HERLOCK SHOLMES OPENS HOSTILITIES.
“What does monsieur wish?”
“Anything,” replied Arsène Lupin, like a man who never worries over the
details of a meal; “anything you like, but no meat or alcohol.”
The waiter walked away, disdainfully.
“What! still a vegetarian?” I exclaimed.
“More so than ever,” replied Lupin.
“Through taste, faith, or habit?”
“Hygiene.”
“And do you never fall from grace?”
“Oh! yes ... when I am dining out ... and wish to avoid being
considered eccentric.”
We were dining near the Northern Railway station, in a little
restaurant to which Arsène Lupin had invited me. Frequently he would
send me a telegram asking me to meet him in some obscure restaurant,
where we could enjoy a quiet dinner, well served, and which was always
made interesting to me by his recital of some startling adventure
theretofore unknown to me.
On that particular evening he appeared to be in a more lively mood than
usual. He laughed and joked with careless animation, and with that
delicate sarcasm that was habitual with him—a light and spontaneous
sarcasm that was quite free from any tinge of malice. It was a pleasure
to find him in that jovial mood, and I could not resist the desire to
tell him so.
“Ah! yes,” he exclaimed, “there are days in which I find life as bright
and gay as a spring morning; then life seems to be an infinite treasure
which I can never exhaust. And yet God knows I lead a careless
existence!”
“Too much so, perhaps.”
“Ah! but I tell you, the treasure is infinite. I can spend it with a
lavish hand. I can cast my youth and strength to the four winds of
Heaven, and it is replaced by a still younger and greater force.
Besides, my life is so pleasant!... If I wished to do so, I might
become—what shall I say?... An orator, a manufacturer, a politician....
But, I assure you, I shall never have such a desire. Arsène Lupin, I
am; Arsène Lupin, I shall remain. I have made a vain search in history
to find a career comparable to mine; a life better filled or more
intense.... Napoleon? Yes, perhaps.... But Napoleon, toward the close
of his career, when all Europe was trying to crush him, asked himself
on the eve of each battle if it would not be his last.”
Was he serious? Or was he joking? He became more animated as he
proceeded:
“That is everything, do you understand, the danger! The continuous
feeling of danger! To breathe it as you breathe the air, to scent it in
every breath of wind, to detect it in every unusual sound.... And, in
the midst of the tempest, to remain calm ... and not to stumble!
Otherwise, you are lost. There is only one sensation equal to it: that
of the chauffeur in an automobile race. But that race lasts only a few
hours; my race continues until death!”
“What fantasy!” I exclaimed. “And you wish me to believe that you have
no particular motive for your adoption of that exciting life?”
“Come,” he said, with a smile, “you are a clever psychologist. Work it
out for yourself.”
He poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and said:
“Did you read _‘Le Temps’_ to-day?”
“No.”
“Herlock Sholmes crossed the Channel this afternoon, and arrived in
Paris about six o’clock.”
“The deuce! What is he coming for?”
“A little journey he has undertaken at the request of the Count and
Countess of Crozon, Monsieur Gerbois, and the nephew of Baron
d’Hautrec. They met him at the Northern Railway station, took him to
meet Ganimard, and, at this moment, the six of them are holding a
consultation.”
Despite a strong temptation to do so, I had never ventured to question
Arsène Lupin concerning any action of his private life, unless he had
first mentioned the subject to me. Up to that moment his name had not
been mentioned, at least officially, in connection with the blue
diamond. Consequently, I consumed my curiosity in patience. He
continued:
“There is also in _‘Le Temps’_ an interview with my old friend
Ganimard, according to whom a certain blonde lady, who should be my
friend, must have murdered the Baron d’Hautrec and tried to rob Madame
de Crozon of her famous ring. And—what do you think?—he accuses me of
being the instigator of those crimes.”
I could not suppress a slight shudder. Was this true? Must I believe
that his career of theft, his mode of existence, the logical result of
such a life, had drawn that man into more serious crimes, including
murder? I looked at him. He was so calm, and his eyes had such a frank
expression! I observed his hands: they had been formed from a model of
exceeding delicacy, long and slender; inoffensive, truly; and the hands
of an artist....
“Ganimard has pipe-dreams,” I said.
“No, no!” protested Lupin. “Ganimard has some cleverness; and, at
times, almost inspiration.”
“Inspiration!”
“Yes. For instance, that interview is a master-stroke. In the first
place, he announces the coming of his English rival in order to put me
on my guard, and make his task more difficult. In the second place, he
indicates the exact point to which he has conducted the affair in order
that Sholmes will not get credit for the work already done by Ganimard.
