LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.
However well-tempered a man’s character may be—and Herlock Sholmes is
one of those men over whom ill-fortune has little or no hold—there are
circumstances wherein the most courageous combatant feels the necessity
of marshaling his forces before risking the chances of a battle.
“I shall take a vacation to-day,” said Sholmes.
“And what shall I do?” asked Wilson.
“You, Wilson—let me see! You can buy some underwear and linen to
replenish our wardrobe, while I take a rest.”
“Very well, Sholmes, I will watch while you sleep.”
Wilson uttered these words with all the importance of a sentinel on
guard at the outpost, and therefore exposed to the greatest danger. His
chest was expanded; his muscles were tense. Assuming a shrewd look, he
scrutinized, officially, the little room in which they had fixed their
abode.
“Very well, Wilson, you can watch. I shall occupy myself in the
preparation of a line of attack more appropriate to the methods of the
enemy we are called upon to meet. Do you see, Wilson, we have been
deceived in this fellow Lupin. My opinion is that we must commence at
the very beginning of this affair.”
“And even before that, if possible. But have we sufficient time?”
“Nine days, dear boy. That is five too many.”
The Englishman spent the entire afternoon in smoking and sleeping. He
did not enter upon his new plan of attack until the following day. Then
he said:
“Wilson, I am ready. Let us attack the enemy.”
“Lead on, Macduff!” exclaimed Wilson, full of martial ardor. “I wish to
fight in the front rank. Oh! have no fear. I shall do credit to my King
and country, for I am an Englishman.”
In the first place, Sholmes had three long and important interviews:
With Monsieur Detinan, whose rooms he examined with the greatest care
and precision; with Suzanne Gerbois, whom he questioned in regard to
the blonde Lady; and with Sister Auguste, who had retired to the
convent of the Visitandines since the murder of Baron d’Hautrec.
At each of these interviews Wilson had remained outside; and each time
he asked:
“Satisfactory?”
“Quite so.”
“I was sure we were on the right track.”
They paid a visit to the two houses adjoining that of the late Baron
d’Hautrec in the avenue Henri-Martin; then they visited the rue
Clapeyron, and, while he was examining the front of number 25, Sholmes
said:
“All these houses must be connected by secret passages, but I can’t
find them.”
For the first time in his life, Wilson doubted the omnipotence of his
famous associate. Why did he now talk so much and accomplish so little?
“Why?” exclaimed Sholmes, in answer to Wilson’s secret thought,
“because, with this fellow Lupin, a person has to work in the dark,
and, instead of deducting the truth from established facts, a man must
extract it from his own brain, and afterward learn if it is supported
by the facts in the case.”
“But what about the secret passages?”
“They must exist. But even though I should discover them, and thus
learn how Arsène Lupin made his entrance to the lawyer’s house and how
the blonde Lady escaped from the house of Baron d’Hautrec after the
murder, what good would it do? How would it help me? Would it furnish
me with a weapon of attack?”
“Let us attack him just the same,” exclaimed Wilson, who had scarcely
uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. Something
had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might
have caused them serious injury if it had struck them.
Sholmes looked up. Some men were working on a scaffolding attached to
the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. He said:
“We were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on
our heads. I wonder if—”
Moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five
flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to
the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and
made his way to the balcony in front of the house. But there was no one
there.
“Where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?” he asked the
servant.
“They have just gone.”
“Which way did they go?”
“By the servants’ stairs.”
Sholmes leaned out of the window. He saw two men leaving the house,
carrying bicycles. They mounted them and quickly disappeared around the
corner.
“How long have they been working on this scaffolding?”
“Those men?... only since this morning. It’s their first day.”
Sholmes returned to the street, and joined Wilson. Together they
returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful
silence.
On the following day their programme was almost similar. They sat
together on a bench in the avenue Henri-Martin, much to Wilson’s
disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the
house in which the tragedy had occurred.
“What do you expect, Sholmes? That Arsène Lupin will walk out of the
house?”
“No.”
“That the blonde Lady will make her appearance?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will
furnish me with a clue to work on.”
