toward the countess. There could be no doubt that the chevalier
Floriani was Henriette's son. His attitude and words proclaimed
it. Besides, was it not his obvious intention and desire to be
recognized as such?
The count hesitated. What action would he take against the
audacious guest? Ring? Provoke a scandal? Unmask the man who had
once robbed him? But that was a long time ago! And who would
believe that absurd story about the guilty child? No; better far
to accept the situation, and pretend not to comprehend the true
meaning of it. So the count, turning to Floriani, exclaimed:
"Your story is very curious, very entertaining; I enjoyed it much.
But what do you think has become of this young man, this model son?
I hope he has not abandoned the career in which he made such a
brilliant debut."
"Oh! certainly not."
"After such a debut! To steal the Queen's Necklace at six years of
age; the celebrated necklace that was coveted by Marie-Antoinette!"
"And to steal it," remarked Floriani, falling in with the count's
mood, "without costing him the slightest trouble, without anyone
thinking to examine the condition of the window, or to observe that
the window-sill was too clean--that window-sill which he had wiped
in order to efface the marks he had made in the thick dust. We
must admit that it was sufficient to turn the head of a boy at that
age. It was all so easy. He had simply to desire the thing, and
reach out his hand to get it."
"And he reached out his hand."
"Both hands," replied the chevalier, laughing.
His companions received a shock. What mystery surrounded the life
of the so-called Floriani? How wonderful must have been the life
of that adventurer, a thief at six years of age, and who, to-day,
in search of excitement or, at most, to gratify a feeling of
resentment, had come to brave his victim in her own house,
audaciously, foolishly, and yet with all the grace and delicacy of
a courteous guest!
He arose and approached the countess to bid her adieu. She
recoiled, unconsciously. He smiled.
"Oh! Madame, you are afraid of me! Did I pursue my role of parlor-
magician a step too far?"
She controlled herself, and replied, with her accustomed ease:
"Not at all, monsieur. The legend of that dutiful son interested
me very much, and I am pleased to know that my necklace had such a
brilliant destiny. But do you not think that the son of that
woman, that Henriette, was the victim of hereditary influence in
the choice of his vocation?"
He shuddered, feeling the point, and replied:
"I am sure of it; and, moreover, his natural tendency to crime must
have been very strong or he would have been discouraged."
"Why so?"
"Because, as you must know, the majority of the diamonds were
false. The only genuine stones were the few purchased from the
English jeweler, the others having been sold, one by one, to meet
the cruel necessities of life."
"It was still the Queen's Necklace, monsieur," replied the
countess, haughtily, "and that is something that he, Henriette's
son, could not appreciate."
"He was able to appreciate, madame, that, whether true or false,
the necklace was nothing more that an object of parade, an emblem
of senseless pride."
The count made a threatening gesture, but his wife stopped him.
"Monsieur," she said, "if the man to whom you allude has the
slightest sense of honor---"
She stopped, intimidated by Floriani's cool manner.
"If that man has the slightest sense of honor," he repeated.
She felt that she would not gain anything by speaking to him in
that manner, and in spite of her anger and indignation, trembling
as she was from humiliated pride, she said to him, almost politely:
"Monsieur, the legend says that Retaux de Villette, when in
possession of the Queen's Necklace, did not disfigure the mounting.
He understood that the diamonds were simply the ornament, the
accessory, and that the mounting was the essential work, the
creation of the artist, and he respected it accordingly. Do you
think that this man had the same feeling?"
"I have no doubt that the mounting still exists. The child
respected it."
"Well, monsieur, if you should happen to meet him, will you tell
him that he unjustly keeps possession of a relic that is the
property and pride of a certain family, and that, although the
stones have been removed, the Queen's necklace still belongs to the
house of Dreux-Soubise. It belongs to us as much as our name or
our honor."
The chevalier replied, simply:
"I shall tell him, madame."
He bowed to her, saluted the count and the other guests, and
departed.
* * * * *
Four days later, the countess de Dreux found upon the table in her
chamber a red leather case bearing the cardinal's arms. She opened
it, and found the Queen's Necklace.
But as all things must, in the life of a man who strives for unity
and logic, converge toward the same goal--and as a little
advertising never does any harm--on the following day, the `Echo de
France' published these sensational lines:
"The Queen's Necklace, the famous historical jewelry stolen from
the family of Dreux-Soubise, has been recovered by Arsene Lupin,
who hastened to restore it to its rightful owner. We cannot too
highly commend such a delicate and chivalrous act."
