THE JEWISH LAMP.
Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in
comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful
warmth of a glowing coke fire.
Sholmes’ pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He
knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his
dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of
smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings.
Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire
might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope
other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going
to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his
reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts?
When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson
ventured to speak:
“Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our
leisure moments.”
Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were
better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable
pleasure from that trifling fact—an indication that the great man was
not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and
went to the window.
The lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses,
unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A
cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his
memorandum-book. One never knows!
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the postman.”
The man entered, shown in by the servant.
“Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?”
Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was
opening one of the letters as he returned.
“It seems to please you,” remarked Wilson, after a moment’s silence.
“This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious
for a case—here’s one. Read——”
Wilson read:
“Monsieur,
“I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been
the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet
been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of
newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will
undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask
you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum
you require for your expenses.
“Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige,
“Your humble servant,
“Baron Victor d’Imblevalle,
“18 rue Murillo, Paris.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris
... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Arsène Lupin, I have
not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital
of the world under less strenuous conditions.”
He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not
yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris
and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he
made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead
during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball,
he threw it, angrily, on the floor.
“Well? What’s the matter?” asked Wilson, anxiously.
He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing
amazement:
“My Dear Monsieur:
“You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest
I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have
nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now
been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your
efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be
obliged to make a public confession of your defeat.
“Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore
you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain
peacefully reposing at your own fireside.
“My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere
regards of your devoted
ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
“Arsène Lupin!” repeated Wilson, astounded.
Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed:
“Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were
a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn’t I force him to
disgorge the blue diamond?”
“I tell you—he’s afraid,” suggested Wilson.
“Nonsense! Arsène Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves
it.”
“But how did he know that the Baron d’Imblevalle had written to you?”
“What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy.”
“I thought ... I supposed——”
“What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?”
“No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things.”
“No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I
reflect, I deduct, I conclude—that is all; but I do not divine. Only
fools divine.”
Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make
a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with
quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and
ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a
material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude
that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental
operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness:
“Sholmes, you are going to Paris.”
“Possibly.”
“And Lupin’s affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist
the Baron d’Imblevalle.”
“Possibly.”
“Sholmes, I shall go with you.”
“Ah; ah! my old friend,” exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking,
“you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your
left?”
“What can happen to me? You will be there.”
“That’s the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman
that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick,
Wilson, we must catch the first train.”
“Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?”
“What good are they?”
“I will send a telegram.”
“No; if you do that, Arsène Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to
avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover.”
That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a
delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three
hours sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment.
Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He was delighted at the idea of another
duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air
of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation.
“At last!” exclaimed Wilson, “we are getting to work again.”
And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air.
At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who
carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly.
“Fine weather, Wilson.... Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a
royal reception.”
“Yes, but what a crowd!”
“So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will
recognize us in such a crowd.”
“Is this Monsieur Sholmes?”
He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by
his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress
outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious
expression. She repeated her enquiry:
“You are Monsieur Sholmes?”
As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of
prudence, the girl asked a third time:
“Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?”
“What do you want?” he replied, testily, considering the incident a
suspicious one.
“You must listen to me, Monsieur Sholmes, as it is a serious matter. I
know that you are going to the rue Murillo.”
“What do you say?”
“I know ... I know ... rue Murillo ... number 18. Well, you must not go
... no, you must not. I assure you that you will regret it. Do not
think that I have any interest in the matter. I do it because it is
right ... because my conscience tells me to do it.”
Sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted:
“Oh! I beg of you, don’t neglect my advice.... Ah! if I only knew how
to convince you! Look at me! Look into my eyes! They are sincere ...
they speak the truth.”
She gazed at Sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful
eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected.
Wilson nodded his head, as he said:
“Mademoiselle looks honest.”
“Yes,” she implored, “and you must have confidence——”
“I have confidence in you, mademoiselle,” replied Wilson.
“Oh, how happy you make me! And so has your friend? I feel it ... I am
sure of it! What happiness! Everything will be all right now!... What a
good idea of mine!... Ah! yes, there is a train for Calais in twenty
minutes. You will take it.... Quick, follow me ... you must come this
way ... there is just time.”
She tried to drag them along. Sholmes seized her arm, and in as gentle
a voice as he could assume, said to her:
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I cannot yield to your wishes, but I never
abandon a task that I have once undertaken.”
“I beseech you ... I implore you.... Ah if you could only understand!”
Sholmes passed outside and walked away at a quick pace. Wilson said to
the girl:
“Have no fear ... he will be in at the finish. He never failed yet.”
