THE BLUE DIAMOND.
On the evening of March 27, at number 134 avenue Henri-Martin, in the
house that he had inherited from his brother six months before, the old
general Baron d’Hautrec, ambassador at Berlin under the second Empire,
was asleep in a comfortable armchair, while his secretary was reading
to him, and the Sister Auguste was warming his bed and preparing the
night-lamp. At eleven o’clock, the Sister, who was obliged to return to
the convent of her order at that hour, said to the secretary:
“Mademoiselle Antoinette, my work is finished; I am going.”
“Very well, Sister.”
“Do not forget that the cook is away, and that you are alone in the
house with the servant.”
“Have no fear for the Baron. I sleep in the adjoining room and always
leave the door open.”
The Sister left the house. A few moments later, Charles, the servant,
came to receive his orders. The Baron was now awake, and spoke for
himself.
“The usual orders, Charles: see that the electric bell rings in your
room, and, at the first alarm, run for the doctor. Now, Mademoiselle
Antoinette, how far did we get in our reading?”
“Is Monsieur not going to bed now?”
“No, no, I will go later. Besides, I don’t need anyone.”
Twenty minutes later, he was sleeping again, and Antoinette crept away
on tiptoe. At that moment, Charles was closing the shutters on the
lower floor. In the kitchen, he bolted the door leading to the garden,
and, in the vestibule, he not only locked the door but hooked the chain
as well. Then he ascended to his room on the third floor, went to bed,
and was soon asleep.
Probably an hour had passed, when he leaped from his bed in alarm. The
bell was ringing. It rang for some time, seven or eight seconds
perhaps, without intermission.
“Well?” muttered Charles, recovering his wits, “another of the Baron’s
whims.”
He dressed himself quickly, descended the stairs, stopped in front of
the door, and rapped, according to his custom. He received no reply. He
opened the door and entered.
“Ah! no light,” he murmured. “What is that for?”
Then, in a low voice, he called:
“Mademoiselle?”
No reply.
“Are you there, mademoiselle? What’s the matter? Is Monsieur le Baron
ill?”
No reply. Nothing but a profound silence that soon became depressing.
He took two steps forward; his foot struck a chair, and, having touched
it, he noticed that it was overturned. Then, with his hand, he
discovered other objects on the floor—a small table and a screen.
Anxiously, he approached the wall, felt for the electric button, and
turned on the light.
In the centre of the room, between the table and dressing-case, lay the
body of his master, the Baron d’Hautrec.
“What!... It can’t be possible!” he stammered.
He could not move. He stood there, with bulging eyes, gazing stupidly
at the terrible disorder, the overturned chairs, a large crystal
candelabra shattered in a thousand pieces, the clock lying on the
marble hearthstone, all evidence of a fearful and desperate struggle.
The handle of a stiletto glittered, not far from the corpse; the blade
was stained with blood. A handkerchief, marked with red spots, was
lying on the edge of the bed.
Charles recoiled with horror: the body lying at his feet extended
itself for a moment, then shrunk up again; two or three tremors, and
that was the end.
He stooped over the body. There was a clean-cut wound on the neck from
which the blood was flowing and then congealing in a black pool on the
carpet. The face retained an expression of extreme terror.
“Some one has killed him!” he muttered, “some one has killed him!”
Then he shuddered at the thought that there might be another dreadful
crime. Did not the baron’s secretary sleep in the adjoining room? Had
not the assassin killed her also? He opened the door; the room was
empty. He concluded that Antoinette had been abducted, or else she had
gone away before the crime. He returned to the baron’s chamber, his
glance falling on the secretary, he noticed that that article of
furniture remained intact. Then, he saw upon a table, beside a bunch of
keys and a pocketbook that the baron placed there every night, a
handful of golden louis. Charles seized the pocketbook, opened it, and
found some bank-notes. He counted them; there were thirteen notes of
one hundred francs each.
Instinctively, mechanically, he put the bank-notes in his pocket,
rushed down the stairs, drew the bolt, unhooked the chain, closed the
door behind him, and fled to the street.
Charles was an honest man. He had scarcely left the gate, when, cooled
by the night air and the rain, he came to a sudden halt. Now, he saw
his action in its true light, and it filled him with horror. He hailed
a passing cab, and said to the driver:
“Go to the police-office, and bring the commissary. Hurry! There has
been a murder in that house.”
The cab-driver whipped his horse. Charles wished to return to the
house, but found the gate locked. He had closed it himself when he came
out, and it could not be opened from the outside. On the other hand, it
was useless to ring, as there was no one in the house.