VI. The Seven of Hearts
I am frequently asked this question: "How did you make the
acquaintance of Arsene Lupin?"
My connection with Arsene Lupin was well known. The details that I
gather concerning that mysterious man, the irrefutable facts that I
present, the new evidence that I produce, the interpretation that I
place on certain acts of which the public has seen only the
exterior manifestations without being able to discover the secret
reasons or the invisible mechanism, all establish, if not an
intimacy, at least amicable relations and regular confidences.
But how did I make his acquaintance? Why was I selected to be his
historiographer? Why I, and not some one else?
The answer is simple: chance alone presided over my choice; my
merit was not considered. It was chance that put me in his way.
It was by chance that I was participant in one of his strangest and
most mysterious adventures; and by chance that I was an actor in a
drama of which he was the marvelous stage director; an obscure and
intricate drama, bristling with such thrilling events that I feel a
certain embarrassment in undertaking to describe it.
The first act takes place during that memorable night of 22 June,
of which so much has already been said. And, for my part, I
attribute the anomalous conduct of which I was guilty on that
occasion to the unusual frame of mind in which I found myself on my
return home. I had dined with some friends at the Cascade
restaurant, and, the entire evening, whilst we smoked and the
orchestra played melancholy waltzes, we talked only of crimes and
thefts, and dark and frightful intrigues. That is always a poor
overture to a night's sleep.
The Saint-Martins went away in an automobile. Jean Daspry--that
delightful, heedless Daspry who, six months later, was killed in
such a tragic manner on the frontier of Morocco--Jean Daspry and I
returned on foot through the dark, warm night. When we arrived in
front of the little house in which I had lived for a year at
Neuilly, on the boulevard Maillot, he said to me:
"Are you afraid?"
"What an idea!"
"But this house is so isolated....no neighbors....vacant
lots....Really, I am not a coward, and yet---"
"Well, you are very cheering, I must say."
"Oh! I say that as I would say anything else. The Saint-Martins
have impressed me with their stories of brigands and thieves."
We shook hands and said good-night. I took out my key and opened
the door.
"Well, that is good," I murmured, "Antoine has forgotten to light a
candle."
Then I recalled the fact that Antoine was away; I had given him a
short leave of absence. Forthwith, I was disagreeably oppressed by
the darkness and silence of the night. I ascended the stairs on
tiptoe, and reached my room as quickly as possible; then, contrary
to my usual habit, I turned the key and pushed the bolt.
The light of my candle restored my courage. Yet I was careful to
take my revolver from its case--a large, powerful weapon--and place
it beside my bed. That precaution completed my reassurance. I
laid down and, as usual, took a book from my night-table to read
myself to sleep. Then I received a great surprise. Instead of the
paper-knife with which I had marked my place on the preceding, I
found an envelope, closed with five seals of red wax. I seized it
eagerly. It was addressed to me, and marked: "Urgent."
A letter! A letter addressed to me! Who could have put it in that
place? Nervously, I tore open the envelope, and read:
"From the moment you open this letter, whatever happens, whatever
you may hear, do not move, do not utter one cry. Otherwise you are
doomed."
I am not a coward, and, quite as well as another, I can face real
danger, or smile at the visionary perils of imagination. But, let
me repeat, I was in an anomalous condition of mind, with my nerves
set on edge by the events of the evening. Besides, was there not,
in my present situation, something startling and mysterious,
calculated to disturb the most courageous spirit?
My feverish fingers clutched the sheet of paper, and I read and re-
read those threatening words: "Do not move, do not utter one cry.
Otherwise, you are doomed."
"Nonsense!" I thought. "It is a joke; the work of some cheerful
idiot."
I was about to laugh--a good loud laugh. Who prevented me? What
haunting fear compressed my throat?
At least, I would blow out the candle. No, I could not do it. "Do
not move, or you are doomed," were the words he had written.
These auto-suggestions are frequently more imperious than the most
positive realities; but why should I struggle against them? I had
simply to close my eyes. I did so.
At that moment, I heard a slight noise, followed by crackling
sounds, proceeding from a large room used by me as a library. A
small room or antechamber was situated between the library and my
bedchamber.
The approach of an actual danger greatly excited me, and I felt a
desire to get up, seize my revolver, and rush into the library. I
did not rise; I saw one of the curtains of the left window move.
There was no doubt about it: the curtain had moved. It was still
moving. And I saw--oh! I saw quite distinctly--in the narrow space
between the curtains and the window, a human form; a bulky mass
that prevented the curtains from hanging straight. And it is
equally certain that the man saw me through the large meshes of the
curtain. Then, I understood the situation. His mission was to
guard me while the others carried away their booty. Should I rise
and seize my revolver? Impossible! He was there! At the least
movement, at the least cry, I was doomed.