That is good warfare.”
“Whatever it may be, you have two adversaries to deal with, and such
adversaries!”
“Oh! one of them doesn’t count.”
“And the other?”
“Sholmes? Oh! I confess he is a worthy foe; and that explains my
present good humor. In the first place, it is a question of
self-esteem; I am pleased to know that they consider me a subject
worthy the attention of the celebrated English detective. In the next
place, just imagine the pleasure a man, such as I, must experience in
the thought of a duel with Herlock Sholmes. But I shall be obliged to
strain every muscle; he is a clever fellow, and will contest every inch
of the ground.”
“Then you consider him a strong opponent?”
“I do. As a detective, I believe, he has never had an equal. But I have
one advantage over him; he is making the attack and I am simply
defending myself. My rôle is the easier one. Besides, I am familiar
with his method of warfare, and he does not know mine. I am prepared to
show him a few new tricks that will give him something to think about.”
He tapped the table with his fingers as he uttered the following
sentences, with an air of keen delight:
“Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes.... France against England....
Trafalgar will be revenged at last.... Ah! the rascal ... he doesn’t
suspect that I am prepared ... and a Lupin warned—”
He stopped suddenly, seized with a fit of coughing, and hid his face in
his napkin, as if something had stuck in his throat.
“A bit of bread?” I inquired. “Drink some water.”
“No, it isn’t that,” he replied, in a stifled voice.
“Then, what is it?”
“The want of air.”
“Do you wish a window opened?”
“No, I shall go out. Give me my hat and overcoat, quick! I must go.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The two gentlemen who came in just now.... Look at the taller one ...
now, when we go out, keep to my left, so he will not see me.”
“The one who is sitting behind you?”
“Yes. I will explain it to you, outside.”
“Who is it?”
“Herlock Sholmes.”
He made a desperate effort to control himself, as if he were ashamed of
his emotion, replaced his napkin, drank a glass of water, and, quite
recovered, said to me, smiling:
“It is strange, hein, that I should be affected so easily, but that
unexpected sight—”
“What have you to fear, since no one can recognize you, on account of
your many transformations? Every time I see you it seems to me your
face is changed; it’s not at all familiar. I don’t know why.”
“But _he_ would recognize me,” said Lupin. “He has seen me only once;
but, at that time, he made a mental photograph of me—not of my external
appearance but of my very soul—not what I appear to be but just what I
am. Do you understand? And then ... and then.... I did not expect to
meet him here.... Such a strange encounter!... in this little
restaurant....”
“Well, shall we go out?”
“No, not now,” said Lupin.
“What are you going to do?”
“The better way is to act frankly ... to have confidence in him—trust
him....”
“You will not speak to him?”
“Why not? It will be to my advantage to do so, and find out what he
knows, and, perhaps, what he thinks. At present I have the feeling that
his gaze is on my neck and shoulders, and that he is trying to remember
where he has seen them before.”
He reflected a moment. I observed a malicious smile at the corner of
his mouth; then, obedient, I think, to a whim of his impulsive nature,
and not to the necessities of the situation, he arose, turned around,
and, with a bow and a joyous air, he said:
“By what lucky chance? Ah! I am delighted to see you. Permit me to
introduce a friend of mine.”
For a moment the Englishman was disconcerted; then he made a movement
as if he would seize Arsène Lupin. The latter shook his head, and said:
“That would not be fair; besides, the movement would be an awkward one
and ... quite useless.”
The Englishman looked about him, as if in search of assistance.
“No use,” said Lupin. “Besides, are you quite sure you can place your
hand on me? Come, now, show me that you are a real Englishman and,
therefore, a good sport.”
This advice seemed to commend itself to the detective, for he partially
rose and said, very formally:
“Monsieur Wilson, my friend and assistant—Monsieur Arsène Lupin.”
Wilson’s amazement evoked a laugh. With bulging eyes and gaping mouth,
he looked from one to the other, as if unable to comprehend the
situation. Herlock Sholmes laughed and said:
“Wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is
one of the most natural in the world.”
“Why do you not arrest him?” stammered Wilson.
“Have you not observed, Wilson, that the gentleman is between me and
the door, and only a few steps from the door. By the time I could move
my little finger he would be outside.”
“Don’t let that make any difference,” said Lupin, who now walked around
the table and seated himself so that the Englishman was between him and
the door—thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner.
Wilson looked at Sholmes to find out if he had the right to admire this
act of wanton courage. The Englishman’s face was impenetrable; but, a
moment later, he called:
“Waiter!”