“And if it does not occur?”
“Then I must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the
powder.”
A solitary incident—and that of a disagreeable nature—broke the
monotony of the forenoon.
A gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned
aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were
sitting, and struck Sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sholmes, “a little more and I would have had a broken
shoulder.”
The gentleman struggled with his horse. The Englishman drew his
revolver and pointed it; but Wilson seized his arm, and said:
“Don’t be foolish! What are you going to do? Kill the man?”
“Leave me alone, Wilson! Let go!”
During the brief struggle between Sholmes and Wilson the stranger rode
away.
“Now, you can shoot,” said Wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was
at some distance.
“Wilson, you’re an idiot! Don’t you understand that the man is an
accomplice of Arsène Lupin?”
Sholmes was trembling from rage. Wilson stammered pitifully:
“What!... that man ... an accomplice?”
“Yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us
yesterday.”
“It can’t be possible!”
“Possible or not, there was only one way to prove it.”
“By killing the man?”
“No—by killing the horse. If you hadn’t grabbed my arm, I should have
captured one of Lupin’s accomplices. Now, do you understand the folly
of your act?”
Throughout the afternoon both men were morose. They did not speak a
word to each other. At five o’clock they visited the rue Clapeyron, but
were careful to keep at a safe distance from the houses. However, three
young men who were passing through the street, arm in arm, singing, ran
against Sholmes and Wilson and refused to let them pass. Sholmes, who
was in an ill humor, contested the right of way with them. After a
brief struggle, Sholmes resorted to his fists. He struck one of the men
a hard blow on the chest, another a blow in the face, and thus subdued
two of his adversaries. Thereupon the three of them took to their heels
and disappeared.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that does me good. I needed a little
exercise.”
But Wilson was leaning against the wall. Sholmes said:
“What’s the matter, old chap? You’re quite pale.”
Wilson pointed to his left arm, which hung inert, and stammered:
“I don’t know what it is. My arm pains me.”
“Very much?... Is it serious?”
“Yes, I am afraid so.”
He tried to raise his arm, but it was helpless. Sholmes felt it, gently
at first, then in a rougher way, “to see how badly it was hurt,” he
said. He concluded that Wilson was really hurt, so he led him to a
neighboring pharmacy, where a closer examination revealed the fact that
the arm was broken and that Wilson was a candidate for the hospital. In
the meantime they bared his arm and applied some remedies to ease his
suffering.
“Come, come, old chap, cheer up!” said Sholmes, who was holding
Wilson’s arm, “in five or six weeks you will be all right again. But I
will pay them back ... the rascals! Especially Lupin, for this is his
work ... no doubt of that. I swear to you if ever——”
He stopped suddenly, dropped the arm—which caused Wilson such an access
of pain that he almost fainted—and, striking his forehead, Sholmes
said:
“Wilson, I have an idea. You know, I have one occasionally.”
He stood for a moment, silent, with staring eyes, and then muttered, in
short, sharp phrases:
“Yes, that’s it ... that will explain all ... right at my feet ... and
I didn’t see it ... ah, parbleu! I should have thought of it before....
Wilson, I shall have good news for you.”
Abruptly leaving his old friend, Sholmes ran into the street and went
directly to the house known as number 25. On one of the stones, to the
right of the door, he read this inscription: “Destange, architect,
1875.”
There was a similar inscription on the house numbered 23.
Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. But what might be read on
the houses in the avenue Henri-Martin?
A carriage was passing. He engaged it and directed the driver to take
him to No. 134 avenue Henri-Martin. He was roused to a high pitch of
excitement. He stood up in the carriage and urged the horse to greater
speed. He offered extra pourboires to the driver. Quicker! Quicker!
How great was his anxiety as they turned from the rue de la Pompe! Had
he caught a glimpse of the truth at last?
On one of the stones of the late Baron’s house he read the words:
“Destange, architect, 1874.” And a similar inscription appeared on the
two adjoining houses.