And he ran to overtake Sholmes.
HERLOCK SHOLMES—ARSÈNE LUPIN.
These words, in great black letters, met their gaze as soon as they
left the railway station. A number of sandwich-men were parading
through the street, one behind the other, carrying heavy canes with
iron ferrules with which they struck the pavement in harmony, and, on
their backs, they carried large posters, on which one could read the
following notice:
THE MATCH BETWEEN HERLOCK SHOLMES
AND ARSÈNE LUPIN. ARRIVAL OF THE ENGLISH
CHAMPION. THE GREAT DETECTIVE ATTACKS
THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE MURILLO. READ THE
DETAILS IN THE “ECHO DE FRANCE.”
Wilson shook his head, and said:
“Look at that, Sholmes, and we thought we were traveling incognito! I
shouldn’t be surprised to find the republican guard waiting for us at
the rue Murillo to give us an official reception with toasts and
champagne.”
“Wilson, when you get funny, you get beastly funny,” growled Sholmes.
Then he approached one of the sandwich-men with the obvious intention
of seizing him in his powerful grip and crushing him, together with his
infernal sign-board. There was quite a crowd gathered about the men,
reading the notices, and joking and laughing.
Repressing a furious access of rage, Sholmes said to the man:
“When did they hire you?”
“This morning.”
“How long have you been parading?”
“About an hour.”
“But the boards were ready before that?”
“Oh, yes, they were ready when we went to the agency this morning.”
So then it appears that Arsène Lupin had foreseen that he, Sholmes,
would accept the challenge. More than that, the letter written by Lupin
showed that he was eager for the fray and that he was prepared to
measure swords once more with his formidable rival. Why? What motive
could Arsène Lupin have in renewing the struggle?
Sholmes hesitated for a moment. Lupin must be very confident of his
success to show so much insolence in advance; and was not he, Sholmes,
falling into a trap by rushing into the battle at the first call for
help?
However, he called a carriage.
“Come, Wilson!... Driver, 18 rue Murillo!” he exclaimed, with an
outburst of his accustomed energy. With distended veins and clenched
fists, as if he were about to engage in a boxing bout, he jumped into
the carriage.
The rue Murillo is bordered with magnificent private residences, the
rear of which overlook the Parc Monceau. One of the most pretentious of
these houses is number 18, owned and occupied by the Baron d’Imblevalle
and furnished in a luxurious manner consistent with the owner’s taste
and wealth. There was a courtyard in front of the house, and, in the
rear, a garden well filled with trees whose branches mingle with those
of the park.
After ringing the bell, the two Englishmen were admitted, crossed the
courtyard, and were received at the door by a footman who showed them
into a small parlor facing the garden in the rear of the house. They
sat down and, glancing about, made a rapid inspection of the many
valuable objects with which the room was filled.
“Everything very choice,” murmured Wilson, “and in the best of taste.
It is a safe deduction to make that those who had the leisure to
collect these articles must now be at least fifty years of age.”
The door opened, and the Baron d’Imblevalle entered, followed by his
wife. Contrary to the deduction made by Wilson, they were both quite
young, of elegant appearance, and vivacious in speech and action. They
were profuse in their expressions of gratitude.
“So kind of you to come! Sorry to have caused you so much trouble! The
theft now seems of little consequence, since it has procured us this
pleasure.”
“How charming these French people are!” thought Wilson, evolving one of
his commonplace deductions.
“But time is money,” exclaimed the baron, “especially your time,
Monsieur Sholmes. So I will come to the point. Now, what do you think
of the affair? Do you think you can succeed in it?”
“Before I can answer that I must know what it is about.”
“I thought you knew.”
“No; so I must ask you for full particulars, even to the smallest
detail. First, what is the nature of the case?”
“A theft.”
“When did it take place?”
“Last Saturday,” replied the baron, “or, at least, some time during
Saturday night or Sunday morning.”
“That was six days ago. Now, you can tell me all about it.”
“In the first place, monsieur, I must tell you that my wife and I,
conforming to the manner of life that our position demands, go out very
little. The education of our children, a few receptions, and the care
and decoration of our house—such constitutes our life; and nearly all
our evenings are spent in this little room, which is my wife’s boudoir,
and in which we have gathered a few artistic objects. Last Saturday
night, about eleven o’clock, I turned off the electric lights, and my
wife and I retired, as usual, to our room.”
“Where is your room?”
“It adjoins this. That is the door. Next morning, that is to say,
Sunday morning, I arose quite early. As Suzanne, my wife, was still
asleep, I passed into the boudoir as quietly as possible so as not to
wake her. What was my astonishment when I found that window open—as we
had left it closed the evening before!”