Then came a terrific noise that shook the house; this was followed
by lighter sounds, two or three together, like those of a hammer
that rebounded. At least, that was the impression formed in my
confused brain. These were mingled with other sounds, thus
creating a veritable uproar which proved that the intruders were
not only bold, but felt themselves secure from interruption.
They were right. I did not move. Was it cowardice? No, rather
weakness, a total inability to move any portion of my body,
combined with discretion; for why should I struggle? Behind that
man, there were ten others who would come to his assistance.
Should I risk my life to save a few tapestries and bibelots?
Throughout the night, my torture endured. Insufferable torture,
terrible anguish! The noises had stopped, but I was in constant
fear of their renewal. And the man! The man who was guarding me,
weapon in hand. My fearful eyes remained cast in his direction.
And my heart beat! And a profuse perspiration oozed from every
pore of my body!
Suddenly, I experienced an immense relief; a milk-wagon, whose
sound was familiar to me, passed along the boulevard; and, at the
same time, I had an impression that the light of a new day was
trying to steal through the closed window-blinds.
At last, daylight penetrated the room; other vehicles passed along
the boulevard; and all the phantoms of the night vanished. Then I
put one arm out of the bed, slowly and cautiously. My eyes were
fixed upon the curtain, locating the exact spot at which I must
fire; I made an exact calculation of the movements I must make;
then, quickly, I seized my revolver and fired.
I leaped from my bed with a cry of deliverance, and rushed to the
window. The bullet had passed through the curtain and the window-
glass, but it had not touched the man--for the very good reason that
there was none there. Nobody! Thus, during the entire night, I
had been hypnotized by a fold of the curtain. And, during that
time, the malefactors....Furiously, with an enthusiasm that nothing
could have stopped, I turned the key, opened the door, crossed the
antechamber, opened another door, and rushed into the library. But
amazement stopped me on the threshold, panting, astounded, more
astonished than I had been by the absence of the man. All the
things that I supposed had been stolen, furniture, books, pictures,
old tapestries, everything was in its proper place.
It was incredible. I could not believe my eyes. Notwithstanding
that uproar, those noises of removal....I made a tour, I inspected
the walls, I made a mental inventory of all the familiar objects.
Nothing was missing. And, what was more disconcerting, there was
no clue to the intruders, not a sign, not a chair disturbed, not
the trace of a footstep.
"Well! Well!" I said to myself, pressing my hands on my bewildered
head, "surely I am not crazy! I hear something!"
Inch by inch, I made a careful examination of the room. It was in
vain. Unless I could consider this as a discovery: Under a small
Persian rug, I found a card--an ordinary playing card. It was the
seven of hearts; it was like any other seven of hearts in French
playing-cards, with this slight but curious exception: The extreme
point of each of the seven red spots or hearts was pierced by a
hole, round and regular as if made with the point of an awl.
Nothing more. A card and a letter found in a book. But was not
that sufficient to affirm that I had not been the plaything of a
dream?
* * * * *
Throughout the day, I continued my searches in the library. It was
a large room, much too large for the requirements of such a house,
and the decoration of which attested the bizarre taste of its
founder. The floor was a mosaic of multicolored stones, formed
into large symmetrical designs. The walls were covered with a
similar mosaic, arranged in panels, Pompeiian allegories, Byzantine
compositions, frescoes of the Middle Ages. A Bacchus bestriding a
cask. An emperor wearing a gold crown, a flowing beard, and
holding a sword in his right hand.
Quite high, after the style of an artist's studio, there was a
large window--the only one in the room. That window being always
open at night, it was probable that the men had entered through it,
by the aid of a ladder. But, again, there was no evidence. The
bottom of the ladder would have left some marks in the soft earth
beneath the window; but there were none. Nor were there any traces
of footsteps in any part of the yard.
I had no idea of informing the police, because the facts I had
before me were so absurd and inconsistent. They would laugh at me.
However, as I was then a reporter on the staff of the `Gil Blas,' I
wrote a lengthy account of my adventure and it was published in the
paper on the second day thereafter. The article attracted some
attention, but no one took it seriously. They regarded it as a
work of fiction rather than a story of real life. The Saint-
Martins rallied me. But Daspry, who took an interest in such
matters, came to see me, made a study of the affair, but reached no
conclusion.