The reaction was such that he settled down in the seat of the carriage,
trembling from joy. At last, a tiny ray of light had penetrated the
dark shadows which encompassed these mysterious crimes! In the vast
sombre forest wherein a thousand pathways crossed and re-crossed, he
had discovered the first clue to the track followed by the enemy!
He entered a branch postoffice and obtained telephonic connection with
the château de Crozon. The Countess answered the telephone call.
“Hello!... Is that you, madame?”
“Monsieur Sholmes, isn’t it? Everything going all right?”
“Quite well, but I wish to ask you one question.... Hello!”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Tell me, when was the château de Crozon built?”
“It was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago.”
“Who built it, and in what year?”
“There is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: ‘Lucien
Destange, architect, 1877.’”
“Thank you, madame, that is all. Good-bye.”
He went away, murmuring: “Destange ... Lucien Destange ... that name
has a familiar sound.”
He noticed a public reading-room, entered, consulted a dictionary of
modern biography, and copied the following information: “Lucien
Destange, born 1840, Grand-Prix de Rome, officer of the Legion of
Honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc....”
Then he returned to the pharmacy and found that Wilson had been taken
to the hospital. There Sholmes found him with his arm in splints, and
shivering with fever.
“Victory! Victory!” cried Sholmes. “I hold one end of the thread.”
“Of what thread?”
“The one that leads to victory. I shall now be walking on solid ground,
where there will be footprints, clues....”
“Cigarette ashes?” asked Wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain.
“And many other things! Just think, Wilson, I have found the mysterious
link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde Lady
played a part. Why did Lupin select those three houses for the scenes
of his exploits?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because those three houses were built by the same architect. That was
an easy problem, eh? Of course ... but who would have thought of it?”
“No one but you.”
“And who, except I, knows that the same architect, by the use of
analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three
distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality,
quite simple and easy?”
“That was a stroke of good luck.”
“And it was time, dear boy, as I was becoming very impatient. You know,
this is our fourth day.”
“Out of ten.”
“Oh! after this——”
Sholmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual.
“And when I think that these rascals might have attacked me in the
street and broken my arm just as they did yours! Isn’t that so,
Wilson?”
Wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. Sholmes continued:
“We must profit by the lesson. I can see, Wilson, that we were wrong to
try and fight Lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his
attacks.”
“I can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm,” said Wilson.
“You have one consolation, Wilson; that is, that I escaped. Now, I must
be doubly cautious. In an open fight he will defeat me; but if I can
work in the dark, unseen by him, I have the advantage, no matter how
strong his forces may be.”
“Ganimard might be of some assistance.”
“Never! On the day that I can truly say: Arsène Lupin is there; I show
you the quarry, and how to catch it; I shall go and see Ganimard at one
of the two addresses that he gave me—his residence in the rue
Pergolese, or at the Suisse tavern in the Place du Châtelet. But, until
that time, I shall work alone.”
He approached the bed, placed his hand on Wilson’s shoulder—on the sore
one, of course—and said to him:
“Take care of yourself, old fellow. Henceforth your rôle will be to
keep two or three of Arsène Lupin’s men busy watching here in vain for
my return to enquire about your health. It is a secret mission for you,
eh?”
“Yes, and I shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. Then you do
not expect to come here any more?”
“What for?” asked Sholmes.
“I don’t know ... of course.... I am getting on as well as possible.
But, Herlock, do me a last service: give me a drink.”
“A drink?”
“Yes, I am dying of thirst; and with my fever——”
“To be sure—directly——”
He made a pretense of getting some water, perceived a package of
tobacco, lighted his pipe, and then, as if he had not heard his
friend’s request, he went away, whilst Wilson uttered a mute prayer for
the inaccessible water.
“Monsieur Destange!”
The servant eyed from head to foot the person to whom he had opened the
door of the house—the magnificent house that stood at the corner of the
Place Malesherbes and the rue Montchanin—and at the sight of the man
with gray hairs, badly shaved, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a
body as ill-formed and ungracious as his face, he replied with the
disdain which he thought the occasion warranted:
“Monsieur Destange may or may not be at home. That depends. Has
monsieur a card?”
