AN ABDUCTION.
Herlock Sholmes said nothing. To protest? To accuse the two men? That
would be useless. In the absence of evidence which he did not possess
and had no time to seek, no one would believe him. Moreover, he was
stifled with rage, but would not display his feelings before the
triumphant Ganimard. So he bowed respectfully to the brothers Leroux,
guardians of society, and retired.
In the vestibule he turned toward a low door which looked like the
entrance to a cellar, and picked up a small red stone; it was a garnet.
When he reached the street he turned and read on the front of the house
this inscription: “Lucien Destange, architect, 1877.”
The adjoining house, No. 42, bore the same inscription.
“Always the double passage—numbers 40 and 42 have a secret means of
communication. Why didn’t I think of that? I should have remained with
the two policemen.”
He met the policemen near the corner and said to them:
“Two people came out of house No. 42 during my absence, didn’t they?”
“Yes; a gentleman and lady.”
Ganimard approached. Sholmes took his arm, and as they walked down the
street he said:
“Monsieur Ganimard, you have had a good laugh and will no doubt forgive
me for the trouble I have caused you.”
“Oh! there’s no harm done; but it was a good joke.”
“I admit that; but the best jokes have only a short life, and this one
can’t last much longer.”
“I hope not.”
“This is now the seventh day, and I can remain only three days more.
Then I must return to London.”
“Oh!”
“I wish to ask you to be in readiness, as I may call on you at any hour
on Tuesday or Wednesday night.”
“For an expedition of the same kind as we had to-night?”
“Yes, monsieur, the very same.”
“With what result?”
“The capture of Arsène Lupin,” replied Sholmes.
“Do you think so?”
“I swear it, on my honor, monsieur.”
Sholmes bade Ganimard good-bye and went to the nearest hotel for a few
hours’ sleep; after which, refreshed and with renewed confidence in
himself, he returned to the rue Chalgrin, slipped two louis into the
hand of the concierge, assured himself that the brothers Leroux had
gone out, learned that the house belonged to a Monsieur Harmingeat,
and, provided with a candle, descended to the cellar through the low
door near which he had found the garnet. At the bottom of the stairs he
found another exactly like it.
“I am not mistaken,” he thought; “this is the means of communication.
Let me see if my skeleton-key will open the cellar reserved for the
tenant of the ground floor. Yes; it will. Now, I will examine those
cases of wine... oh! oh! here are some places where the dust has been
cleared away ... and some footprints on the ground....”
A slight noise caused him to listen attentively. Quickly he pushed the
door shut, blew out his candle and hid behind a pile of empty wine
cases. After a few seconds he noticed that a portion of the wall swung
on a pivot, the light of a lantern was thrown into the cellar, an arm
appeared, then a man entered.
He was bent over, as if he were searching for something. He felt in the
dust with his fingers and several times he threw something into a
cardboard box that he carried in his left hand. Afterward he
obliterated the traces of his footsteps, as well as the footprints left
by Lupin and the blonde lady, and he was about to leave the cellar by
the same way as he had entered, when he uttered a harsh cry and fell to
the ground. Sholmes had leaped upon him. It was the work of a moment,
and in the simplest manner in the world the man found himself stretched
on the ground, bound and handcuffed. The Englishman leaned over him and
said:
“Have you anything to say?... To tell what you know?”
The man replied by such an ironical smile that Sholmes realized the
futility of questioning him. So he contented himself by exploring the
pockets of his captive, but he found only a bunch of keys, a
handkerchief and the small cardboard box which contained a dozen
garnets similar to those which Sholmes had found.
Then what was he to do with the man? Wait until his friends came to his
help and deliver all of them to the police? What good would that do?
What advantage would that give him over Lupin?
He hesitated; but an examination of the box decided the question. The
box bore this name and address: “Leonard, jeweler, rue de la Paix.”
He resolved to abandon the man to his fate. He locked the cellar and
left the house. At a branch postoffice he sent a telegram to Monsieur
Destange, saying that he could not come that day. Then he went to see
the jeweler and, handing him the garnets, said:
“Madame sent me with these stones. She wishes to have them reset.”
Sholmes had struck the right key. The jeweler replied:
“Certainly; the lady telephoned to me. She said she would be here
to-day.”
Sholmes established himself on the sidewalk to wait for the lady, but
it was five o’clock when he saw a heavily-veiled lady approach and
enter the store. Through the window he saw her place on the counter a
piece of antique jewelry set with garnets.
She went away almost immediately, walking quickly and passed through
streets that were unknown to the Englishman. As it was now almost dark,
he walked close behind her and followed her into a five-story house of
double flats and, therefore, occupied by numerous tenants. At the
second floor she stopped and entered. Two minutes later the Englishman
commenced to try the keys on the bunch he had taken from the man in the
rue Chalgrin. The fourth key fitted the lock.