When the waiter came he ordered soda, beer and whisky. The treaty of
peace was signed—until further orders. In a few moments the four men
were conversing in an apparently friendly manner.
Herlock Sholmes is a man such as you might meet every day in the
business world. He is about fifty years of age, and looks as if he
might have passed his life in an office, adding up columns of dull
figures or writing out formal statements of business accounts. There
was nothing to distinguish him from the average citizen of London,
except the appearance of his eyes, his terribly keen and penetrating
eyes.
But then he is Herlock Sholmes—which means that he is a wonderful
combination of intuition, observation, clairvoyance and ingenuity. One
could readily believe that nature had been pleased to take the two most
extraordinary detectives that the imagination of man has hitherto
conceived, the Dupin of Edgar Allen Poe and the Lecoq of Emile
Gaboriau, and, out of that material, constructed a new detective, more
extraordinary and supernatural than either of them. And when a person
reads the history of his exploits, which have made him famous
throughout the entire world, he asks himself whether Herlock Sholmes is
not a mythical personage, a fictitious hero born in the brain of a
great novelist—Conan Doyle, for instance.
When Arsène Lupin questioned him in regard to the length of his sojourn
in France he turned the conversation into its proper channel by saying:
“That depends on you, monsieur.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lupin, laughing, “if it depends on me you can return to
England to-night.”
“That is a little too soon, but I expect to return in the course of
eight or nine days—ten at the outside.”
“Are you in such a hurry?”
“I have many cases to attend to; such as the robbery of the
Anglo-Chinese Bank, the abduction of Lady Eccleston.... But, don’t you
think, Monsieur Lupin, that I can finish my business in Paris within a
week?”
“Certainly, if you confine your efforts to the case of the blue
diamond. It is, moreover, the length of time that I require to make
preparations for my safety in case the solution of that affair should
give you certain dangerous advantages over me.”
“And yet,” said the Englishman, “I expect to close the business in
eight or ten days.”
“And arrest me on the eleventh, perhaps?”
“No, the tenth is my limit.”
Lupin shook his head thoughtfully, as he said:
“That will be difficult—very difficult.”
“Difficult, perhaps, but possible, therefore certain—”
“Absolutely certain,” said Wilson, as if he had clearly worked out the
long series of operations which would conduct his collaborator to the
desired result.
“Of course,” said Herlock Sholmes, “I do not hold all the trump cards,
as these cases are already several months old, and I lack certain
information and clues upon which I am accustomed to base my
investigations.”
“Such as spots of mud and cigarette ashes,” said Wilson, with an air of
importance.
“In addition to the remarkable conclusions formed by Monsieur Ganimard,
I have obtained all the articles written on the subject, and have
formed a few deductions of my own.”
“Some ideas which were suggested to us by analysis or hypothesis,”
added Wilson, sententiously.
“I wish to enquire,” said Arsène Lupin, in that deferential tone which
he employed in speaking to Sholmes, “would I be indiscreet if I were to
ask you what opinion you have formed about the case?”
Really, it was a most exciting situation to see those two men facing
each other across the table, engaged in an earnest discussion as if
they were obliged to solve some abstruse problem or come to an
agreement upon some controverted fact. Wilson was in the seventh heaven
of delight. Herlock Sholmes filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and
said:
“This affair is much simpler than it appeared to be at first sight.”
“Much simpler,” said Wilson, as a faithful echo.
“I say ‘this affair,’ for, in my opinion, there is only one,” said
Sholmes. “The death of the Baron d’Hautrec, the story of the ring, and,
let us not forget, the mystery of lottery ticket number 514, are only
different phases of what one might call the mystery of the blonde Lady.
Now, according to my view, it is simply a question of discovering the
bond that unites those three episodes in the same story—the fact which
proves the unity of the three events. Ganimard, whose judgment is
rather superficial, finds that unity in the faculty of disappearance;
that is, in the power of coming and going unseen and unheard. That
theory does not satisfy me.”
“Well, what is your idea?” asked Lupin.
“In my opinion,” said Sholmes, “the characteristic feature of the three
episodes is your design and purpose of leading the affair into a
certain channel previously chosen by you. It is, on your part, more
than a plan; it is a necessity, an indispensable condition of success.”
“Can you furnish any details of your theory?”
“Certainly. For example, from the beginning of your conflict with
Monsieur Gerbois, is it not evident that the apartment of Monsieur
Detinan is the place selected by you, the inevitable spot where all the
parties must meet? In your opinion, it was the only safe place, and you
arranged a rendezvous there, publicly, one might say, for the blonde
Lady and Mademoiselle Gerbois.”