“A servant——”
“No one enters here in the morning until we ring. Besides, I always
take the precaution to bolt the second door which communicates with the
ante-chamber. Therefore, the window must have been opened from the
outside. Besides, I have some evidence of that: the second pane of
glass from the right—close to the fastening—had been cut.”
“And what does that window overlook?”
“As you can see for yourself, it opens on a little balcony, surrounded
by a stone railing. Here, we are on the first floor, and you can see
the garden behind the house and the iron fence which separates it from
the Parc Monceau. It is quite certain that the thief came through the
park, climbed the fence by the aid of a ladder, and thus reached the
terrace below the window.”
“That is quite certain, you say?”
“Well, in the soft earth on either side of the fence, they found the
two holes made by the bottom of the ladder, and two similar holes can
be seen below the window. And the stone railing of the balcony shows
two scratches which were doubtless made by the contact of the ladder.”
“Is the Parc Monceau closed at night?”
“No; but if it were, there is a house in course of erection at number
14, and a person could enter that way.”
Herlock Sholmes reflected for a few minutes, and then said:
“Let us come down to the theft. It must have been committed in this
room?”
“Yes; there was here, between that twelfth century Virgin and that
tabernacle of chased silver, a small Jewish lamp. It has disappeared.”
“And is that all?”
“That is all.”
“Ah!... And what is a Jewish lamp?”
“One of those copper lamps used by the ancient Jews, consisting of a
standard which supported a bowl containing the oil, and from this bowl
projected several burners intended for the wicks.”
“Upon the whole, an object of small value.”
“No great value, of course. But this one contained a secret
hiding-place in which we were accustomed to place a magnificent jewel,
a chimera in gold, set with rubies and emeralds, which was of great
value.”
“Why did you hide it there?”
“Oh! I can’t give any reason, monsieur, unless it was an odd fancy to
utilize a hiding-place of that kind.”
“Did anyone know it?”
“No.”
“No one—except the thief,” said Sholmes. “Otherwise he would not have
taken the trouble to steal the lamp.”
“Of course. But how could he know it, as it was only by accident that
the secret mechanism of the lamp was revealed to us.”
“A similar accident has revealed it to some one else ... a servant ...
or an acquaintance. But let us proceed: I suppose the police have been
notified?”
“Yes. The examining magistrate has completed his investigation. The
reporter-detectives attached to the leading newspapers have also made
their investigations. But, as I wrote to you, it seems to me the
mystery will never be solved.”
Sholmes arose, went to the window, examined the casement, the balcony,
the terrace, studied the scratches on the stone railing with his
magnifying-glass, and then requested Mon. d’Imblevalle to show him the
garden.
Outside, Sholmes sat down in a rattan chair and gazed at the roof of
the house in a dreamy way. Then he walked over to the two little wooden
boxes with which they had covered the holes made in the ground by the
bottom of the ladder with a view of preserving them intact. He raised
the boxes, kneeled on the ground, scrutinized the holes and made some
measurements. After making a similar examination of the holes near the
fence, he and the baron returned to the boudoir where Madame
d’Imblevalle was waiting for them. After a short silence Sholmes said:
“At the very outset of your story, baron, I was surprised at the very
simple methods employed by the thief. To raise a ladder, cut a
window-pane, select a valuable article, and walk out again—no, that is
not the way such things are done. All that is too plain, too simple.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“That the Jewish lamp was stolen under the direction of Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin!” exclaimed the baron.
“Yes, but he did not do it himself, as no one came from the outside.
Perhaps a servant descended from the upper floor by means of a
waterspout that I noticed when I was in the garden.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Arsène Lupin would not leave this room empty-handed.”
“Empty-handed! But he had the lamp.”
“But that would not have prevented his taking that snuff-box, set with
diamonds, or that opal necklace. When he leaves anything, it is because
he can’t carry it away.”
“But the marks of the ladder outside?”
“A false scent. Placed there simply to avert suspicion.”
“And the scratches on the balustrade?”
“A farce! They were made with a piece of sandpaper. See, here are
scraps of the paper that I picked up in the garden.”
“And what about the marks made by the bottom of the ladder?”
“Counterfeit! Examine the two rectangular holes below the window, and
the two holes near the fence. They are of a similar form, but I find
that the two holes near the house are closer to each other than the two
holes near the fence. What does that fact suggest? To me, it suggested
that the four holes were made by a piece of wood prepared for the
purpose.”
“The better proof would be the piece of wood itself.”