Notwithstanding the darkness of the rooms, he perceived that they were
absolutely empty, as if unoccupied, and the various doors were standing
open so that he could see all the apartments. At the end of a corridor
he perceived a ray of light and, by approaching on tiptoe and looking
through the glass door, he saw the veiled lady who had removed her hat
and dress and was now wearing a velvet dressing-gown. The discarded
garments were lying on the only chair in the room and a lighted lamp
stood on the mantel.
Then he saw her approach the fireplace and press what appeared to be
the button of an electric bell. Immediately the panel to the right of
the fireplace moved and slowly glided behind the adjoining panel, thus
disclosing an opening large enough for a person to pass through. The
lady disappeared through this opening, taking the lamp with her.
The operation was a very simple one. Sholmes adopted it and followed
the lady. He found himself in total darkness and immediately he felt
his face brushed by some soft articles. He lighted a match and found
that he was in a very small room completely filled with cloaks and
dresses suspended on hangers. He picked his way through until he
reached a door that was draped with a portiere. He peeped through and,
behold, the blonde lady was there, under his eyes, and almost within
reach of his hand.
She extinguished the lamp and turned on the electric lights. Then for
the first time Herlock Sholmes obtained a good look at her face. He was
amazed. The woman, whom he had overtaken after so much trouble and
after so many tricks and manœuvres, was none other than Clotilde
Destange.
Clotilde Destange, the assassin of the Baron d’Hautrec and the thief
who stole the blue diamond! Clotilde Destange, the mysterious friend of
Arsène Lupin! And the blonde lady!
“Yes, I am only a stupid ass,” thought Herlock Sholmes at that moment.
“Because Lupin’s friend was a blonde and Clotilde is a brunette, I
never dreamed that they were the same person. But how could the blonde
lady remain a blonde after the murder of the baron and the theft of the
diamond?”
Sholmes could see a portion of the room; it was a boudoir, furnished
with the most delightful luxury and exquisite taste, and adorned with
beautiful tapestries and costly ornaments. A mahogany couch,
upholstered in silk, was located on the side of the room opposite the
door at which Sholmes was standing. Clotilde was sitting on this couch,
motionless, her face covered by her hands. Then he perceived that she
was weeping. Great tears rolled down her pale cheeks and fell, drop by
drop, on the velvet corsage. The tears came thick and fast, as if their
source were inexhaustible.
A door silently opened behind her and Arsène Lupin entered. He looked
at her for a long time without making his presence known; then he
approached her, knelt at her feet, pressed her head to his breast,
folded her in his arms, and his actions indicated an infinite measure
of love and sympathy. For a time not a word was uttered, but her tears
became less abundant.
“I was so anxious to make you happy,” he murmured.
“I am happy.”
“No; you are crying.... Your tears break my heart, Clotilde.”
The caressing and sympathetic tone of his voice soothed her, and she
listened to him with an eager desire for hope and happiness. Her
features were softened by a smile, and yet how sad a smile! He
continued to speak in a tone of tender entreaty:
“You should not be unhappy, Clotilde; you have no cause to be.”
She displayed her delicate white hands and said, solemnly:
“Yes, Maxime; so long as I see those hands I shall be sad.”
“Why?”
“They are stained with blood.”
“Hush! Do not think of that!” exclaimed Lupin. “The dead is past and
gone. Do not resurrect it.”
And he kissed the long, delicate hand, while she regarded him with a
brighter smile as if each kiss effaced a portion of that dreadful
memory.
“You must love me, Maxime; you must—because no woman will ever love you
as I do. For your sake, I have done many things, not at your order or
request, but in obedience to your secret desires. I have done things at
which my will and conscience revolted, but there was some unknown power
that I could not resist. What I did I did involuntarily, mechanically,
because it helped you, because you wished it ... and I am ready to do
it again to-morrow ... and always.”
“Ah, Clotilde,” he said, bitterly, “why did I draw you into my
adventurous life? I should have remained the Maxime Bermond that you
loved five years ago, and not have let you know the ... other man that
I am.”
She replied in a low voice:
“I love the other man, also, and I have nothing to regret.”
“Yes, you regret your past life—the free and happy life you once
enjoyed.”
“I have no regrets when you are here,” she said, passionately. “All
faults and crimes disappear when I see you. When you are away I may
suffer, and weep, and be horrified at what I have done; but when you
come it is all forgotten. Your love wipes it all away. And I am happy
again.... But you must love me!”
“I do not love you on compulsion, Clotilde. I love you simply because
... I love you.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am just as sure of my own love as I am of yours. Only my life is a
very active and exciting one, and I cannot spend as much time with you
as I would like—just now.”
“What is it? Some new danger? Tell me!”
“Oh! nothing serious. Only....”
“Only what?” she asked.