“The professor’s daughter,” added Wilson.
“Now, let us consider the case of the blue diamond. Did you try to
appropriate it while the Baron d’Hautrec possessed it? No. But the
baron takes his brother’s house. Six months later we have the
intervention of Antoinette Bréhat and the first attempt. The diamond
escapes you, and the sale is widely advertised to take place at the
Drouot auction-rooms. Will it be a free and open sale? Is the richest
amateur sure to carry off the jewel? No. Just as the banker Herschmann
is on the point of buying the ring, a lady sends him a letter of
warning, and it is the Countess de Crozon, prepared and influenced by
the same lady, who becomes the purchaser of the diamond. Will the ring
disappear at once? No; you lack the opportunity. Therefore, you must
wait. At last the Countess goes to her château. That is what you were
waiting for. The ring disappears.”
“To reappear again in the tooth-powder of Herr Bleichen,” remarked
Lupin.
“Oh! such nonsense!” exclaimed Sholmes, striking the table with his
fist, “don’t tell me such a fairy tale. I am too old a fox to be led
away by a false scent.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” said Sholmes, then paused a moment as if he wished to
arrange his effect. At last he said:
“The blue diamond that was found in the tooth-powder was false. You
kept the genuine stone.”
Arsène Lupin remained silent for a moment; then, with his eyes fixed on
the Englishman, he replied, calmly:
“You are impertinent, monsieur.”
“Impertinent, indeed!” repeated Wilson, beaming with admiration.
“Yes,” said Lupin, “and, yet, to do you credit, you have thrown a
strong light on a very mysterious subject. Not a magistrate, not a
special reporter, who has been engaged on this case, has come so near
the truth. It is a marvellous display of intuition and logic.”
“Oh! a person has simply to use his brains,” said Herlock Sholmes,
nattered at the homage of the expert criminal.
“And so few have any brains to use,” replied Lupin. “And, now, that the
field of conjectures has been narrowed down, and the rubbish cleared
away——”
“Well, now, I have simply to discover why the three episodes were
enacted at 25 rue Clapeyron, 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and within the
walls of the Château de Crozon and my work will be finished. What
remains will be child’s play. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I think you are right.”
“In that case, Monsieur Lupin, am I wrong in saying that my business
will be finished in ten days?”
“In ten days you will know the whole truth,” said Lupin.
“And you will be arrested.”
“No.”
“No?”
“In order that I may be arrested there must occur such a series of
improbable and unexpected misfortunes that I cannot admit the
possibility of such an event.”
“We have a saying in England that ‘the unexpected always happens.’”
They looked at each other for a moment calmly and fearlessly, without
any display of bravado or malice. They met as equals in a contest of
wit and skill. And this meeting was the formal crossing of swords,
preliminary to the duel.
“Ah!” exclaimed Lupin, “at last I shall have an adversary worthy of the
name—one whose defeat will be the proudest achievement in my career.”
“Are you not afraid!” asked Wilson.
“Almost, Monsieur Wilson,” replied Lupin, rising from his chair, “and
the proof is that I am about to make a hasty retreat. Then, we will say
ten days, Monsieur Sholmes?”
“Yes, ten days. This is Sunday. A week from next Wednesday, at eight
o’clock in the evening, it will be all over.”
“And I shall be in prison?”
“No doubt of it.”
“Ha! not a pleasant outlook for a man who gets so much enjoyment out of
life as I do. No cares, a lively interest in the affairs of the world,
a justifiable contempt for the police, and the consoling sympathy of
numerous friends and admirers. And now, behold, all that is about to be
changed! It is the reverse side of the medal. After sunshine comes the
rain. It is no longer a laughing matter. Adieu!”
“Hurry up!” said Wilson, full of solicitude for a person in whom
Herlock Sholmes had inspired so much respect, “do not lose a minute.”
“Not a minute, Monsieur Wilson; but I wish to express my pleasure at
having met you, and to tell you how much I envy the master in having
such a valuable assistant as you seem to be.”
Then, after they had courteously saluted each other, like adversaries
in a duel who entertain no feeling of malice but are obliged to fight
by force of circumstances, Lupin seized me by the arm and drew me
outside.
“What do you think of it, dear boy? The strange events of this evening
will form an interesting chapter in the memoirs you are now preparing
for me.”
He closed the door of the restaurant behind us, and, after taking a few
steps, he stopped and said:
“Do you smoke?”
“No. Nor do you, it seems to me.”
“You are right, I don’t.”