“Here it is,” said Sholmes, “I found it in the garden, under the box of
a laurel tree.”
The baron bowed to Sholmes in recognition of his skill. Only forty
minutes had elapsed since the Englishman had entered the house, and he
had already exploded all the theories theretofore formed, and which had
been based on what appeared to be obvious and undeniable facts. But
what now appeared to be the real facts of the case rested upon a more
solid foundation, to-wit, the astute reasoning of a Herlock Sholmes.
“The accusation which you make against one of our household is a very
serious matter,” said the baroness. “Our servants have been with us a
long time and none of them would betray our trust.”
“If none of them has betrayed you, how can you explain the fact that I
received this letter on the same day and by the same mail as the letter
you wrote to me?”
He handed to the baroness the letter that he had received from Arsène
Lupin. She exclaimed, in amazement:
“Arsène Lupin! How could he know?”
“Did you tell anyone that you had written to me?”
“No one,” replied the baron. “The idea occurred to us the other evening
at the dinner-table.”
“Before the servants?”
“No, only our two children. Oh, no ... Sophie and Henriette had left
the table, hadn’t they, Suzanne?”
Madame d’Imblevalle, after a moment’s reflection, replied:
“Yes, they had gone to Mademoiselle.”
“Mademoiselle?” queried Sholmes.
“The governess, Mademoiselle Alice Demun.”
“Does she take her meals with you?”
“No. Her meals are served in her room.”
Wilson had an idea. He said:
“The letter written to my friend Herlock Sholmes was posted?”
“Of course.”
“Who posted it?”
“Dominique, who has been my valet for twenty years,” replied the baron.
“Any search in that direction would be a waste of time.”
“One never wastes his time when engaged in a search,” said Wilson,
sententiously.
This preliminary investigation now ended, and Sholmes asked permission
to retire.
At dinner, an hour later, he saw Sophie and Henriette, the two children
of the family, one was six and the other eight years of age. There was
very little conversation at the table. Sholmes responded to the
friendly advances of his hosts in such a curt manner that they were
soon reduced to silence. When the coffee was served, Sholmes swallowed
the contents of his cup, and rose to take his leave.
At that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message addressed to
Sholmes. He opened it, and read:
“You have my enthusiastic admiration. The results attained by you in so
short a time are simply marvellous. I am dismayed.
“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
Sholmes made a gesture of indignation and handed the message to the
baron, saying:
“What do you think now, monsieur? Are the walls of your house furnished
with eyes and ears?”
“I don’t understand it,” said the baron, in amazement.
“Nor do I; but I do understand that Lupin has knowledge of everything
that occurs in this house. He knows every movement, every word. There
is no doubt of it. But how does he get his information? That is the
first mystery I have to solve, and when I know that I will know
everything.”
That night, Wilson retired with the clear conscience of a man who has
performed his whole duty and thus acquired an undoubted right to sleep
and repose. So he fell asleep very quickly, and was soon enjoying the
most delightful dreams in which he pursued Lupin and captured him
single-handed; and the sensation was so vivid and exciting that it woke
him from his sleep. Someone was standing at his bedside. He seized his
revolver, and cried:
“Don’t move, Lupin, or I’ll fire.”
“The deuce! Wilson, what do you mean?”
“Oh! it is you, Sholmes. Do you want me?”
“I want to show you something. Get up.”
Sholmes led him to the window, and said:
“Look!... on the other side of the fence....”
“In the park?”
“Yes. What do you see?”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Yes, you do see something.”
“Ah! of course, a shadow ... two of them.”
“Yes, close to the fence. See, they are moving. Come, quick!”
Quickly they descended the stairs, and reached a room which opened into
the garden. Through the glass door they could see the two shadowy forms
in the same place.
“It is very strange,” said Sholmes, “but it seems to me I can hear a
noise inside the house.”
“Inside the house? Impossible! Everybody is asleep.”
“Well, listen——”
At that moment a low whistle came from the other side of the fence, and
they perceived a dim light which appeared to come from the house.
“The baron must have turned on the light in his room. It is just above
us.”
“That must have been the noise you heard,” said Wilson. “Perhaps they
are watching the fence also.”
Then there was a second whistle, softer than before.
“I don’t understand it; I don’t understand,” said Sholmes, irritably.
“No more do I,” confessed Wilson.
Sholmes turned the key, drew the bolt, and quietly opened the door. A
third whistle, louder than before, and modulated to another form. And
the noise above their heads became more pronounced. Sholmes said:
“It seems to be on the balcony outside the boudoir window.”