It was almost an hour before the arrival of the police. When they came,
Charles told his story and handed the bank-notes to the commissary. A
locksmith was summoned, and, after considerable difficulty, he
succeeded in forcing open the garden gate and the vestibule door. The
commissary of police entered the room first, but, immediately, turned
to Charles and said:
“You told me that the room was in the greatest disorder.”
Charles stood at the door, amazed, bewildered; all the furniture had
been restored to its accustomed place. The small table was standing
between the two windows, the chairs were upright, and the clock was on
the centre of the mantel. The debris of the candelabra had been
removed.
“Where is.... Monsieur le Baron?” stammered Charles.
“That’s so!” exclaimed the officer, “where is the victim?”
He approached the bed, and drew aside a large sheet, under which
reposed the Baron d’Hautrec, formerly French Ambassador at Berlin. Over
him, lay his military coat, adorned with the Cross of Honor. His
features were calm. His eyes were closed.
“Some one has been here,” said Charles.
“How did they get in?”
“I don’t know, but some one has been here during my absence. There was
a stiletto on the floor—there! And a handkerchief, stained with blood,
on the bed. They are not here now. They have been carried away. And
some one has put the room in order.”
“Who would do that?”
“The assassin.”
“But we found all the doors locked.”
“He must have remained in the house.”
“Then he must be here yet, as you were in front of the house all the
time.”
Charles reflected a moment, then said, slowly:
“Yes ... of course.... I didn’t go away from the gate.”
“Who was the last person you saw with the baron?”
“Mademoiselle Antoinette, his secretary.”
“What has become of her?”
“I don’t know. Her bed wasn’t occupied, so she must have gone out. I am
not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty.”
“But how could she leave the house?”
“By the door,” said Charles.
“But you had bolted and chained it.”
“Yes, but she must have left before that.”
“And the crime was committed after her departure?”
“Of course,” said the servant.
The house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had
fled. How? And when? Was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the
scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to
his identity? Such were the questions the police were called upon to
solve.
The coroner came at seven o’clock; and, at eight o’clock, Mon. Dudouis,
the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. They were
followed by the Procureur of the Republic and the investigating
magistrate. In addition to these officials, the house was overrun with
policemen, detectives, newspaper reporters, photographers, and
relatives and acquaintances of the murdered man.
A thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse
according to the information furnished by Charles; they questioned
Sister Auguste when she arrived; but they discovered nothing new.
Sister Auguste was astonished to learn of the disappearance of
Antoinette Bréhat. She had engaged the young girl twelve days before,
on excellent recommendations, and refused to believe that she would
neglect her duty by leaving the house during the night.
“But, you see, she hasn’t returned yet,” said the magistrate, “and we
are still confronted with the question: What has become of her?”
“I think she was abducted by the assassin,” said Charles.
The theory was plausible, and was borne out by certain facts. Mon.
Dudouis agreed with it. He said:
“Abducted? ma foi! that is not improbable.”
“Not only improbable,” said a voice, “but absolutely opposed to the
facts. There is not a particle of evidence to support such a theory.”
The voice was harsh, the accent sharp, and no one was surprised to
learn that the speaker was Ganimard. In no one else, would they
tolerate such a domineering tone.
“Ah! it is you, Ganimard!” exclaimed Mon. Dudouis. “I had not seen you
before.”
“I have been here since two o’clock.”
“So you are interested in some things outside of lottery ticket number
514, the affair of the rue Clapeyron, the blonde lady and Arsène
Lupin?”
“Ha-ha!” laughed the veteran detective. “I would not say that Lupin is
a stranger to the present case. But let us forget the affair of the
lottery ticket for a few moments, and try to unravel this new mystery.”
Ganimard is not one of those celebrated detectives whose methods will
create a school, or whose name will be immortalized in the criminal
annals of his country. He is devoid of those flashes of genius which
characterize the work of Dupin, Lecoq and Sherlock Holmes. Yet, it must
be admitted, he possesses superior qualities of observation, sagacity,
perseverance and even intuition. His merit lies in his absolute
independence. Nothing troubles or influences him, except, perhaps, a
sort of fascination that Arsène Lupin holds over him. However that may
be, there is no doubt that his position on that morning, in the house
of the late Baron d’Hautrec, was one of undoubted superiority, and his
collaboration in the case was appreciated and desired by the
investigating magistrate.
“In the first place,” said Ganimard, “I will ask Monsieur Charles to be
very particular on one point: He says that, on the occasion of his
first visit to the room, various articles of furniture were overturned
and strewn about the place; now, I ask him whether, on his second visit
to the room, he found all those articles restored to their accustomed
places—I mean, of course, correctly placed.”
“Yes, all in their proper places,” replied Charles.