Monsieur did not have a card, but he had a letter of introduction and,
after the servant had taken the letter to Mon. Destange, he was
conducted into the presence of that gentleman who was sitting in a
large circular room or rotunda which occupied one of the wings of the
house. It was a library, and contained a profusion of books and
architectural drawings. When the stranger entered, the architect said
to him:
“You are Monsieur Stickmann?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“My secretary tells me that he is ill, and has sent you to continue the
general catalogue of the books which he commenced under my direction,
and, more particularly, the catalogue of German books. Are you familiar
with that kind of work?”
“Yes, monsieur, quite so,” he replied, with a strong German accent.
Under those circumstances the bargain was soon concluded, and Mon.
Destange commenced work with his new secretary.
Herlock Sholmes had gained access to the house.
In order to escape the vigilance of Arsène Lupin and gain admittance to
the house occupied by Lucien Destange and his daughter Clotilde, the
famous detective had been compelled to resort to a number of
stratagems, and, under a variety of names, to ingratiate himself into
the good graces and confidence of a number of persons—in short, to
live, during forty-eight hours, a most complicated life. During that
time he had acquired the following information: Mon. Destange, having
retired from active business on account of his failing health, now
lived amongst the many books he had accumulated on the subject of
architecture. He derived infinite pleasure in viewing and handling
those dusty old volumes.
His daughter Clotilde was considered eccentric. She passed her time in
another part of the house, and never went out.
“Of course,” Sholmes said to himself, as he wrote in a register the
titles of the books which Mon. Destange dictated to him, “all that is
vague and incomplete, but it is quite a long step in advance. I shall
surely solve one of these absorbing problems: Is Mon. Destange
associated with Arsène Lupin? Does he continue to see him? Are the
papers relating to the construction of the three houses still in
existence? Will those papers not furnish me with the location of other
houses of similar construction which Arsène Lupin and his associates
will plunder in the future?
“Monsieur Destange, an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! That venerable man,
an officer of the Legion of Honor, working in league with a
burglar—such an idea was absurd! Besides, if we concede that such a
complicity exists, how could Mon. Destange, thirty years ago, have
possibly foreseen the thefts of Arsène Lupin, who was then an infant?”
No matter! The Englishman was implacable. With his marvellous scent,
and that instinct which never fails him, he felt that he was in the
heart of some strange mystery. Ever since he first entered the house,
he had been under the influence of that impression, and yet he could
not define the grounds on which he based his suspicions.
Up to the morning of the second day he had not made any significant
discovery. At two o’clock of that day he saw Clotilde Destange for the
first time; she came to the library in search of a book. She was about
thirty years of age, a brunette, slow and silent in her movements, with
features imbued with that expression of indifference which is
characteristic of people who live a secluded life. She exchanged a few
words with her father, and then retired, without even looking at
Sholmes.
The afternoon dragged along monotonously. At five o’clock Mon. Destange
announced his intention to go out. Sholmes was alone on the circular
gallery that was constructed about ten feet above the floor of the
rotunda. It was almost dark. He was on the point of going out, when he
heard a slight sound and, at the same time, experienced the feeling
that there was someone in the room. Several minutes passed before he
saw or heard anything more. Then he shuddered; a shadowy form emerged
from the gloom, quite close to him, upon the balcony. It seemed
incredible. How long had this mysterious visitor been there? Whence did
he come?
The strange man descended the steps and went directly to a large oaken
cupboard. Sholmes was a keen observer of the man’s movements. He
watched him searching amongst the papers with which the cupboard was
filled. What was he looking for?
Then the door opened and Mlle. Destange entered, speaking to someone
who was following her:
“So you have decided not to go out, father?... Then I will make a light
... one second ... do not move....”
The strange man closed the cupboard and hid in the embrasure of a large
window, drawing the curtains together. Did Mlle. Destange not see him?
Did she not hear him? Calmly she turned on the electric lights; she and
her father sat down close to each other. She opened a book she had
brought with her, and commenced to read. After the lapse of a few
minutes she said:
“Your secretary has gone.”