He put his head through the half-opened door, but immediately recoiled,
with a stifled oath. Then Wilson looked. Quite close to them there was
a ladder, the upper end of which was resting on the balcony.
“The deuce!” said Sholmes, “there is someone in the boudoir. That is
what we heard. Quick, let us remove the ladder.”
But at that instant a man slid down the ladder and ran toward the spot
where his accomplices were waiting for him outside the fence. He
carried the ladder with him. Sholmes and Wilson pursued the man and
overtook him just as he was placing the ladder against the fence. From
the other side of the fence two shots were fired.
“Wounded?” cried Sholmes.
“No,” replied Wilson.
Wilson seized the man by the body and tried to hold him, but the man
turned and plunged a knife into Wilson’s breast. He uttered a groan,
staggered and fell.
“Damnation!” muttered Sholmes, “if they have killed him I will kill
them.”
He laid Wilson on the grass and rushed toward the ladder. Too late—the
man had climbed the fence and, accompanied by his confederates, had
fled through the bushes.
“Wilson, Wilson, it is not serious, hein? Merely a scratch.”
The house door opened, and Monsieur d’Imblevalle appeared, followed by
the servants, carrying candles.
“What’s the matter?” asked the baron. “Is Monsieur Wilson wounded?”
“Oh! it’s nothing—a mere scratch,” repeated Sholmes, trying to deceive
himself.
The blood was flowing profusely, and Wilson’s face was livid. Twenty
minutes later the doctor ascertained that the point of the knife had
penetrated to within an inch and a half of the heart.
“An inch and a half of the heart! Wilson always was lucky!” said
Sholmes, in an envious tone.
“Lucky ... lucky....” muttered the doctor.
“Of course! Why, with his robust constitution he will soon be out
again.”
“Six weeks in bed and two months of convalescence.”
“Not more?”
“No, unless complications set in.”
“Oh! the devil! what does he want complications for?”
Fully reassured, Sholmes joined the baron in the boudoir. This time the
mysterious visitor had not exercised the same restraint. Ruthlessly, he
had laid his vicious hand upon the diamond snuff-box, upon the opal
necklace, and, in a general way, upon everything that could find a
place in the greedy pockets of an enterprising burglar.
The window was still open; one of the window-panes had been neatly cut;
and, in the morning, a summary investigation showed that the ladder
belonged to the house then in course of construction.
“Now, you can see,” said Mon. d’Imblevalle, with a touch of irony, “it
is an exact repetition of the affair of the Jewish lamp.”
“Yes, if we accept the first theory adopted by the police.”
“Haven’t you adopted it yet? Doesn’t this second theft shatter your
theory in regard to the first?”
“It only confirms it, monsieur.”
“That is incredible! You have positive evidence that last night’s theft
was committed by an outsider, and yet you adhere to your theory that
the Jewish lamp was stolen by someone in the house.”
“Yes, I am sure of it.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I do not explain anything, monsieur; I have established two facts
which do not appear to have any relation to each other, and yet I am
seeking the missing link that connects them.”
His conviction seemed to be so earnest and positive that the baron
submitted to it, and said:
“Very well, we will notify the police——”
“Not at all!” exclaimed the Englishman, quickly, “not at all! I intend
to ask for their assistance when I need it—but not before.”
“But the attack on your friend?”
“That’s of no consequence. He is only wounded. Secure the license of
the doctor. I shall be responsible for the legal side of the affair.”
The next two days proved uneventful. Yet Sholmes was investigating the
case with a minute care, and with a sense of wounded pride resulting
from that audacious theft, committed under his nose, in spite of his
presence and beyond his power to prevent it. He made a thorough
investigation of the house and garden, interviewed the servants, and
paid lengthy visits to the kitchen and stables. And, although his
efforts were fruitless, he did not despair.
“I will succeed,” he thought, “and the solution must be sought within
the walls of this house. This affair is quite different from that of
the blonde Lady, where I had to work in the dark, on unknown ground.
This time I am on the battlefield itself. The enemy is not the elusive
and invisible Lupin, but the accomplice, in flesh and blood, who lives
and moves within the confines of this house. Let me secure the
slightest clue and the game is mine!”
That clue was furnished to him by accident.
On the afternoon of the third day, when he entered a room located above
the boudoir, which served as a study for the children, he found
Henriette, the younger of the two sisters. She was looking for her
scissors.
“You know,” she said to Sholmes, “I make papers like that you received
the other evening.”
“The other evening?”
“Yes, just as dinner was over, you received a paper with marks on it
... you know, a telegram.... Well, I make them, too.”