“It is obvious, then, that the person who replaced them must have been
familiar with the location of those articles.”
The logic of this remark was apparent to his hearers. Ganimard
continued:
“One more question, Monsieur Charles. You were awakened by the ringing
of your bell. Now, who, do you think, rang it?”
“Monsieur le baron, of course.”
“When could he ring it?”
“After the struggle ... when he was dying.”
“Impossible; because you found him lying, unconscious, at a point more
than four metres from the bell-button.”
“Then he must have rung during the struggle.”
“Impossible,” declared Ganimard, “since the ringing, as you have said,
was continuous and uninterrupted, and lasted seven or eight seconds. Do
you think his antagonist would have permitted him to ring the bell in
that leisurely manner?”
“Well, then, it was before the attack.”
“Also, quite impossible, since you have told us that the lapse of time
between the ringing of the bell and your entrance to the room was not
more than three minutes. Therefore, if the baron rang before the
attack, we are forced to the conclusion that the struggle, the murder
and the flight of the assassin, all occurred within the short space of
three minutes. I repeat: that is impossible.”
“And yet,” said the magistrate, “some one rang. If it were not the
baron, who was it?”
“The murderer.”
“For what purpose?”
“I do not know. But the fact that he did ring proves that he knew that
the bell communicated with the servant’s room. Now, who would know
that, except an inmate of the house?”
Ganimard was drawing the meshes of his net closer and tighter. In a few
clear and logical sentences, he had unfolded and defined his theory of
the crime, so that it seemed quite natural when the magistrate said:
“As I understand it, Ganimard, you suspect the girl Antoinette Bréhat?”
“I do not suspect her; I accuse her.”
“You accuse her of being an accomplice?”
“I accuse her of having killed Baron d’Hautrec.”
“Nonsense! What proof have you?”
“The handful of hair I found in the right hand of the victim.”
He produced the hair; it was of a beautiful blond color, and glittered
like threads of gold. Charles looked at it, and said:
“That is Mademoiselle Antoinette’s hair. There can be no doubt of it.
And, then, there is another thing. I believe that the knife, which I
saw on my first visit to the room, belonged to her. She used it to cut
the leaves of books.”
A long, dreadful silence followed, as if the crime had acquired an
additional horror by reason of having been committed by a woman. At
last, the magistrate said:
“Let us assume, until we are better informed, that the baron was killed
by Antoinette Bréhat. We have yet to learn where she concealed herself
after the crime, how she managed to return after Charles left the
house, and how she made her escape after the arrival of the police.
Have you formed any opinion on those points Ganimard?”
“None.”
“Well, then, where do we stand?”
Ganimard was embarrassed. Finally, with a visible effort, he said:
“All I can say is that I find in this case the same method of procedure
as we found in the affair of the lottery ticket number 514; the same
phenomena, which might be termed the faculty of disappearing.
Antoinette Bréhat has appeared and disappeared in this house as
mysteriously as Arsène Lupin entered the house of Monsieur Detinan and
escaped therefrom in the company of the blonde lady.”
“Does that signify anything?”
“It does to me. I can see a probable connection between those two
strange incidents. Antoinette Bréhat was hired by Sister Auguste twelve
days ago, that is to say, on the day after the blonde Lady so cleverly
slipped through my fingers. In the second place, the hair of the blonde
Lady was exactly of the same brilliant golden hue as the hair found in
this case.”
“So that, in your opinion, Antoinette Bréhat—”
“Is the blonde Lady—precisely.”
“And that Lupin had a hand in both cases?”
“Yes, that is my opinion.”
This statement was greeted with an outburst of laughter. It came from
Mon. Dudouis.
“Lupin! always Lupin! Lupin is into everything; Lupin is everywhere!”
“Yes, Lupin is into everything of any consequence,” replied Ganimard,
vexed at the ridicule of his superior.
“Well, so far as I see,” observed Mon. Dudouis, “you have not
discovered any motive for this crime. The secretary was not broken
into, nor the pocketbook carried away. Even, a pile of gold was left
upon the table.”
“Yes, that is so,” exclaimed Ganimard, “but the famous diamond?”
“What diamond?”
“The blue diamond! The celebrated diamond which formed part of the
royal crown of France, and which was given by the Duke d’Aumale to
Leonide Lebrun, and, at the death of Leonide Lebrun, was purchased by
the Baron d’Hautrec as a souvenir of the charming comedienne that he
had loved so well. That is one of those things that an old Parisian,
like I, does not forget.”
“It is obvious that if the blue diamond is not found, the motive for
the crime is disclosed,” said the magistrate. “But where should we
search for it?”