“Well, he is on our track.”
“Who? Herlock Sholmes?”
“Yes; it was he who dragged Ganimard into that affair at the Hungarian
restaurant. It was he who instructed the two policemen to watch the
house in the rue Chalgrin. I have proof of it. Ganimard searched the
house this morning and Sholmes was with him. Besides——”
“Besides? What?”
“Well, there is another thing. One of our men is missing.”
“Who?”
“Jeanniot.”
“The concierge?”
“Yes.”
“Why, I sent him to the rue Chalgrin this morning to pick up the
garnets that fell out of my brooch.”
“There is no doubt, then, that Sholmes caught him.”
“No; the garnets were delivered to the jeweler in the rue de la Paix.”
“Then, what has become of him?”
“Oh! Maxime, I am afraid.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of, but I confess the situation is very
serious. What does he know? Where does he hide himself? His isolation
is his strong card. I cannot reach him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Act with extreme prudence, Clotilde. Some time ago I decided to change
my residence to a safer place, and Sholmes’ appearance on the scene has
prompted me to do so at once. When a man like that is on your track,
you must be prepared for the worst. Well, I am making my preparations.
Day after to-morrow, Wednesday, I shall move. At noon it will be
finished. At two o’clock I shall leave the place, after removing the
last trace of our residence there, which will be no small matter. Until
then——”
“Well?”
“Until then we must not see each other and no one must see you,
Clotilde. Do not go out. I have no fear for myself, but I have for
you.”
“That Englishman cannot possibly reach me.”
“I am not so sure of that. He is a dangerous man. Yesterday I came here
to search the cupboard that contains all of Monsieur Destange’s old
papers and records. There is danger there. There is danger everywhere.
I feel that he is watching us—that he is drawing his net around us
closer and closer. It is one of those intuitions which never deceive
me.”
“In that case, Maxime, go, and think no more of my tears. I shall be
brave, and wait patiently until the danger is past. Adieu, Maxime.”
They held one another for some time in a last fond embrace. And it was
she that gently pushed him outside. Sholmes could hear the sound of
their voices in the distance.
Emboldened by the necessities of the situation and the urgent need of
bringing his investigation to a speedy termination, Sholmes proceeded
to make an examination of the house in which he now found himself. He
passed through Clotilde’s boudoir into a corridor, at the end of which
there was a stairway leading to the lower floor; he was about to
descend this stairway when he heard voices below, which caused him to
change his route. He followed the corridor, which was a circular one,
and discovered another stairway, which he descended and found himself
amidst surroundings that bore a familiar appearance. He passed through
a door that stood partly open and entered a large circular room. It was
Monsieur Destange’s library.
“Ah! splendid!” he exclaimed. “Now I understand everything. The boudoir
of Mademoiselle Clotilde—the blonde Lady—communicates with a room in
the adjoining house, and that house does not front on the Place
Malesherbes, but upon an adjacent street, the rue Montchanin, if I
remember the name correctly.... And I now understand how Clotilde
Destange can meet her lover and at the same time create the impression
that she never leaves the house; and I understand also how Arsène Lupin
was enabled to make his mysterious entrance to the gallery last night.
Ah! there must be another connection between the library and the
adjoining room. One more house full of ways that are dark! And no doubt
Lucien Destange was the architect, as usual!... I should take advantage
of this opportunity to examine the contents of the cupboard and perhaps
learn the location of other houses with secret passages constructed by
Monsieur Destange.”
Sholmes ascended to the gallery and concealed himself behind some
draperies, where he remained until late in the evening. At last a
servant came and turned off the electric lights. An hour later the
Englishman, by the light of his lantern, made his way to the cupboard.
As he had surmised, it contained the architect’s old papers, plans,
specifications and books of account. It also contained a series of
registers, arranged according to date, and Sholmes, having selected
those of the most recent dates, searched in the indexes for the name
“Harmingeat.” He found it in one of the registers with a reference to
page 63. Turning to that page, he read:
“Harmingeat, 40 rue Chalgrin.”
This was followed by a detailed account of the work done in and about
the installation of a furnace in the house. And in the margin of the
book someone had written these words: “See account M.B.”
“Ah! I thought so!” said Sholmes; “the account M.B. is the one I want.
I shall learn from it the actual residence of Monsieur Lupin.”
It was morning before he found that important account. It comprised
sixteen pages, one of which was a copy of the page on which was
described the work done for Mon. Harmingeat of the rue Chalgrin.
Another page described the work performed for Mon. Vatinel as owner of
the house at No. 25 rue Clapeyron. Another page was reserved for the
Baron d’Hautrec, 134 avenue Henri-Martin; another was devoted to the
Château de Crozon, and the eleven other pages to various owners of
houses in Paris.