“Yes, I don’t see him.”
“Do you like him as well as you did at first?” she asked, as if she
were not aware of the illness of the real secretary and his replacement
by Stickmann.
“Oh! yes.”
Monsieur Destange’s head bobbed from one side to the other. He was
asleep. The girl resumed her reading. A moment later one of the window
curtains was pushed back, and the strange man emerged and glided along
the wall toward the door, which obliged him to pass behind Mon.
Destange but in front of Clotilde, and brought him into the light so
that Herlock Sholmes obtained a good view of the man’s face. It was
Arsène Lupin.
The Englishman was delighted. His forecast was verified; he had
penetrated to the very heart of the mystery, and found Arsène Lupin to
be the moving spirit in it.
Clotilde had not yet displayed any knowledge of his presence, although
it was quite improbable that any movement of the intruder had escaped
her notice. Lupin had almost reached the door and, in fact, his hand
was already seeking the door-knob, when his coat brushed against a
small table and knocked something to the floor. Monsieur Destange awoke
with a start. Arsène Lupin was already standing in front of him, hat in
hand, smiling.
“Maxime Bermond,” exclaimed Mon. Destange, joyfully. “My dear Maxime,
what lucky chance brings you here?”
“The wish to see you and Mademoiselle Destange.”
“When did you return from your journey?”
“Yesterday.”
“You must stay to dinner.”
“No, thank you, I am sorry, but I have an appointment to dine with some
friends at a restaurant.”
“Come, to-morrow, then, Clotilde, you must urge him to come to-morrow.
Ah! my dear Maxime.... I thought of you many times during your
absence.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I went through all my old papers in that cupboard, and found our
last statement of account.”
“What account?”
“Relating to the avenue Henri-Martin.”
“Ah! do you keep such papers? What for?”
Then the three of them left the room, and continued their conversation
in a small parlor which adjoined the library.
“Is it Lupin?” Sholmes asked himself, in a sudden access of doubt.
Certainly, from all appearances, it was he; and yet it was also someone
else who resembled Arsène Lupin in certain respects, and who still
maintained his own individuality, features, and color of hair. Sholmes
could hear Lupin’s voice in the adjoining room. He was relating some
stories at which Mon. Destange laughed heartily, and which even brought
a smile to the lips of the melancholy Clotilde. And each of those
smiles appeared to be the reward which Arsène Lupin was seeking, and
which he was delighted to have secured. His success caused him to
redouble his efforts and, insensibly, at the sound of that clear and
happy voice, Clotilde’s face brightened and lost that cold and listless
expression which usually pervaded it.
“They love each other,” thought Sholmes, “but what the deuce can there
be in common between Clotilde Destange and Maxime Bermond? Does she
know that Maxime is none other than Arsène Lupin?”
Until seven o’clock Sholmes was an anxious listener, seeking to profit
by the conversation. Then, with infinite precaution, he descended from
the gallery, crept along the side of the room to the door in such a
manner that the people in the adjoining room did not see him.
When he reached the street Sholmes satisfied himself that there was
neither an automobile nor a cab waiting there; then he slowly limped
along the boulevard Malesherbes. He turned into an adjacent street,
donned the overcoat which he had carried on his arm, altered the shape
of his hat, assumed an upright carriage, and, thus transformed,
returned to a place whence he could watch the door of Mon. Destange’s
house.
In a few minutes Arsène Lupin came out, and proceeded to walk toward
the center of Paris by way of the rues de Constantinople and London.
Herlock Sholmes followed at a distance of a hundred paces.
Exciting moments for the Englishman! He sniffed the air, eagerly, like
a hound following a fresh scent. It seemed to him a delightful thing
thus to follow his adversary. It was no longer Herlock Sholmes who was
being watched, but Arsène Lupin, the invisible Arsène Lupin. He held
him, so to speak, within the grasp of his eye, by an imperceptible bond
that nothing could break. And he was pleased to think that the quarry
belonged to him.