“On the baron’s finger,” replied Charles. “He always wore the blue
diamond on his left hand.”
“I saw that hand, and there was only a plain gold ring on it,” said
Ganimard, as he approached the corpse.
“Look in the palm of the hand,” replied the servant.
Ganimard opened the stiffened hand. The bezel was turned inward, and,
in the centre of that bezel, the blue diamond shone with all its
glorious splendor.
“The deuce!” muttered Ganimard, absolutely amazed, “I don’t understand
it.”
“You will now apologize to Lupin for having suspected him, eh?” said
Mon. Dudouis, laughing.
Ganimard paused for a moment’s reflection, and then replied,
sententiously:
“It is only when I do not understand things that I suspect Arsène
Lupin.”
Such were the facts established by the police on the day after the
commission of that mysterious crime. Facts that were vague and
incoherent in themselves, and which were not explained by any
subsequent discoveries. The movements of Antoinette Bréhat remained as
inexplicable as those of the blonde Lady, and the police discovered no
trace of that mysterious creature with the golden hair who had killed
Baron d’Hautrec and had failed to take from his finger the famous
diamond that had once shone in the royal crown of France.
The heirs of the Baron d’Hautrec could not fail to benefit by such
notoriety. They established in the house an exhibition of the furniture
and other objects which were to be sold at the auction rooms of Drouot
& Co. Modern furniture of indifferent taste, various objects of no
artistic value ... but, in the centre of the room, in a case of purple
velvet, protected by a glass globe, and guarded by two officers, was
the famous blue diamond ring.
A large magnificent diamond of incomparable purity, and of that
indefinite blue which the clear water receives from an unclouded sky,
of that blue which can be detected in the whiteness of linen. Some
admired, some enthused ... and some looked with horror on the chamber
of the victim, on the spot where the corpse had lain, on the floor
divested of its blood-stained carpet, and especially the walls, the
unsurmountable walls over which the criminal must have passed. Some
assured themselves that the marble mantel did not move, others imagined
gaping holes, mouths of tunnels, secret connections with the sewers,
and the catacombs—
The sale of the blue diamond took place at the salesroom of Drouot &
Co. The place was crowded to suffocation, and the bidding was carried
to the verge of folly. The sale was attended by all those who usually
appear at similar events in Paris; those who buy, and those who make a
pretense of being able to buy; bankers, brokers, artists, women of all
classes, two cabinet ministers, an Italian tenor, an exiled king who,
in order to maintain his credit, bid, with much ostentation, and in a
loud voice, as high as one hundred thousand francs. One hundred
thousand francs! He could offer that sum without any danger of his bid
being accepted. The Italian tenor risked one hundred and fifty
thousand, and a member of the Comédie-Française bid one hundred and
seventy-five thousand francs.
When the bidding reached two hundred thousand francs, the smaller
competitors fell out of the race. At two hundred and fifty thousand,
only two bidders remained in the field: Herschmann, the well-known
capitalist, the king of gold mines; and the Countess de Crozon, the
wealthy American, whose collection of diamonds and precious stones is
famed throughout the world.
“Two hundred and sixty thousand ... two hundred and seventy thousand
... seventy-five ... eighty....” exclaimed the auctioneer, as he
glanced at the two competitors in succession. “Two hundred and eighty
thousand for madame.... Do I hear any more?”
“Three hundred thousand,” said Herschmann.
There was a short silence. The countess was standing, smiling, but pale
from excitement. She was leaning against the back of the chair in front
of her. She knew, and so did everyone present, that the issue of the
duel was certain; logically, inevitably, it must terminate to the
advantage of the capitalist, who had untold millions with which to
indulge his caprices. However, the countess made another bid:
“Three hundred and five thousand.”
Another silence. All eyes were now directed to the capitalist in the
expectation that he would raise the bidding. But Herschmann was not
paying any attention to the sale; his eyes were fixed on a sheet of
paper which he held in his right hand, while the other hand held a torn
envelope.
“Three hundred and five thousand,” repeated the auctioneer. “Once!...
Twice!... For the last time.... Do I hear any more?... Once!...
Twice!... Am I offered any more? Last chance!...”
Herschmann did not move.
“Third and last time!... Sold!” exclaimed the auctioneer, as his hammer
fell.
“Four hundred thousand,” cried Herschman, starting up, as if the sound
of the hammer had roused him from his stupor.
Too late; the auctioneer’s decision was irrevocable. Some of
Herschmann’s acquaintances pressed around him. What was the matter? Why
did he not speak sooner? He laughed, and said:
“Ma foi! I simply forgot—in a moment of abstraction.”
“That is strange.”
“You see, I just received a letter.”