A few mornings later, the door-bell rang, and Antoine came to
inform me that a gentleman desired to see me. He would not give
his name. I directed Antoine to show him up. He was a man of
about forty years of age with a very dark complexion, lively
features, and whose correct dress, slightly frayed, proclaimed a
taste that contrasted strangely with his rather vulgar manners.
Without any preamble, he said to me--in a rough voice that confirmed
my suspicion as to his social position:
"Monsieur, whilst in a cafe, I picked up a copy of the `Gil Blas,'
and read your article. It interested me very much.
"Thank you."
"And here I am."
"Ah!"
"Yes, to talk to you. Are all the facts related by you quite
correct?"
"Absolutely so."
"Well, in that case, I can, perhaps, give you some information."
"Very well; proceed."
"No, not yet. First, I must be sure that the facts are exactly as
you have related them."
"I have given you my word. What further proof do you want?"
"I must remain alone in this room."
"I do not understand," I said, with surprise.
"It's an idea that occurred to me when reading your article.
Certain details established an extraordinary coincidence with
another case that came under my notice. If I am mistaken, I shall
say nothing more. And the only means of ascertaining the truth is
by my remaining in the room alone."
What was at the bottom of this proposition? Later, I recalled that
the man was exceedingly nervous; but, at the same time, although
somewhat astonished, I found nothing particularly abnormal about
the man or the request he had made. Moreover, my curiosity was
aroused; so I replied:
"Very well. How much time do you require?"
"Oh! three minutes--not longer. Three minutes from now, I will
rejoin you."
I left the room, and went downstairs. I took out my watch. One
minute passed. Two minutes. Why did I feel so depressed? Why did
those moments seem so solemn and weird? Two minutes and a
half....Two minutes and three quarters. Then I heard a pistol
shot.
I bounded up the stairs and entered the room. A cry of horror
escaped me. In the middle of the room, the man was lying on his
left side, motionless. Blood was flowing from a wound in his
forehead. Near his hand was a revolver, still smoking.
But, in addition to this frightful spectacle, my attention was
attracted by another object. At two feet from the body, upon the
floor, I saw a playing-card. It was the seven of hearts. I picked
it up. The lower extremity of each of the seven spots was pierced
with a small round hole.
* * * * *
A half-hour later, the commissary of police arrived, then the
coroner and the chief of the Surete, Mon. Dudouis. I had been
careful not to touch the corpse. The preliminary inquiry was very
brief, and disclosed nothing. There were no papers in the pockets
of the deceased; no name upon his clothes; no initial upon his
linen; nothing to give any clue to his identity. The room was in
the same perfect order as before. The furniture had not been
disturbed. Yet this man had not come to my house solely for the
purpose of killing himself, or because he considered my place the
most convenient one for his suicide! There must have been a motive
for his act of despair, and that motive was, no doubt, the result
of some new fact ascertained by him during the three minutes he was
alone.
What was that fact? What had he seen? What frightful secret had
been revealed to him? There was no answer to these questions.
But, at the last moment, an incident occurred that appeared to us
of considerable importance. As two policemen were raising the body
to place it on a stretcher, the left hand thus being disturbed, a
crumpled card fell from it. The card bore these words: "Georges
Andermatt, 37 Rue de Berry."
What did that mean? Georges Andermatt was a rich banker in Paris,
the founder and president of the Metal Exchange which had given
such an impulse to the metallic industries in France. He lived in
princely style; was the possessor of numerous automobiles, coaches,
and an expensive racing-stable. His social affairs were very
select, and Madame Andermatt was noted for her grace and beauty.
"Can that be the man's name?" I asked.
---------------
The chief of the Surete leaned over him.
"It is not he. Mon. Andermatt is a thin man, and slightly grey."
"But why this card?"
"Have you a telephone, monsieur?"
"Yes, in the vestibule. Come with me."
He looked in the directory, and then asked for number 415.21.
"Is Mon. Andermatt at home?....Please tell him that Mon. Dudouis
wished him to come at once to 102 Boulevard Maillot. Very
important."
Twenty minutes later, Mon. Andermatt arrived in his automobile.
After the circumstances had been explained to him, he was taken in
to see the corpse. He displayed considerable emotion, and spoke,
in a low tone, and apparently unwillingly:
"Etienne Varin," he said.
"You know him?"
"No....or, at least, yes....by sight only. His brother...."
"Ah! he has a brother?"
"Yes, Alfred Varin. He came to see me once on some matter of
business....I forget what it was."
"Where does he live?"
"The two brothers live together--rue de Provence, I think."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13