But he soon observed a suspicious circumstance. In the intervening
space between him and Arsène Lupin he noticed several people traveling
in the same direction, particularly two husky fellows in slouch hats on
the left side of the street, and two others on the right wearing caps
and smoking cigarettes. Of course, their presence in that vicinity may
have been the result of chance, but Sholmes was more astonished when he
observed that the four men stopped when Lupin entered a tobacco shop;
and still more surprised when the four men started again after Lupin
emerged from the shop, each keeping to his own side of the street.
“Curse it!” muttered Sholmes; “he is being followed.”
He was annoyed at the idea that others were on the trail of Arsène
Lupin; that someone might deprive him, not of the glory—he cared little
for that—but of the immense pleasure of capturing, single-handed, the
most formidable enemy he had ever met. And he felt that he was not
mistaken; the men presented to Sholmes’ experienced eye the appearance
and manner of those who, while regulating their gait to that of
another, wish to present a careless and natural air.
“Is this some of Ganimard’s work?” muttered Sholmes. “Is he playing me
false?”
He felt inclined to speak to one of the men with a view of acting in
concert with him; but as they were now approaching the boulevard the
crowd was becoming denser, and he was afraid he might lose sight of
Lupin. So he quickened his pace and turned into the boulevard just in
time to see Lupin ascending the steps of the Hungarian restaurant at
the corner of the rue du Helder. The door of the restaurant was open,
so that Sholmes, while sitting on a bench on the other side of the
boulevard, could see Lupin take a seat at a table, luxuriously
appointed and decorated with flowers, at which three gentlemen and two
ladies of elegant appearance were already seated and who extended to
Lupin a hearty greeting.
Sholmes now looked about for the four men and perceived them amongst a
crowd of people who were listening to a gipsy orchestra that was
playing in a neighboring café. It was a curious thing that they were
paying no attention to Arsène Lupin, but seemed to be friendly with the
people around them. One of them took a cigarette from his pocket and
approached a gentleman who wore a frock coat and silk hat. The
gentleman offered the other his cigar for a light, and Sholmes had the
impression that they talked to each other much longer than the occasion
demanded. Finally the gentleman approached the Hungarian restaurant,
entered and looked around. When he caught sight of Lupin he advanced
and spoke to him for a moment, then took a seat at an adjoining table.
Sholmes now recognized this gentleman as the horseman who had tried to
run him down in the avenue Henri-Martin.
Then Sholmes understood that these men were not tracking Arsène Lupin;
they were a part of his band. They were watching over his safety. They
were his bodyguard, his satellites, his vigilant escort. Wherever
danger threatened Lupin, these confederates were at hand to avert it,
ready to defend him. The four men were accomplices. The gentleman in
the frock coat was an accomplice. These facts furnished the Englishman
with food for reflection. Would he ever succeed in capturing that
inaccessible individual? What unlimited power was possessed by such an
organization, directed by such a chief!
He tore a leaf from his notebook, wrote a few lines in pencil, which he
placed in an envelope, and said to a boy about fifteen years of age who
was sitting on the bench beside him:
“Here, my boy; take a carriage and deliver this letter to the cashier
of the Suisse tavern, Place du Châtelet. Be quick!”
He gave him a five-franc piece. The boy disappeared.
A half hour passed away. The crowd had grown larger, and Sholmes
perceived only at intervals the accomplices of Arsène Lupin. Then
someone brushed against him and whispered in his ear:
“Well? what is it, Monsieur Sholmes?”
“Ah! it is you, Ganimard?”
“Yes; I received your note at the tavern. What’s the matter?”
“He is there.”
“What do you mean?”
“There ... in the restaurant. Lean to the right.... Do you see him
now?”
“No.”
“He is pouring a glass of champagne for the lady.”
“That is not Lupin.”
“Yes, it is.”
“But I tell you.... Ah! yet, it may be. It looks a great deal like
him,” said Ganimard, naively. “And the others—accomplices?”
“No; the lady sitting beside him is Lady Cliveden; the other is the
Duchess de Cleath. The gentleman sitting opposite Lupin is the Spanish
Ambassador to London.”
Ganimard took a step forward. Sholmes retained him.