She left the room. To anyone else these words would seem to be nothing
more than the insignificant remark of a child, and Sholmes himself
listened to them with a distracted air and continued his investigation.
But, suddenly, he ran after the child, and overtook her at the head of
the stairs. He said to her:
“So you paste stamps and marks on papers?”
Henriette, very proudly, replied:
“Yes, I cut them out and paste them on.”
“Who taught you that little game?”
“Mademoiselle ... my governess ... I have seen her do it often. She
takes words out of the newspapers and pastes them——”
“What does she make out of them?”
“Telegrams and letters that she sends away.”
Herlock Sholmes returned to the study, greatly puzzled by the
information and seeking to draw from it a logical deduction. There was
a pile of newspapers on the mantel. He opened them and found that many
words and, in some places, entire lines had been cut out. But, after
reading a few of the word’s which preceded or followed, he decided that
the missing words had been cut out at random—probably by the child. It
was possible that one of the newspapers had been cut by mademoiselle;
but how could he assure himself that such was the case?
Mechanically, Sholmes turned over the school-books on the table; then
others which were lying on the shelf of a bookcase. Suddenly he uttered
a cry of joy. In a corner of the bookcase, under a pile of old exercise
books, he found a child’s alphabet-book, in which the letters were
ornamented with pictures, and on one of the pages of that book he
discovered a place where a word had been removed. He examined it. It
was a list of the days of the week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc.
The word “Saturday” was missing. Now, the theft of the Jewish lamp had
occurred on a Saturday night.
Sholmes experienced that slight fluttering of the heart which always
announced to him, in the clearest manner, that he had discovered the
road which leads to victory. That ray of truth, that feeling of
certainty, never deceived him.
With nervous fingers he hastened to examine the balance of the book.
Very soon he made another discovery. It was a page composed of capital
letters, followed by a line of figures. Nine of those letters and three
of those figures had been carefully cut out. Sholmes made a list of the
missing letters and figures in his memorandum book, in alphabetical and
numerical order, and obtained the following result:
CDEHNOPEZ—237.
“Well? at first sight, it is a rather formidable puzzle,” he murmured,
“but, by transposing the letters and using all of them, is it possible
to form one, two or three complete words?”
Sholmes tried it, in vain.
Only one solution seemed possible; it constantly appeared before him,
no matter which way he tried to juggle the letters, until, at length,
he was satisfied it was the true solution, since it harmonized with the
logic of the facts and the general circumstances of the case.
As that page of the book did not contain any duplicate letters it was
probable, in fact quite certain, that the words he could form from
those letters would be incomplete, and that the original words had been
completed with letters taken from other pages. Under those conditions
he obtained the following solution, errors and omissions excepted:
REPOND Z—CH—237.
The first word was quite clear: répondez [reply], a letter E is missing
because it occurs twice in the word, and the book furnished only one
letter of each kind.
As to the second incomplete word, no doubt it formed, with the aid of
the number 237, an address to which the reply was to be sent. They
appointed Saturday as the time, and requested a reply to be sent to the
address CH. 237.
Or, perhaps, CH. 237 was an address for a letter to be sent to the
“general delivery” of some postoffice, or, again, they might form a
part of some incomplete word. Sholmes searched the book once more, but
did not discover that any other letters had been removed. Therefore,
until further orders, he decided to adhere to the foregoing
interpretation.
Henriette returned and observed what he was doing.
“Amusing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very amusing,” he replied. “But, have you any other papers?...
Or, rather, words already cut out that I can paste?”
“Papers?... No.... And Mademoiselle wouldn’t like it.”
“Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, she has scolded me already.”
“Why?”
“Because I have told you some things ... and she says that a person
should never tell things about those they love.”
“You are quite right.”
Henriette was delighted to receive his approbation, in fact so highly
pleased that she took from a little silk bag that was pinned to her
dress some scraps of cloth, three buttons, two cubes of sugar and,
lastly, a piece of paper which she handed to Sholmes.
“See, I give it to you just the same.”
It was the number of a cab—8,279.
“Where did this number come from?”
“It fell out of her pocketbook.”
“When?”
“Sunday, at mass, when she was taking out some sous for the
collection.”
“Exactly! And now I shall tell you how to keep from being scolded
again. Do not tell Mademoiselle that you saw me.”
Sholmes then went to Mon. d’Imblevalle and questioned him in regard to
Mademoiselle. The baron replied, indignantly:
“Alice Demun! How can you imagine such a thing? It is utterly
impossible!”
“How long has she been in your service?”
“Only a year, but there is no one in the house in whom I have greater
confidence.”
“Why have I not seen her yet?”
“She has been away for a few days.”