He lighted a cigarette with a wax-match, which he shook several times
in an effort to extinguish it. But he threw away the cigarette
immediately, ran across the street, and joined two men who emerged from
the shadows as if called by a signal. He conversed with them for a few
minutes on the opposite sidewalk, and then returned to me.
“I beg your pardon, but I fear that cursed Sholmes is going to give me
trouble. But, I assure you, he is not yet through with Arsène Lupin. He
will find out what kind of fuel I use to warm my blood. And now—au
revoir! The genial Wilson is right; there is not a moment to lose.”
He walked away rapidly.
Thus ended the events of that exciting evening, or, at least, that part
of them in which I was a participant. Subsequently, during the course
of the evening, other stirring incidents occurred which have come to my
knowledge through the courtesy of other members of that unique
dinner-party.
At the very moment in which Lupin left me, Herlock Sholmes rose from
the table, and looked at his watch.
“Twenty minutes to nine. At nine o’clock I am to meet the Count and
Countess at the railway station.”
“Then, we must be off!” exclaimed Wilson, between two drinks of whisky.
They left the restaurant.
“Wilson, don’t look behind. We may be followed, and, in that case, let
us act as if we did not care. Wilson, I want your opinion: why was
Lupin in that restaurant?”
“To get something to eat,” replied Wilson, quickly.
“Wilson, I must congratulate you on the accuracy of your deduction. I
couldn’t have done better myself.”
Wilson blushed with pleasure, and Sholmes continued:
“To get something to eat. Very well, and, after that, probably, to
assure himself whether I am going to the Château de Crozon, as
announced by Ganimard in his interview. I must go in order not to
disappoint him. But, in order to gain time on him, I shall not go.”
“Ah!” said Wilson, nonplused.
“You, my friend, will walk down this street, take a carriage, two,
three carriages. Return later and get the valises that we left at the
station, and make for the Elysée-Palace at a galop.”
“And when I reach the Elysée-Palace?”
“Engage a room, go to sleep, and await my orders.”
Quite proud of the important rôle assigned to him, Wilson set out to
perform his task. Herlock Sholmes proceeded to the railway station,
bought a ticket, and repaired to the Amiens’ express in which the Count
and Countess de Crozon were already installed. He bowed to them,
lighted his pipe, and had a quiet smoke in the corridor. The train
started. Ten minutes later he took a seat beside the Countess, and said
to her:
“Have you the ring here, madame?”
“Yes.”
“Will you kindly let me see it?”
He took it, and examined it closely.
“Just as I suspected: it is a manufactured diamond.”
“A manufactured diamond?”
“Yes; a new process which consists in submitting diamond dust to a
tremendous heat until it melts and is then molded into a single stone.”
“But my diamond is genuine.”
“Yes, _your_ diamond is; but this is not yours.”
“Where is mine?”
“It is held by Arsène Lupin.”
“And this stone?”
“Was substituted for yours, and slipped into Herr Bleichen’s
tooth-powder, where it was afterwards found.”
“Then you think this is false?”
“Absolutely false.”
The Countess was overwhelmed with surprise and grief, while her husband
scrutinized the diamond with an incredulous air. Finally she stammered:
“Is it possible? And why did they not merely steal it and be done with
it? And how did they steal it?”
“That is exactly what I am going to find out.”
“At the Château de Crozon?”
“No. I shall leave the train at Creil and return to Paris. It is there
the game between me and Arsène Lupin must be played. In fact, the game
has commenced already, and Lupin thinks I am on my way to the château.”
“But—”
“What does it matter to you, madame? The essential thing is your
diamond, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t worry. I have just undertaken a much more difficult task
than that. You have my promise that I will restore the true diamond to
you within ten days.”
The train slackened its speed. He put the false diamond in his pocket
and opened the door. The Count cried out:
“That is the wrong side of the train. You are getting out on the
tracks.”
“That is my intention. If Lupin has anyone on my track, he will lose
sight of me now. Adieu.”
An employee protested in vain. After the departure of the train, the
Englishman sought the station-master’s office. Forty minutes later he
leaped into a train that landed him in Paris shortly before midnight.
He ran across the platform, entered the lunch-room, made his exit at
another door, and jumped into a cab.
“Driver—rue Clapeyron.”
Having reached the conclusion that he was not followed, he stopped the
carriage at the end of the street, and proceeded to make a careful
examination of Monsieur Detinan’s house and the two adjoining houses.
He made measurements of certain distances and entered the figures in
his notebook.
“Driver—avenue Henri-Martin.”