“Be prudent. You are alone.”
“So is he.”
“No, he has a number of men on the boulevard mounting guard. And inside
the restaurant that gentleman——”
“And I, when I take Arsène Lupin by the collar and announce his name, I
shall have the entire room on my side and all the waiters.”
“I should prefer to have a few policemen.”
“But, Monsieur Sholmes, we have no choice. We must catch him when we
can.”
He was right; Sholmes knew it. It was better to take advantage of the
opportunity and make the attempt. Sholmes simply gave this advice to
Ganimard:
“Conceal your identity as long as possible.”
Sholmes glided behind a newspaper kiosk, whence he could still watch
Lupin, who was leaning toward Lady Cliveden, talking and smiling.
Ganimard crossed the street, hands in his pockets, as if he were going
down the boulevard, but when he reached the opposite sidewalk he turned
quickly and bounded up the steps of the restaurant. There was a shrill
whistle. Ganimard ran against the head waiter, who had suddenly planted
himself in the doorway and now pushed Ganimard back with a show of
indignation, as if he were an intruder whose presence would bring
disgrace upon the restaurant. Ganimard was surprised. At the same
moment the gentleman in the frock coat came out. He took the part of
the detective and entered into an exciting argument with the waiter;
both of them hung on to Ganimard, one pushing him in, the other pushing
him out in such a manner that, despite all his efforts and despite his
furious protestations, the unfortunate detective soon found himself on
the sidewalk.
The struggling men were surrounded by a crowd. Two policemen, attracted
by the noise, tried to force their way through the crowd, but
encountered a mysterious resistance and could make no headway through
the opposing backs and pressing shoulders of the mob.
But suddenly, as if by magic, the crowd parted and the passage to the
restaurant was clear. The head waiter, recognizing his mistake, was
profuse in his apologies; the gentleman in the frock coat ceased his
efforts on behalf of the detective, the crowd dispersed, the policemen
passed on, and Ganimard hastened to the table at which the six guests
were sitting. But now there were only five! He looked around.... The
only exit was the door.
“The person who was sitting here!” he cried to the five astonished
guests. “Where is he?”
“Monsieur Destro?”
“No; Arsène Lupin!”
A waiter approached and said:
“The gentleman went upstairs.”
Ganimard rushed up in the hope of finding him. The upper floor of the
restaurant contained private dining-rooms and had a private stairway
leading to the boulevard.
“No use looking for him now,” muttered Ganimard. “He is far away by
this time.”
He was not far away—two hundred yards at most—in the Madeleine-Bastille
omnibus, which was rolling along very peacefully with its three horses
across the Place de l’Opéra toward the Boulevard des Capucines. Two
sturdy fellows were talking together on the platform. On the roof of
the omnibus near the stairs an old fellow was sleeping; it was Herlock
Sholmes.
With bobbing head, rocked by the movement of the vehicle, the
Englishman said to himself:
“If Wilson could see me now, how proud he would be of his
collaborator!... Bah! It was easy to foresee that the game was lost, as
soon as the man whistled; nothing could be done but watch the exits and
see that our man did not escape. Really, Lupin makes life exciting and
interesting.”
At the terminal point Herlock Sholmes, by leaning over, saw Arsène
Lupin leaving the omnibus, and as he passed in front of the men who
formed his bodyguard Sholmes heard him say: “A l’Etoile.”
“A l’Etoile, exactly, a rendezvous. I shall be there,” thought Sholmes.
“I will follow the two men.”
Lupin took an automobile; but the men walked the entire distance,
followed by Sholmes. They stopped at a narrow house, No. 40 rue
Chalgrin, and rang the bell. Sholmes took his position in the shadow of
a doorway, whence he could watch the house in question. A man opened
one of the windows of the ground floor and closed the shutters. But the
shutters did not reach to the top of the window. The impost was clear.
At the end of ten minutes a gentleman rang at the same door and a few
minutes later another man came. A short time afterward an automobile
stopped in front of the house, bringing two passengers: Arsène Lupin
and a lady concealed beneath a large cloak and a thick veil.