“But she is here now.”
“Yes; since her return she has been watching at the bedside of your
friend. She has all the qualities of a nurse ... gentle ... thoughtful
... Monsieur Wilson seems much pleased....”
“Ah!” said Sholmes, who had completely neglected to inquire about his
friend. After a moment’s reflection he asked:
“Did she go out on Sunday morning?”
“The day after the theft?”
“Yes.”
The baron called his wife and asked her. She replied:
“Mademoiselle went to the eleven o’clock mass with the children, as
usual.”
“But before that?”
“Before that? No.... Let me see!... I was so upset by the theft ... but
I remember now that, on the evening before, she asked permission to go
out on Sunday morning ... to see a cousin who was passing through
Paris, I think. But, surely, you don’t suspect her?”
“Of course not ... but I would like to see her.”
He went to Wilson’s room. A woman dressed in a gray cloth dress, as in
the hospitals, was bending over the invalid, giving him a drink. When
she turned her face Sholmes recognized her as the young girl who had
accosted him at the railway station.
Alice Demun smiled sweetly; her great serious, innocent eyes showed no
sign of embarrassment. The Englishman tried to speak, muttered a few
syllables, and stopped. Then she resumed her work, acting quite
naturally under Sholmes’ astonished gaze, moved the bottles, unrolled
and rolled cotton bandages, and again regarded Sholmes with her
charming smile of pure innocence.
He turned on his heels, descended the stairs, noticed Mon.
d’Imblevalle’s automobile in the courtyard, jumped into it, and went to
Levallois, to the office of the cab company whose address was printed
on the paper he had received from Henriette. The man who had driven
carriage number 8,279 on Sunday morning not being there, Sholmes
dismissed the automobile and waited for the man’s return. He told
Sholmes that he had picked up a woman in the vicinity of the Parc
Monceau, a young woman dressed in black, wearing a heavy veil, and,
apparently, quite nervous.
“Did she have a package?”
“Yes, quite a long package.”
“Where did you take her?”
“Avenue des Ternes, corner of the Place Saint-Ferdinand. She remained
there about ten minutes, and then returned to the Parc Monceau.”
“Could you recognize the house in the avenue des Ternes?”
“Parbleu! Shall I take you there?”
“Presently. First take me to 36 quai des Orfèvres.”
At the police office he saw Detective Ganimard.
“Monsieur Ganimard, are you at liberty?”
“If it has anything to do with Lupin—no!”
“It has something to do with Lupin.”
“Then I do not go.”
“What! you surrender——”
“I bow to the inevitable. I am tired of the unequal struggle, in which
we are sure to be defeated. Lupin is stronger than I am—stronger than
the two of us; therefore, we must surrender.”
“I will not surrender.”
“He will make you, as he has all others.”
“And you would be pleased to see it—eh, Ganimard?”
“At all events, it is true,” said Ganimard, frankly. “And since you are
determined to pursue the game, I will go with you.”
Together they entered the carriage and were driven to the avenue des
Ternes. Upon their order the carriage stopped on the other side of the
street, at some distance from the house, in front of a little café, on
the terrace of which the two men took seats amongst the shrubbery. It
was commencing to grow dark.
“Waiter,” said Sholmes, “some writing material.”
He wrote a note, recalled the waiter and gave him the letter with
instructions to deliver it to the concierge of the house which he
pointed out.
In a few minutes the concierge stood before them. Sholmes asked him if,
on the Sunday morning, he had seen a young woman dressed in black.
“In black? Yes, about nine o’clock. She went to the second floor.”
“Have you seen her often?”
“No, but for some time—well, during the last few weeks, I have seen her
almost every day.”
“And since Sunday?”
“Only once ... until to-day.”
“What! Did she come to-day?”
“She is here now.”
“Here now?”
“Yes, she came about ten minutes ago. Her carriage is standing in the
Place Saint-Ferdinand, as usual. I met her at the door.”
“Who is the occupant of the second floor?”
“There are two: a modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais, and a gentleman who
rented two furnished rooms a month ago under the name of Bresson.”
“Why do you say ‘under the name’?”
“Because I have an idea that it is an assumed name. My wife takes care
of his rooms, and ... well, there are not two shirts there with the
same initials.”
“Is he there much of the time?”
“No; he is nearly always out. He has not been here for three days.”
“Was he here on Saturday night?”
“Saturday night?... Let me think.... Yes, Saturday night, he came in
and stayed all night.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Well, I can scarcely answer that. He is so changeable. He is, by
turns, big, little, fat, thin ... dark and light. I do not always
recognize him.”