At the corner of the avenue and the rue de la Pompe, he dismissed the
carriage, walked down the street to number 134, and performed the same
operations in front of the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec and the
two adjoining houses, measuring the width of the respective façades and
calculating the depth of the little gardens that stood in front of
them.
The avenue was deserted, and was very dark under its four rows of
trees, between which, at considerable intervals, a few gas-lamps
struggled in vain to light the deep shadows. One of them threw a dim
light over a portion of the house, and Sholmes perceived the “To-let”
sign posted on the gate, the neglected walks which encircled the small
lawn, and the large bare windows of the vacant house.
“I suppose,” he said to himself, “the house has been unoccupied since
the death of the baron.... Ah! if I could only get in and view the
scene of the murder!”
No sooner did the idea occur to him than he sought to put it in
execution. But how could he manage it? He could not climb over the
gate; it was too high. So he took from his pocket an electric lantern
and a skeleton key which he always carried. Then, to his great
surprise, he discovered that the gate was not locked; in fact, it was
open about three or four inches. He entered the garden, and was careful
to leave the gate as he had found it—partly open. But he had not taken
many steps from the gate when he stopped. He had seen a light pass one
of the windows on the second floor.
He saw the light pass a second window and a third, but he saw nothing
else, except a silhouette outlined on the walls of the rooms. The light
descended to the first floor, and, for a long time, wandered from room
to room.
“Who the deuce is walking, at one o’clock in the morning, through the
house in which the Baron d’Hautrec was killed?” Herlock Sholmes asked
himself, deeply interested.
There was only one way to find out, and that was to enter the house
himself. He did not hesitate, but started for the door of the house.
However, at the moment when he crossed the streak of gaslight that came
from the street-lamp, the man must have seen him, for the light in the
house was suddenly extinguished and Herlock Sholmes did not see it
again. Softly, he tried the door. It was open, also. Hearing no sound,
he advanced through the hallway, encountered the foot of the stairs,
and ascended to the first floor. Here there was the same silence, the
same darkness.
He entered, one of the rooms and approached a window through which came
a feeble light from the outside. On looking through the window he saw
the man, who had no doubt descended by another stairway and escaped by
another door. The man was threading his way through the shrubbery which
bordered the wall that separated the two gardens.
“The deuce!” exclaimed Sholmes, “he is going to escape.”
He hastened down the stairs and leaped over the steps in his eagerness
to cut off the man’s retreat. But he did not see anyone, and, owing to
the darkness, it was several seconds before he was able to distinguish
a bulky form moving through the shrubbery. This gave the Englishman
food for reflection. Why had the man not made his escape, which he
could have done so easily? Had he remained in order to watch the
movements of the intruder who had disturbed him in his mysterious work?
“At all events,” concluded Sholmes, “it is not Lupin; he would be more
adroit. It may be one of his men.”
For several minutes Herlock Sholmes remained motionless, with his gaze
fixed on the adversary who, in his turn was watching the detective. But
as that adversary had become passive, and as the Englishman was not one
to consume his time in idle waiting, he examined his revolver to see if
it was in good working order, remove his knife from its sheath, and
walked toward the enemy with that cool effrontery and scorn of danger
for which he had become famous.
He heard a clicking sound; it was his adversary preparing his revolver.
Herlock Sholmes dashed boldly into the thicket, and grappled with his
foe. There was a sharp, desperate struggle, in the course of which
Sholmes suspected that the man was trying to draw a knife. But the
Englishman, believing his antagonist to be an accomplice of Arsène
Lupin and anxious to win the first trick in the game with that
redoubtable foe, fought with unusual strength and determination. He
hurled his adversary to the ground, held him there with the weight of
his body, and, gripping him by the throat with one hand, he used his
free hand to take out his electric lantern, press the button, and throw
the light over the face of his prisoner.
“Wilson!” he exclaimed, in amazement.
“Herlock Sholmes!” stammered a weak, stifled voice.
For a long time they remained silent, astounded, foolish. The shriek of
an automobile rent the air. A slight breeze stirred the leaves.
Suddenly, Herlock Sholmes seized his friend by the shoulders and shook
him violently, as he cried:
“What are you doing here? Tell me.... What?... Did I tell you to hide
in the bushes and spy on me?”
“Spy on you!” muttered Wilson, “why, I didn’t know it was you.”
“But what are you doing here? You ought to be in bed.”
“I was in bed.”
“You ought to be asleep.”
“I was asleep.”
“Well, what brought you here?” asked Sholmes.
“Your letter.”
“My letter? I don’t understand.”
“Yes, a messenger brought it to me at the hotel.”