“The blonde Lady, no doubt,” said Sholmes to himself, as the automobile
drove away.
Herlock Sholmes now approached the house, climbed to the window-ledge
and, by standing on tiptoe, he was able to see through the window above
the shutters. What did he see?
Arsène Lupin, leaning against the mantel, was speaking with
considerable animation. The others were grouped around him, listening
to him attentively. Amongst them Sholmes easily recognized the
gentleman in the frock coat and he thought one of the other men
resembled the head-waiter of the restaurant. As to the blonde Lady, she
was seated in an armchair with her back to the window.
“They are holding a consultation,” thought Sholmes. “They are worried
over the incident at the restaurant and are holding a council of war.
Ah! what a master stroke it would be to capture all of them at one fell
stroke!”
One of them, having moved toward the door, Sholmes leaped to the ground
and concealed himself in the shadow. The gentleman in the frock coat
and the head-waiter left the house. A moment later a light appeared at
the windows of the first floor, but the shutters were closed
immediately and the upper part of the house was dark as well as the
lower.
“Lupin and the woman are on the ground floor; the two confederates live
on the upper floor,” said Sholmes.
Sholmes remained there the greater part of the night, fearing that if
he went away Arsène Lupin might leave during his absence. At four
o’clock, seeing two policemen at the end of the street, he approached
them, explained the situation and left them to watch the house. He went
to Ganimard’s residence in the rue Pergolese and wakened him.
“I have him yet,” said Sholmes.
“Arsène Lupin?”
“Yes.”
“If you haven’t got any better hold on him than you had a while ago, I
might as well go back to bed. But we may as well go to the
station-house.”
They went to the police station in the rue Mesnil and from there to the
residence of the commissary, Mon. Decointre. Then, accompanied by half
a dozen policemen, they went to the rue Chalgrin.
“Anything new?” asked Sholmes, addressing the two policemen.
“Nothing.”
It was just breaking day when, after taking necessary measures to
prevent escape, the commissary rang the bell and commenced to question
the concierge. The woman was greatly frightened at this early morning
invasion, and she trembled as she replied that there were no tenants on
the ground floor.
“What! not a tenant?” exclaimed Ganimard.
“No; but on the first floor there are two men named Leroux. They have
furnished the apartment on the ground floor for some country
relations.”
“A gentleman and lady.”
“Yes.”
“Who came here last night.”
“Perhaps ... but I don’t know ... I was asleep. But I don’t think so,
for the key is here. They did not ask for it.”
With that key the commissary opened the door of the ground-floor
apartment. It comprised only two rooms and they were empty.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Sholmes. “I saw both of them in this room.”
“I don’t doubt your word,” said the commissary; “but they are not here
now.”
“Let us go to the first floor. They must be there.”
“The first floor is occupied by two men named Leroux.”
“We will examine the Messieurs Leroux.”
They all ascended the stairs and the commissary rang. At the second
ring a man opened the door; he was in his shirt-sleeves. Sholmes
recognized him as one of Lupin’s bodyguard. The man assumed a furious
air:
“What do you mean by making such a row at this hour of the morning ...
waking people up....”
But he stopped suddenly, astounded.
“God forgive me!... really, gentlemen, I didn’t notice who it was. Why,
it is Monsieur Decointre!... and you, Monsieur Ganimard. What can I do
for you!”
Ganimard burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which caused him
to bend double and turn black in the face.
“Ah! it is you, Leroux,” he stammered. “Oh! this is too funny! Leroux,
an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! Oh, I shall die! and your brother,
Leroux, where is he?”
“Edmond!” called the man. “It is Ganimard, who has come to visit us.”
Another man appeared and at sight of him Ganimard’s mirth redoubled.
“Oh! oh! we had no idea of this! Ah! my friends, you are in a bad fix
now. Who would have ever suspected it?”
Turning to Sholmes, Ganimard introduced the man:
“Victor Leroux, a detective from our office, one of the best men in the
iron brigade ... Edmond Leroux, chief clerk in the anthropometric
service.”