“And that letter was sufficient—”
“To distract my attention? Yes, for a moment.”
Ganimard was there. He had come to witness the sale of the ring. He
stopped one of the attendants of the auction room, and said:
“Was it you who carried the letter to Monsieur Herschmann?”
“Yes.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“A lady.”
“Where is she?”
“Where is she?... She was sitting down there ... the lady who wore a
thick veil.”
“She has gone?”
“Yes, just this moment.”
Ganimard hastened to the door, and saw the lady descending the stairs.
He ran after her. A crush of people delayed him at the entrance. When
he reached the sidewalk, she had disappeared. He returned to the
auction room, accosted Herschmann, introduced himself, and enquired
about the letter. Herschmann handed it to him. It was carelessly
scribbled in pencil, in a handwriting unknown to the capitalist, and
contained these few words:
_“The blue diamond brings misfortune. Remember the Baron d’Hautrec.”_
The vicissitudes of the blue diamond were not yet at an end. Although
it had become well-known through the murder of the Baron d’Hautrec and
the incidents at the auction-rooms, it was six months later that it
attained even greater celebrity. During the following summer, the
Countess de Crozon was robbed of the famous jewel she had taken so much
trouble to acquire.
Let me recall that strange affair, of which the exciting and dramatic
incidents sent a thrill through all of us, and over which I am now
permitted to throw some light.
On the evening of August 10, the guests of the Count and Countess de
Crozon were assembled in the drawing-room of the magnificent château
which overlooks the Bay de Somme. To entertain her friends, the
countess seated herself at the piano to play for them, after first
placing her jewels on a small table near the piano, and, amongst them,
was the ring of the Baron d’Hautrec.
An hour later, the count and the majority of the guests retired,
including his two cousins and Madame de Réal, an intimate friend of the
countess. The latter remained in the drawing-room with Herr Bleichen,
the Austrian consul, and his wife.
They conversed for a time, and then the countess extinguished the large
lamp that stood on a table in the centre of the room. At the same
moment, Herr Bleichen extinguished the two piano lamps. There was a
momentary darkness; then the consul lighted a candle, and the three of
them retired to their rooms. But, as soon as she reached her apartment,
the countess remembered her jewels and sent her maid to get them. When
the maid returned with the jewels, she placed them on the mantel
without the countess looking at them. Next day, Madame de Crozon found
that one of her rings was missing; it was the blue diamond ring.
She informed her husband, and, after talking it over, they reached the
conclusion that the maid was above suspicion, and that the guilty party
must be Herr Bleichen.
The count notified the commissary of police at Amiens, who commenced an
investigation and, discreetly, exercised a strict surveillance over the
Austrian consul to prevent his disposing of the ring.
The château was surrounded by detectives day and night. Two weeks
passed without incident. Then Herr Bleichen announced his intended
departure. That day, a formal complaint was entered against him. The
police made an official examination of his luggage. In a small satchel,
the key to which was always carried by the consul himself, they found a
bottle of dentifrice, and in that bottle they found the ring.
Madame Bleichen fainted. Her husband was placed under arrest.
Everyone will remember the line of defense adopted by the accused man.
He declared that the ring must have been placed there by the Count de
Crozen as an act of revenge. He said:
“The count is brutal and makes his wife very unhappy. She consulted me,
and I advised her to get a divorce. The count heard of it in some way,
and, to be revenged on me, he took the ring and placed it in my
satchel.”
The count and countess persisted in pressing the charge. Between the
explanation which they gave and that of the consul, both equally
possible and equally probable, the public had to choose. No new fact
was discovered to turn the scale in either direction. A month of
gossip, conjectures and investigations failed to produce a single ray
of light.
Wearied of the excitement and notoriety, and incapable of securing the
evidence necessary to sustain their charge against the consul, the
count and countess at last sent to Paris for a detective competent to
unravel the tangled threads of this mysterious skein. This brought
Ganimard into the case.
For four days, the veteran detective searched the house from top to
bottom, examined every foot of the ground, had long conferences with
the maid, the chauffeur, the gardeners, the employees in the
neighboring post-offices, visited the rooms that had been occupied by
the various guests. Then, one morning, he disappeared without taking
leave of his host or hostess. But a week later, they received this
telegram:
“Please come to the Japanese Tea-room, rue Boissy d’Anglas, to-morrow,
Friday, evening at five o’clock. Ganimard.”
At five o’clock, Friday evening, their automobile stopped in front of
number nine rue Boissy-d’Anglas. The old detective was standing on the
sidewalk, waiting for them. Without a word, he conducted them to the
first floor of the Japanese Tea-room. In one of the rooms, they met two
men, whom Ganimard introduced in these words:
“Monsieur Gerbois, professor in the College of Versailles, from whom,
you will remember, Arsène Lupin stole half a million; Monsieur Léonce
d’Hautrec, nephew and sole legatee of the Baron d’Hautrec.”