Sholmes made a list of those eleven names and addresses; after which he
returned the books to their proper places, opened a window, jumped out
onto the deserted street and closed the shutters behind him.
When he reached his room at the hotel he lighted his pipe with all the
solemnity with which he was wont to characterize that act, and amidst
clouds of smoke he studied the deductions that might be drawn from the
account of M.B., or rather, from the account of Maxime Bermond alias
Arsène Lupin.
At eight o’clock he sent the following message to Ganimard:
“I expect to pass through the rue Pergolese this forenoon and will
inform you of a person whose arrest is of the highest importance. In
any event, be at home to-night and to-morrow until noon and have at
least thirty men at your service.”
Then he engaged an automobile at the stand on the boulevard, choosing
one whose chauffeur looked good-natured but dull-witted, and instructed
him to drive to the Place Malesherbes, where he stopped him about one
hundred feet from Monsieur Destange’s house.
“My boy, close your carriage,” he said to the chauffeur; “turn up the
collar of your coat, for the wind is cold, and wait patiently. At the
end of an hour and a half, crank up your machine. When I return we will
go to the rue Pergolese.”
As he was ascending the steps leading to the door a doubt entered his
mind. Was it not a mistake on his part to be spending his time on the
affairs of the blonde Lady, while Arsène Lupin was preparing to move?
Would he not be better engaged in trying to find the abode of his
adversary amongst the eleven houses on his list?
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “when the blonde Lady becomes my prisoner, I shall
be master of the situation.”
And he rang the bell.
Monsieur Destange was already in the library. They had been working
only a few minutes, when Clotilde entered, bade her father good
morning, entered the adjoining parlor and sat down to write. From his
place Sholmes could see her leaning over the table and from time to
time absorbed in deep meditation. After a short time he picked up a
book and said to Monsieur Destange:
“Here is a book that Mademoiselle Destange asked me to bring to her
when I found it.”
He went into the little parlor, stood before Clotilde in such a manner
that her father could not see her, and said:
“I am Monsieur Stickmann, your father’s new secretary.”
“Ah!” said Clotilde, without moving, “my father has changed his
secretary? I didn’t know it.”
“Yes, mademoiselle, and I desire to speak with you.”
“Kindly take a seat, monsieur; I have finished.”
She added a few words to her letter, signed it, enclosed it in the
envelope, sealed it, pushed her writing material away, rang the
telephone, got in communication with her dressmaker, asked the latter
to hasten the completion of a traveling dress, as she required it at
once, and then, turning to Sholmes, she said:
“I am at your service, monsieur. But do you wish to speak before my
father? Would not that be better?”
“No, mademoiselle; and I beg of you, do not raise your voice. It is
better that Monsieur Destange should not hear us.”
“For whose sake is it better?”
“Yours, mademoiselle.”
“I cannot agree to hold any conversation with you that my father may
not hear.”
“But you must agree to this. It is imperative.”
Both of them arose, eye to eye. She said:
“Speak, monsieur.”
Still standing, he commenced:
“You will be so good as to pardon me if I am mistaken on certain points
of secondary importance. I will guarantee, however, the general
accuracy of my statements.”
“Can we not dispense with these preliminaries, monsieur? Or are they
necessary?”
Sholmes felt the young woman was on her guard, so he replied:
“Very well; I will come to the point. Five years ago your father made
the acquaintance of a certain young man called Maxime Bermond, who was
introduced as a contractor or an architect, I am not sure which it was;
but it was one or the other. Monsieur Destange took a liking to the
young man, and as the state of his health compelled him to retire from
active business, he entrusted to Monsieur Bermond the execution of
certain orders he had received from some of his old customers and which
seemed to come within the scope of Monsieur Bermond’s ability.”
Herlock Sholmes stopped. It seemed to him that the girl’s pallor had
increased. Yet there was not the slightest tremor in her voice when she
said:
“I know nothing about the circumstances to which you refer, monsieur,
and I do not see in what way they can interest me.”
“In this way, mademoiselle: You know, as well as I, that Maxime Bermond
is also known by the name of Arsène Lupin.”
She laughed, and said:
“Nonsense! Arsène Lupin? Maxime Bermond is Arsène Lupin? Oh! no! It
isn’t possible!”
“I have the honor to inform you of that fact, and since you refuse to
understand my meaning, I will add that Arsène Lupin has found in this
house a friend—more than a friend—and accomplice, blindly and
passionately devoted to him.”
Without emotion, or at least with so little emotion that Sholmes was
astonished at her self-control, she declared:
“I do not understand your object, monsieur, and I do not care to; but I
command you to say no more and leave this house.”
“I have no intention of forcing my presence on you,” replied Sholmes,
with equal sang-froid, “but I shall not leave this house alone.”
“And who will accompany you, monsieur?”
“You will.”
“I?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, we will leave this house together, and you will
follow me without one word of protest.”