“From me? Are you crazy?”
“It is true—I swear it.”
“Where is the letter?”
Wilson handed him a sheet of paper, which he read by the light of his
lantern. It was as follows:
“Wilson, come at once to avenue Henri-Martin. The house is empty.
Inspect the whole place and make an exact plan. Then return to
hotel.—Herlock Sholmes.”
“I was measuring the rooms,” said Wilson, “when I saw a shadow in the
garden. I had only one idea——”
“That was to seize the shadow.... The idea was excellent.... But
remember this, Wilson, whenever you receive a letter from me, be sure
it is my handwriting and not a forgery.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Wilson, as the truth dawned on him, “then the letter
wasn’t from you?”
“No.”
“Who sent it, then?”
“Arsène Lupin.”
“Why? For what purpose?” asked Wilson.
“I don’t know, and that’s what worries me. I don’t understand why he
took the trouble to disturb you. Of course, if he had sent me on such a
foolish errand I wouldn’t be surprised; but what was his object in
disturbing you?”
“I must hurry back to the hotel.”
“So must I, Wilson.”
They arrived at the gate. Wilson, who was ahead, took hold of it and
pulled.
“Ah! you closed it?” he said.
“No, I left it partly open.”
Sholmes tried the gate; then, alarmed, he examined the lock. An oath
escaped him:
“Good God! it is locked! locked with a key!”
He shook the gate with all his strength; then, realizing the futility
of his efforts, he dropped his arms, discouraged, and muttered, in a
jerky manner:
“I can see it all now—it is Lupin. He foresaw that I would leave the
train at Creil, and he prepared this neat little trap for me in case I
should commence my investigation this evening. Moreover, he was kind
enough to send me a companion to share my captivity. All done to make
me lose a day, and, perhaps, also, to teach me to mind my own
business.”
“Do you mean to say we are prisoners?”
“Exactly. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson are the prisoners of Arsène Lupin.
It’s a bad beginning; but he laughs best who laughs last.”
Wilson seized Sholmes’ arm, and exclaimed:
“Look!... Look up there!... A light....”
A light shone through one of the windows of the first floor. Both of
them ran to the house, and each ascended by the stairs he had used on
coming out a short time before, and they met again at the entrance to
the lighted chamber. A small piece of a candle was burning in the
center of the room. Beside it there was a basket containing a bottle, a
roasted chicken, and a loaf of bread.
Sholmes was greatly amused, and laughed heartily.
“Wonderful! we are invited to supper. It is really an enchanted place,
a genuine fairy-land. Come, Wilson, cheer up! this is not a funeral.
It’s all very funny.”
“Are you quite sure it is so very funny?” asked Wilson, in a lugubrious
tone.
“Am I sure?” exclaimed Sholmes, with a gaiety that was too boisterous
to be natural, “why, to tell the truth, it’s the funniest thing I ever
saw. It’s a jolly good comedy! What a master of sarcasm this Arsène
Lupin is! He makes a fool of you with the utmost grace and delicacy. I
wouldn’t miss this feast for all the money in the Bank of England.
Come, Wilson, you grieve me. You should display that nobility of
character which rises superior to misfortune. I don’t see that you have
any cause for complaint, really, I don’t.”
After a time, by dint of good humor and sarcasm, he managed to restore
Wilson to his normal mood, and make him swallow a morsel of chicken and
a glass of wine. But when the candle went out and they prepared to
spend the night there, with the bare floor for a mattress and the hard
wall for a pillow, the harsh and ridiculous side of the situation was
impressed upon them. That particular incident will not form a pleasant
page in the memoirs of the famous detective.
Next morning Wilson awoke, stiff and cold. A slight noise attracted his
attention: Herlock Sholmes was kneeling on the floor, critically
examining some grains of sand and studying some chalk-marks, now almost
effaced, which formed certain figures and numbers, which figures he
entered in his notebook.
Accompanied by Wilson, who was deeply interested in the work, he
examined each room, and found similar chalk-marks in two other
apartments. He noticed, also, two circles on the oaken panels, an arrow
on a wainscot, and four figures on four steps of the stairs. At the end
of an hour Wilson said:
“The figures are correct, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know; but, at all events, they mean something,” replied
Sholmes, who had forgotten the discomforts of the night in the joy
created by his new discoveries.
“It is quite obvious,” said Wilson, “they represent the number of
pieces in the floor.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. And the two circles indicate that the panels are false, as you
can readily ascertain, and the arrow points in the direction in which
the panels move.”
Herlock Sholmes looked at Wilson, in astonishment.