A few minutes later, another man arrived. It was Mon. Dudouis, head of
the detective service, and he appeared to be in a particularly bad
temper. He bowed, and then said:
“What’s the trouble now, Ganimard? I received your telephone message
asking me to come here. Is it anything of consequence?”
“Yes, chief, it is a very important matter. Within an hour, the last
two cases to which I was assigned will have their dénouement here. It
seemed to me that your presence was indispensable.”
“And also the presence of Dieuzy and Folenfant, whom I noticed standing
near the door as I came in?”
“Yes, chief.”
“For what? Are you going to make an arrest, and you wish to do it with
a flourish? Come, Ganimard, I am anxious to hear about it.”
Ganimard hesitated a moment, then spoke with the obvious intention of
making an impression on his hearers:
“In the first place, I wish to state that Herr Bleichen had nothing to
do with the theft of the ring.”
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Mon. Dudouis, “that is a bold statement and a very
serious one.”
“And is that all you have discovered?” asked the Count de Crozon.
“Not at all. On the second day after the theft, three of your guests
went on an automobile trip as far as Crécy. Two of them visited the
famous battlefield; and, while they were there, the third party paid a
hasty visit to the post-office, and mailed a small box, tied and sealed
according to the regulations, and declared its value to be one hundred
francs.”
“I see nothing strange in that,” said the count.
“Perhaps you will see something strange in it when I tell you that this
person, in place of giving her true name, sent the box under the name
of Rousseau, and the person to whom it was addressed, a certain
Monsieur Beloux of Paris, moved his place of residence immediately
after receiving the box, in other words, the ring.”
“I presume you refer to one of my cousins d’Andelle?”
“No,” replied Ganimard.
“Madame de Réal, then?”
“Yes.”
“You accuse my friend, Madam de Réal?” cried the countess, shocked and
amazed.
“I wish to ask you one question, madame,” said Ganimard. “Was Madam de
Réal present when you purchased the ring?”
“Yes, but we did not go there together.”
“Did she advise you to buy the ring?”
The countess considered for a moment, then said:
“Yes, I think she mentioned it first—”
“Thank you, madame. Your answer establishes the fact that it was Madame
de Réal who was the first to mention the ring, and it was she who
advised you to buy it.”
“But, I consider my friend is quite incapable—”
“Pardon me, countess, when I remind you that Madame de Réal is only a
casual acquaintance and not your intimate friend, as the newspapers
have announced. It was only last winter that you met her for the first
time. Now, I can prove that everything she has told you about herself,
her past life, and her relatives, is absolutely false; that Madame
Blanche de Réal had no actual existence before she met you, and she has
now ceased to exist.”
“Well?”
“Well?” replied Ganimard.
“Your story is a very strange one,” said the countess, “but it has no
application to our case. If Madame de Réal had taken the ring, how do
you explain the fact that it was found in Herr Bleichen’s tooth-powder?
Anyone who would take the risk and trouble of stealing the blue diamond
would certainly keep it. What do you say to that?”
“I—nothing—but Madame de Réal will answer it.”
“Oh! she does exist, then?”
“She does—and does not. I will explain in a few words. Three days ago,
while reading a newspaper, I glanced over the list of hotel arrivals at
Trouville, and there I read: ‘Hôtel Beaurivage—Madame de Réal, etc.’
“I went to Trouville immediately, and interviewed the proprietor of the
hotel. From the description and other information I received from him,
I concluded that she was the very Madame de Réal that I was seeking;
but she had left the hotel, giving her address in Paris as number three
rue de Colisée. The day before yesterday I went to that address, and
learned that there was no person there called Madame de Réal, but there
was a Madame Réal, living on the second floor, who acted as a diamond
broker and was frequently away from home. She had returned from a
journey on the preceding evening. Yesterday, I called on her and, under
an assumed name, I offered to act as an intermedium in the sale of some
diamonds to certain wealthy friends of mine. She is to meet me here
to-day to carry out that arrangement.”
“What! You expect her to come here?”
“Yes, at half-past five.”
“Are you sure it is she?”
“Madame de Réal of the Château de Crozon? Certainly. I have convincing
evidence of that fact. But ... listen!... I hear Folenfant’s signal.”
It was a whistle. Ganimard arose quickly.
“There is no time to lose. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, will you be
kind enough to go into the next room. You also, Monsieur d’Hautrec, and
you, Monsieur Gerbois. The door will remain open, and when I give the
signal, you will come out. Of course, Chief, you will remain here.”