The strange feature of the foregoing interview was the absolute
coolness of the two adversaries. It bore no resemblance to an
implacable duel between two powerful wills; but, judging solely from
their attitude and the tone of their voices, an onlooker would have
supposed their conversation to be nothing more serious than a courteous
argument over some impersonal subject.
Clotilde resumed her seat without deigning to reply to the last remark
of Herlock Sholmes, except by a shrug of her shoulders. Sholmes looked
at his watch and said:
“It is half-past ten. We will leave here in five minutes.”
“Perhaps.”
“If not, I shall go to Monsieur Destange, and tell him——”
“What?”
“The truth. I will tell him of the vicious life of Maxime Bermond, and
I will tell him of the double life of his accomplice.”
“Of his accomplice?”
“Yes, of the woman known as the blonde Lady, of the woman who was
blonde.”
“What proofs will you give him?”
“I will take him to the rue Chalgrin, and show him the secret passage
made by Arsène Lupin’s workmen,—while doing the work of which he had
the control—between the houses numbered 40 and 42; the passage which
you and he used two nights ago.”
“Well?”
“I will then take Monsieur Destange to the house of Monsieur Detinan;
we will descend the servant’s stairway which was used by you and Arsène
Lupin when you escaped from Ganimard, and we will search together the
means of communication with the adjoining house, which fronts on the
Boulevard des Batignolles, and not upon the rue Clapeyron.”
“Well?”
“I will take Monsieur Destange to the château de Crozon, and it will be
easy for him, who knows the nature of the work performed by Arsène
Lupin in the restoration of the Château, to discover the secret
passages constructed there by his workmen. It will thus be established
that those passages allowed the blonde Lady to make a nocturnal visit
to the Countess’ room and take the blue diamond from the mantel; and,
two weeks later, by similar means, to enter the room of Herr Bleichen
and conceal the blue diamond in his tooth-powder—a strange action, I
confess; a woman’s revenge, perhaps; but I don’t know, and I don’t
care.”
“Well?”
“After that,” said Herlock Sholmes, in a more serious tone, “I will
take Monsieur Destange to 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and we will learn
how the Baron d’Hautrec——”
“No, no, keep quiet,” stammered the girl, struck with a sudden terror,
“I forbid you!... you dare to say that it was I ... you accuse me?...”
“I accuse you of having killed the Baron d’Hautrec.”
“No, no, it is a lie.”
“You killed the Baron d’Hautrec, mademoiselle. You entered his service
under the name of Antoinette Bréhat, for the purpose of stealing the
blue diamond and you killed him.”
“Keep quiet, monsieur,” she implored him. “Since you know so much, you
must know that I did not murder the baron.”
“I did not say that you murdered him, mademoiselle. Baron d’Hautrec was
subject to fits of insanity that only Sister Auguste could control. She
told me so herself. In her absence, he must have attacked you, and in
the course of the struggle you struck him in order to save your own
life. Frightened at your awful situation, you rang the bell, and fled
without even taking the blue diamond from the finger of your victim. A
few minutes later you returned with one of Arsène Lupin’s accomplices,
who was a servant in the adjoining house, you placed the baron on the
bed, you put the room in order, but you were afraid to take the blue
diamond. Now, I have told you what happened on that night. I repeat,
you did not murder the baron, and yet it was your hand that struck the
blow.”
She had crossed them over her forehead—those long delicate white
hands—and kept them thus for a long time. At last, loosening her
fingers, she said, in a voice rent by anguish:
“And do you intend to tell all that to my father?”
“Yes; and I will tell him that I have secured as witnesses:
Mademoiselle Gerbois, who will recognize the blonde Lady; Sister
Auguste, who will recognize Antoinette Bréhat; and the Countess de
Crozon, who will recognize Madame de Réal. That is what I shall tell
him.”
“You will not dare,” she said, recovering her self-possession in the
face of an immediate peril.
He arose, and made a step toward the library. Clotilde stopped him:
“One moment, monsieur.”
She paused, reflected a moment, and then, perfect mistress of herself,
said:
“You are Herlock Sholmes?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want of me?”
“What do I want? I am fighting a duel with Arsène Lupin, and I must
win. The contest is now drawing to a climax, and I have an idea that a
hostage as precious as you will give me an important advantage over my
adversary. Therefore, you will follow me, mademoiselle; I will entrust
you to one of my friends. As soon as the duel is ended, you will be set
at liberty.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all. I do not belong to the police service of this country,
and, consequently, I do not consider that I am under any obligation ...
to cause your arrest.”
She appeared to have come to a decision ... yet she required a
momentary respite. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate her
thoughts. Sholmes looked at her in surprise; she was now so tranquil
and, apparently, indifferent to the dangers which threatened her.