“Ah! my dear friend, how do you know all that? Your clairvoyance makes
my poor ability in that direction look quite insignificant.”
“Oh! it is very simple,” said Wilson, inflated with pride; “I examined
those marks last night, according to your instructions, or, rather,
according to the instructions of Arsène Lupin, since he wrote the
letter you sent to me.”
At that moment Wilson faced a greater danger than he had during his
struggle in the garden with Herlock Sholmes. The latter now felt a
furious desire to strangle him. But, dominating his feelings, Sholmes
made a grimace which was intended for a smile, and said:
“Quite so, Wilson, you have done well, and your work shows commendable
progress. But, tell me, have you exercised your powers of observation
and analysis on any other points? I might profit by your deductions.”
“Oh! no, I went no farther.”
“That’s a pity. Your début was such a promising one. But, since that is
all, we may as well go.”
“Go! but how can we get out?”
“The way all honest people go out: through the gate.”
“But it is locked.”
“It will be opened.”
“By whom?”
“Please call the two policemen who are strolling down the avenue.”
“But——”
“But what?”
“It is very humiliating. What will be said when it becomes known that
Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were the prisoners of Arsène Lupin?”
“Of course, I understand they will roar with laughter,” replied Herlock
Sholmes, in a dry voice and with frowning features, “but we can’t set
up housekeeping in this place.”
“And you will not try to find another way out?”
“No.”
“But the man who brought us the basket of provisions did not cross the
garden, coming or going. There is some other way out. Let us look for
it, and not bother with the police.”
“Your argument is sound, but you forget that all the detectives in
Paris have been trying to find it for the last six months, and that I
searched the house from top to bottom while you were asleep. Ah! my
dear Wilson, we have not been accustomed to pursue such game as Arsène
Lupin. He leaves no trail behind him.”
At eleven o’clock, Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were liberated, and
conducted to the nearest police station, where the commissary, after
subjecting them to a severe examination, released them with an
affectation of good-will that was quite exasperating.
“I am very sorry, messieurs, that this unfortunate incident has
occurred. You will have a very poor opinion of French hospitality. Mon
Dieu! what a night you must have passed! Ah! that rascally Lupin is no
respecter of persons.”
They took a carriage to their hotel. At the office Wilson asked for the
key of his room.
After some search the clerk replied, much astonished:
“But, monsieur, you have given up the room.”
“I gave it up? When?”
“This morning, by the letter your friend brought here.”
“What friend?”
“The gentleman who brought your letter.... Ah! your card is still
attached to the letter. Here they are.”
Wilson looked at them. Certainly, it was one of his cards, and the
letter was in his handwriting.
“Good Lord!” he muttered, “this is another of his tricks,” and he
added, aloud: “Where is my luggage?”
“Your friend took it.”
“Ah!... and you gave it to him?”
“Certainly; on the strength of your letter and card.”
“Of course ... of course.”
They left the hotel and walked, slowly and thoughtfully, through the
Champs-Elysées. The avenue was bright and cheerful beneath a clear
autumn sun; the air was mild and pleasant.
At Rond-Point, Herlock Sholmes lighted his pipe. Then Wilson spoke:
“I can’t understand you, Sholmes. You are so calm and unruffled. They
play with you as a cat plays with a mouse, and yet you do not say a
word.”
Sholmes stopped, as he replied:
“Wilson, I was thinking of your card.”
“Well?”
“The point is this: here is a man who, in view of a possible struggle
with us, procures specimens of our handwriting, and who holds, in his
possession, one or more of your cards. Now, have you considered how
much precaution and skill those facts represent?”
“Well?”
“Well, Wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly
equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of ... of a Herlock Sholmes.
And yet, as you have seen, Wilson, I have lost the first round.”
At six o’clock the _Echo de France_ published the following article in
its evening edition:
“This morning Mon. Thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth
district, released Herlock Sholmes and his friend Wilson, both of whom
had been locked in the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec, where they
spent a very pleasant night—thanks to the thoughtful care and attention
of Arsène Lupin.”
“In addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed
of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a
formal complaint against Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes
these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent
measures.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Herlock Sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands,
“that is only child’s play! And that is the only criticism I have to
make of Arsène Lupin: he plays to the gallery. There is that much of
the fakir in him.”
“Ah! Sholmes, you are a wonderful man! You have such a command over
your temper. Nothing ever disturbs you.”
“No, nothing disturbs me,” replied Sholmes, in a voice that trembled
from rage; “besides, what’s the use of losing my temper?... I am quite
confident of the final result; I shall have the last word.”