“We may be disturbed by other people,” said Mon. Dudouis.
“No. This is a new establishment, and the proprietor is one of my
friends. He will not let anyone disturb us—except the blonde Lady.”
“The blonde Lady! What do you mean?”
“Yes, the blonde Lady herself, chief; the friend and accomplice of
Arsène Lupin, the mysterious blonde Lady against whom I hold convincing
evidence; but, in addition to that, I wish to confront her with all the
people she has robbed.”
He looked through the window.
“I see her. She is coming in the door now. She can’t escape: Folenfant
and Dieuzy are guarding the door.... The blonde Lady is captured at
last, Chief!”
A moment later a woman appeared at the door; she was tall and slender,
with a very pale complexion and bright golden hair. Ganimard trembled
with excitement; he could not move, nor utter a word. She was there, in
front of him, at his mercy! What a victory over Arsène Lupin! And what
a revenge! And, at the same time, the victory was such an easy one that
he asked himself if the blonde Lady would not yet slip through his
fingers by one of those miracles that usually terminated the exploits
of Arsène Lupin. She remained standing near the door, surprised at the
silence, and looked about her without any display of suspicion or fear.
“She will get away! She will disappear!” thought Ganimard.
Then he managed to get between her and the door. She turned to go out.
“No, no!” he said. “Why are you going away?”
“Really, monsieur, I do not understand what this means. Allow me—”
“There is no reason why you should go, madame, and very good reasons
why you should remain.”
“But—”
“It is useless, madame. You cannot go.”
Trembling, she sat on a chair, and stammered:
“What is it you want?”
Ganimard had won the battle and captured the blonde Lady. He said to
her:
“Allow me to present the friend I mentioned, who desires to purchase
some diamonds. Have you procured the stones you promised to bring?”
“No—no—I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Come! Jog your memory! A person of your acquaintance intended to send
you a tinted stone.... ‘Something like the blue diamond,’ I said,
laughing; and you replied: ‘Exactly, I expect to have just what you
want.’ Do you remember?”
She made no reply. A small satchel fell from her hand. She picked it up
quickly, and held it securely. Her hands trembled slightly.
“Come!” said Ganimard, “I see you have no confidence in us, Madame de
Réal. I shall set you a good example by showing you what I have.”
He took from his pocketbook a paper which he unfolded, and disclosed a
lock of hair.
“These are a few hairs torn from the head of Antoinette Bréhat by the
Baron d’Hautrec, which I found clasped in his dead hand. I have shown
them to Mlle. Gerbois, who declares they are of the exact color of the
hair of the blonde Lady. Besides, they are exactly the color of your
hair—the identical color.”
Madame Réal looked at him in bewilderment, as if she did not understand
his meaning. He continued:
“And here are two perfume bottles, without labels, it is true, and
empty, but still sufficiently impregnated with their odor to enable
Mlle. Gerbois to recognize in them the perfume used by that blonde Lady
who was her traveling companion for two weeks. Now, one of these
bottles was found in the room that Madame de Réal occupied at the
Château de Crozon, and the other in the room that you occupied at the
Hôtel Beaurivage.”
“What do you say?... The blonde Lady ... the Château de Crozon....”
The detective did not reply. He took from his pocket and placed on the
table, side by side, four small sheets of paper. Then he said:
“I have, on these four pieces of paper, various specimens of
handwriting; the first is the writing of Antoinette Bréhat; the second
was written by the woman who sent the note to Baron Herschmann at the
auction sale of the blue diamond; the third is that of Madame de Réal,
written while she was stopping at the Château de Crozon; and the fourth
is your handwriting, madame ... it is your name and address, which you
gave to the porter of the Hôtel Beaurivage at Trouville. Now, compare
the four handwritings. They are identical.”
“What absurdity is this? really, monsieur, I do not understand. What
does it mean?”
“It means, madame,” exclaimed Ganimard, “that the blonde Lady, the
friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, is none other than you, Madame
Réal.”
Ganimard went to the adjoining room and returned with Mon. Gerbois,
whom he placed in front of Madame Réal, as he said:
“Monsieur Gerbois, is this the person who abducted your daughter, the
woman you saw at the house of Monsieur Detinan?”
“No.”
Ganimard was so surprised that he could not speak for a moment;
finally, he said: “No?... You must be mistaken....”
“I am not mistaken. Madame is blonde, it is true, and in that respect
resembles the blonde Lady; but, in all other respects, she is totally
different.”
“I can’t believe it. You must be mistaken.”
Ganimard called in his other witnesses.