Sholmes thought: Does she believe that she is in danger? Probably
not—since Lupin protects her. She has confidence in him. She believes
that Lupin is omnipotent, and infallible.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I told you that we would leave here in five
minutes. That time has almost expired.”
“Will you permit me to go to my room, monsieur, to get some necessary
articles?”
“Certainly, mademoiselle; and I will wait for you in the rue
Montchanin. Jeanniot, the concierge, is a friend of mine.”
“Ah! you know....” she said, visibly alarmed.
“I know many things.”
“Very well. I will ring for the maid.”
The maid brought her hat and jacket. Then Sholmes said:
“You must give Monsieur Destange some reason for our departure, and, if
possible, let your excuse serve for an absence of several days.”
“That shall not be necessary. I shall be back very soon.”
They exchanged defiant glances and an ironic smile.
“What faith you have in him!” said Sholmes.
“Absolute.”
“He does everything well, doesn’t he? He succeeds in everything he
undertakes. And whatever he does receives your approval and
cooperation.”
“I love him,” she said, with a touch of passion in her voice.
“And you think that he will save you?”
She shrugged her shoulders, and, approaching her father, she said:
“I am going to deprive you of Monsieur Stickmann. We are going to the
National Library.”
“You will return for luncheon?”
“Perhaps ... no, I think not ... but don’t be uneasy.”
Then she said to Sholmes, in a firm voice:
“I am at your service, monsieur.”
“Absolutely?”
“Quite so.”
“I warn you that if you attempt to escape, I shall call the police and
have you arrested. Do not forget that the blonde Lady is on parole.”
“I give you my word of honor that I shall not attempt to escape.”
“I believe you. Now, let us go.”
They left the house together, as he had predicted.
The automobile was standing where Sholmes had left it. As they
approached it, Sholmes could hear the rumbling of the motor. He opened
the door, asked Clotilde to enter, and took a seat beside her. The
machine started at once, gained the exterior boulevards, the avenue
Hoche and the avenue de la Grande-Armée. Sholmes was considering his
plans. He thought:
“Ganimard is at home. I will leave the girl in his care. Shall I tell
him who she is? No, he would take her to prison at once, and that would
spoil everything. When I am alone, I can consult my list of addresses
taken from the ‘account M.B.,’ and run them down. To-night, or
to-morrow morning at the latest, I shall go to Ganimard, as I agreed,
and deliver into his hands Arsène Lupin and all his band.”
He rubbed his hand, gleefully, at the thought that his duel with Lupin
was drawing to a close, and he could not see any serious obstacle in
the way of his success. And, yielding to an irrepressible desire to
give vent to his feelings—an unusual desire on his part—he exclaimed:
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I am unable to conceal my satisfaction and
delight. The battle has been a difficult one, and my success is,
therefore, more enjoyable.”
“A legitimate success, monsieur, of which you have a just right to be
proud.”
“Thank you. But where are we going? The chauffeur must have
misunderstood my directions.”
At that moment they were leaving Paris by the gate de Neuilly. That was
strange, as the rue Pergolese is not outside the fortifications.
Sholmes lowered the glass, and said:
“Chauffeur, you have made a mistake.... Rue Pergolese!”
The man made no reply. Sholmes repeated, in a louder voice:
“I told you to go to the rue Pergolese.”
Still the man did not reply.
“Ah! but you are deaf, my friend. Or is he doing it on purpose? We are
very much out of our way.... Rue Pergolese!... Turn back at once!...
Rue Pergolese!”
The chauffeur made no sign of having heard the order. The Englishman
fretted with impatience. He looked at Clotilde; a mysterious smile
played upon her lips.
“Why do you laugh?” he said. “It is an awkward mistake, but it won’t
help you.”
“Of course not,” she replied.
Then an idea occurred to him. He rose and made a careful scrutiny of
the chauffeur. His shoulders were not so broad; his bearing was not so
stiff and mechanical. A cold perspiration covered his forehead and his
hands clenched with sudden fear, as his mind was seized with the
conviction that the chauffeur was Arsène Lupin.
“Well, Monsieur Sholmes, what do you think of our little ride?”
“Delightful, monsieur, really delightful,” replied Sholmes.
Never in his life had he experienced so much difficulty in uttering a
few simple words without a tremor, or without betraying his feelings in
his voice. But quickly, by a sort of reaction, a flood of hatred and
rage burst its bounds, overcame his self-control, and, brusquely
drawing his revolver, he pointed it at Mademoiselle Destange.
“Lupin, stop, this minute, this second, or I fire at mademoiselle.”
“I advise you to aim at the cheek if you wish to hit the temple,”
replied Lupin, without turning his head.
“Maxime, don’t go so fast,” said Clotilde, “the pavement is slippery
and I am very timid.”
She was smiling; her eyes were fixed on the pavement, over which the
carriage was traveling at enormous speed.
“Let him stop! Let him stop!” said Sholmes to her, wild with rage, “I
warn you that I am desperate.”
The barrel of the revolver brushed the waving locks of her hair. She
replied, calmly:
“Maxime is so imprudent. He is going so fast, I am really afraid of
some accident.”
Sholmes returned the weapon to his pocket and seized the handle of the
door, as if to alight, despite the absurdity of such an act. Clotilde
said to him:
“Be careful, monsieur, there is an automobile behind us.”
He leaned over. There was an automobile close behind; a large machine
of formidable aspect with its sharp prow and blood-red body, and
holding four men clad in fur coats.
“Ah! I am well guarded,” thought Sholmes. “I may as well be patient.”
He folded his arms across his chest with that proud air of submission
so frequently assumed by heroes when fate has turned against them. And
while they crossed the river Seine and rushed through Suresnes, Rueil
and Chatou, motionless and resigned, controlling his actions and his
passions, he tried to explain to his own satisfaction by what miracle
Arsène Lupin had substituted himself for the chauffeur. It was quite
improbable that the honest-looking fellow he had selected on the
boulevard that morning was an accomplice placed there in advance. And
yet Arsène Lupin had received a warning in some way, and it must have
been after he, Sholmes, had approached Clotilde in the house, because
no one could have suspected his project prior to that time. Since then,
Sholmes had not allowed Clotilde out of his sight.
Then an idea struck him: the telephone communication desired by
Clotilde and her conversation with the dressmaker. Now, it was all
quite clear to him. Even before he had spoken to her, simply upon his
request to speak to her as the new secretary of Monsieur Destange, she
had scented the danger, surmised the name and purpose of the visitor,
and, calmly, naturally, as if she were performing a commonplace action
of her every-day life, she had called Arsène Lupin to her assistance by
some preconcerted signal.
How Arsène Lupin had come and caused himself to be substituted for the
chauffeur were matters of trifling importance. That which affected
Sholmes, even to the point of appeasing his fury, was the recollection
of that incident whereby an ordinary woman, a sweetheart it is true,
mastering her nerves, controlling her features, and subjugating the
expression of her eyes, had completely deceived the astute detective
Herlock Sholmes. How difficult to overcome an adversary who is aided by
such confederates, and who, by the mere force of his authority,
inspires in a woman so much courage and strength!
They crossed the Seine and climbed the hill at Saint-Germain; but, some
five hundred metres beyond that town, the automobile slackened its
speed. The other automobile advanced, and the two stopped, side by
side. There was no one else in the neighborhood.
“Monsieur Sholmes,” said Lupin, “kindly exchange to the other machine.
Ours is really a very slow one.”
“Indeed!” said Sholmes, calmly, convinced that he had no choice.
“Also, permit me to loan you a fur coat, as we will travel quite fast
and the air is cool. And accept a couple of sandwiches, as we cannot
tell when we will dine.”
The four men alighted from the other automobile. One of them
approached, and, as he raised his goggles, Sholmes recognized in him
the gentleman in the frock coat that he had seen at the Hungarian
restaurant. Lupin said to him:
“You will return this machine to the chauffeur from whom I hired it. He
is waiting in the first wine-shop to the right as you go up the rue
Legendre. You will give him the balance of the thousand francs I
promised him.... Ah! yes, kindly give your goggles to Monsieur
Sholmes.”
He talked to Mlle. Destange for a moment, then took his place at the
wheel and started, with Sholmes at his side and one of his men behind
him. Lupin had not exaggerated when he said “we will travel quite
fast.” From the beginning he set a breakneck pace. The horizon rushed
to meet them, as if attracted by some mysterious force, and disappeared
instantly as though swallowed up in an abyss, into which many other
things, such as trees, houses, fields and forests, were hurled with the
tumultuous fury and haste of a torrent as it approached the cataract.
Sholmes and Lupin did not exchange a word. Above their heads the leaves
of the poplars made a great noise like the waves of the sea,
rhythmically arranged by the regular spacing of the trees. And the
towns swept by like spectres: Manteo, Vernon, Gaillon. From one hill to
the other, from Bon-Secours to Canteleu, Rouen, its suburbs, its
harbor, its miles of wharves, Rouen seemed like the straggling street
of a country village. And this was Duclair, Caudebec, the country of
Caux which they skimmed over in their terrific flight, and Lillebonne,
and Quillebeuf. Then, suddenly, they found themselves on the banks of
the Seine, at the extremity of a little wharf, beside which lay a
staunch sea-going yacht that emitted great volumes of black smoke from
its funnel.
The automobile stopped. In two hours they had traveled over forty
leagues.
A man, wearing a blue uniform and a goldlaced cap, came forward and
saluted. Lupin said to him:
“All ready, captain? Did you receive my telegram?”