“Monsieur d’Hautrec,” he said, “do you recognize Antoinette Bréhat?”
“No, this is not the person I saw at my uncle’s house.”
“This woman is not Madame de Réal,” declared the Count de Crozon.
That was the finishing touch. Ganimard was crushed. He was buried
beneath the ruins of the structure he had erected with so much care and
assurance. His pride was humbled, his spirit was broken, by the force
of this unexpected blow.
Mon. Dudouis arose, and said:
“We owe you an apology, madame, for this unfortunate mistake. But,
since your arrival here, I have noticed your nervous agitation.
Something troubles you; may I ask what it is?”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur, I was afraid. My satchel contains diamonds to the
value of a hundred thousand francs, and the conduct of your friend was
rather suspicious.”
“But you were frequently absent from Paris. How do you explain that?”
“I make frequent journeys to other cities in the course of my business.
That is all.”
Mon. Dudouis had nothing more to ask. He turned to his subordinate, and
said:
“Your investigation has been very superficial, Ganimard, and your
conduct toward this lady is really deplorable. You will come to my
office to-morrow and explain it.”
The interview was at an end, and Mon. Dudouis was about to leave the
room when a most annoying incident occurred. Madame Réal turned to
Ganimard, and said:
“I understand that you are Monsieur Ganimard. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Then, this letter must be for you. I received it this morning. It was
addressed to ‘Mon. Justin Ganimard, care of Madame Réal.’ I thought it
was a joke, because I did not know you under that name, but it appears
that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous.”
Ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he
dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the
envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone:
“Once upon a time, there were a blonde Lady, a Lupin, and a Ganimard.
Now, the wicked Ganimard had evil designs on the pretty blonde Lady,
and the good Lupin was her friend and protector. When the good Lupin
wished the blonde Lady to become the friend of the Countess de Crozon,
he caused her to assume the name of Madame de Réal, which is a close
resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a
pale complexion and golden hair. And the good Lupin said to himself: If
ever the wicked Ganimard gets upon the track of the blonde Lady, how
useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the
honest diamond broker. A wise precaution that has borne good fruit. A
little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked Ganimard, a
perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine blonde Lady at
the Hôtel Beaurivage, the name and address of Madame Réal written on
the hotel register by the genuine blonde Lady, and the trick is played.
What do you think of it, Ganimard? I wished to tell you the true story
of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it.
Really, it is quite amusing, and I have enjoyed it very much.
“Accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to
the worthy Mon. Dudouis.
“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
“He knows everything,” muttered Ganimard, but he did not see the humor
of the situation as Lupin had predicted. “He knows some things I have
never mentioned to any one. How could he find out that I was going to
invite you here, chief? How could he know that I had found the first
perfume bottle? How could he find out those things?”
He stamped his feet and tore his hair—a prey to the most tragic
despair. Mon. Dudouis felt sorry for him, and said:
“Come, Ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time.”
And Mon. Dudouis left the room, accompanied by Madame Réal.
During the next ten minutes, Ganimard read and re-read the letter of
Arsène Lupin. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, Monsieur d’Hautrec and
Monsieur Gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the
room. At last, the count approached the detective, and said:
“My dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth
than we were before.”
“Pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the
blonde Lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that
Arsène Lupin directed them.”
“Those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more
obscure. The blonde Lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue
diamond, and yet she does not steal it. Afterward she steals it and
gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. How do you
explain her strange conduct?”
“I cannot explain it.”
“Of course; but, perhaps, someone else can.”
“Who?”
The Count hesitated, so the Countess replied, frankly:
“There is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the
arena with Arsène Lupin and overcome him. Have you any objection to our
engaging the services of Herlock Sholmes in this case?”
Ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply:
“No ... but ... I do not understand what——”
“Let me explain. All this mystery annoys me. I wish to have it cleared
up. Monsieur Gerbois and Monsieur d’Hautrec have the same desire, and
we have agreed to send for the celebrated English detective.”
“You are right, madame,” replied the detective, with a loyalty that did
him credit, “you are right. Old Ganimard is not able to overcome Arsène
Lupin. But will Herlock Sholmes succeed? I hope so, as I have the
greatest admiration for him. But ... it is improbable.”
“Do you mean to say that he will not succeed?”
“That is my opinion. I can foresee the result of a duel between Herlock
Sholmes and Arsène Lupin. The Englishman will be defeated.”
“But, in any event, can we count on your assistance?”
“Quite so, madame. I shall be pleased to render Monsieur Sholmes all
possible assistance.”
“Do you know his address?”
“Yes; 219 Parker street.”
That evening Monsieur and Madame de Crozon withdrew the charge they had
made against Herr Bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to Herlock
Sholmes.