“Yes, I got it.”
“Is _The Swallow_ ready?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Come, Monsieur Sholmes.”
The Englishman looked around, saw a group of people on the terrace in
front of a café, hesitated a moment, then, realizing that before he
could secure any assistance he would be seized, carried aboard and
placed in the bottom of the hold, he crossed the gang-plank and
followed Lupin into the captain’s cabin. It was quite a large room,
scrupulously clean, and presented a cheerful appearance with its
varnished woodwork and polished brass. Lupin closed the door and
addressed Sholmes abruptly, and almost rudely, as he said:
“Well, what do you know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? Come, be precise.”
His voice contained no longer that polite, if ironical, tone, which he
had affected when speaking to the Englishman. Now, his voice had the
imperious tone of a master accustomed to command and accustomed to be
obeyed—even by a Herlock Sholmes. They measured each other by their
looks, enemies now—open and implacable foes. Lupin spoke again, but in
a milder tone:
“I have grown weary of your pursuit, and do not intend to waste any
more time in avoiding the traps you lay for me. I warn you that my
treatment of you will depend on your reply. Now, what do you know?”
“Everything, monsieur.”
Arsène Lupin controlled his temper and said, in a jerky manner:
“I will tell you what you know. You know that, under the name of Maxime
Bermond, I have ... _improved_ fifteen houses that were originally
constructed by Monsieur Destange.”
“Yes.”
“Of those fifteen houses, you have seen four.”
“Yes.”
“And you have a list of the other eleven.”
“Yes.”
“You made that list at Monsieur Destange’s house on that night, no
doubt.”
“Yes.”
“And you have an idea that, amongst those eleven houses, there is one
that I have kept for the use of myself and my friends, and you have
intrusted to Ganimard the task of finding my retreat.”
“No.”
“What does that signify?”
“It signifies that I choose to act alone, and do not want his help.”
“Then I have nothing to fear, since you are in my hands.”
“You have nothing to fear as long as I remain in your hands.”
“You mean that you will not remain?”
“Yes.”
Arsène Lupin approached the Englishman and, placing his hand on the
latter’s shoulder, said:
“Listen, monsieur; I am not in a humor to argue with you, and,
unfortunately for you, you are not in a position to choose. So let us
finish our business.”
“Very well.”
“You are going to give me your word of honor that you will not try to
escape from this boat until you arrive in English waters.”
“I give you my word of honor that I shall escape if I have an
opportunity,” replied the indomitable Sholmes.
“But, sapristi! you know quite well that at a word from me you would
soon be rendered helpless. All these men will obey me blindly. At a
sign from me they would place you in irons——”
“Irons can be broken.”
“And throw you overboard ten miles from shore.”
“I can swim.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Lupin, with a laugh. “Excuse me,
master ... and let us finish. You will agree that I must take the
measures necessary to protect myself and my friends.”
“Certainly; but they will be useless.”
“And yet you do not wish me to take them.”
“It is your duty.”
“Very well, then.”
Lupin opened the door and called the captain and two sailors. The
latter seized the Englishman, bound him hand and foot, and tied him to
the captain’s bunk.
“That will do,” said Lupin. “It was only on account of your obstinacy
and the unusual gravity of the situation, that I ventured to offer you
this indignity.”
The sailors retired. Lupin said to the captain:
“Let one of the crew remain here to look after Monsieur Sholmes, and
you can give him as much of your own company as possible. Treat him
with all due respect and consideration. He is not a prisoner, but a
guest. What time have you, captain?”
“Five minutes after two.”
Lupin consulted his watch, then looked at the clock that was attached
to the wall of the cabin.
“Five minutes past two is right. How long will it take you to reach
Southampton?”
“Nine hours, easy going.”
“Make it eleven. You must not land there until after the departure of
the midnight boat, which reaches Havre at eight o’clock in the morning.
Do you understand, captain? Let me repeat: As it would be very
dangerous for all of us to permit Monsieur to return to France by that
boat, you must not reach Southampton before one o’clock in the
morning.”
“I understand.”
“Au revoir, master; next year, in this world or in the next.”
“Until to-morrow,” replied Sholmes.
A few minutes later Sholmes heard the automobile going away, and at the
same time the steam puffed violently in the depths of _The Swallow_.
The boat had started for England. About three o’clock the vessel left
the mouth of the river and plunged into the open sea. At that moment
Sholmes was lying on the captain’s bunk, sound asleep.
Next morning—it being the tenth and last day of the duel between
Sholmes and Lupin—the _Echo de France_ published this interesting bit
of news:
“Yesterday a judgment of ejectment was entered in the case of Arsène
Lupin against Herlock Sholmes, the English detective. Although signed
at noon, the judgment was executed the same day. At one o’clock this
morning Sholmes was landed at Southampton.”