Ganimard and Sholmes exchanged looks.
“That is he, all right,” said Ganimard.
“Ah!” said the concierge, “there is the girl now.”
Mademoiselle had just emerged from the house and was walking toward her
carriage in the Place Saint-Ferdinand.
“And there is Monsieur Bresson.”
“Monsieur Bresson? Which is he?”
“The man with the parcel under his arm.”
“But he is not looking after the girl. She is going to her carriage
alone.”
“Yes, I have never seen them together.”
The two detectives had arisen. By the light of the street-lamps they
recognized the form of Arsène Lupin, who had started off in a direction
opposite to that taken by the girl.
“Which will you follow?” asked Ganimard.
“I will follow him, of course. He’s the biggest game.”
“Then I will follow the girl,” proposed Ganimard.
“No, no,” said Sholmes, quickly, who did not wish to disclose the
girl’s identity to Ganimard, “I know where to find her. Come with me.”
They followed Lupin at a safe distance, taking care to conceal
themselves as well as possible amongst the moving throng and behind the
newspaper kiosks. They found the pursuit an easy one, as he walked
steadily forward without turning to the right or left, but with a
slight limp in the right leg, so slight as to require the keen eye of a
professional observer to detect it. Ganimard observed it, and said:
“He is pretending to be lame. Ah! if we could only collect two or three
policemen and pounce on our man! We run a chance to lose him.”
But they did not meet any policemen before they reached the Porte des
Ternes, and, having passed the fortifications, there was no prospect of
receiving any assistance.
“We had better separate,” said Sholmes, “as there are so few people on
the street.”
They were now on the Boulevard Victor-Hugo. They walked one on each
side of the street, and kept well in the shadow of the trees. They
continued thus for twenty minutes, when Lupin turned to the left and
followed the Seine. Very soon they saw him descend to the edge of the
river. He remained there only a few seconds, but they could not observe
his movements. Then Lupin retraced his steps. His pursuers concealed
themselves in the shadow of a gateway. Lupin passed in front of them.
His parcel had disappeared. And as he walked away another man emerged
from the shelter of a house and glided amongst the trees.
“He seems to be following him also,” said Sholmes, in a low voice.
The pursuit continued, but was now embarrassed by the presence of the
third man. Lupin returned the same way, passed through the Porte des
Ternes, and re-entered the house in the avenue des Ternes.
The concierge was closing the house for the night when Ganimard
presented himself.
“Did you see him?”
“Yes,” replied the concierge, “I was putting out the gas on the landing
when he closed and bolted his door.”
“Is there any person with him?”
“No; he has no servant. He never eats here.”
“Is there a servants’ stairway?”
“No.”
Ganimard said to Sholmes:
“I had better stand at the door of his room while you go for the
commissary of police in the rue Demours.”
“And if he should escape during that time?” said Sholmes.
“While I am here! He can’t escape.”
“One to one, with Lupin, is not an even chance for you.”
“Well, I can’t force the door. I have no right to do that, especially
at night.”
Sholmes shrugged his shoulders and said:
“When you arrest Lupin no one will question the methods by which you
made the arrest. However, let us go up and ring, and see what happens
then.”
They ascended to the second floor. There was a double door at the left
of the landing. Ganimard rang the bell. No reply. He rang again. Still
no reply.
“Let us go in,” said Sholmes.
“All right, come on,” replied Ganimard.
Yet, they stood still, irresolute. Like people who hesitate when they
ought to accomplish a decisive action they feared to move, and it
seemed to them impossible that Arsène Lupin was there, so close to
them, on the other side of that fragile door that could be broken down
by one blow of the fist. But they knew Lupin too well to suppose that
he would allow himself to be trapped in that stupid manner. No, no—a
thousand times, no—Lupin was no longer there. Through the adjoining
houses, over the roofs, by some conveniently prepared exit, he must
have already made his escape, and, once more, it would only be Lupin’s
shadow that they would seize.
They shuddered as a slight noise, coming from the other side of the
door, reached their ears. Then they had the impression, amounting
almost to a certainty, that he was there, separated from them by that
frail wooden door, and that he was listening to them, that he could
hear them.
What was to be done? The situation was a serious one. In spite of their
vast experience as detectives, they were so nervous and excited that
they thought they could hear the beating of their own hearts. Ganimard
questioned Sholmes by a look. Then he struck the door a violent blow
with his fist. Immediately they heard the sound of footsteps,
concerning which there was no attempt at concealment.
Ganimard shook the door. Then he and Sholmes, uniting their efforts,
rushed at the door, and burst it open with their shoulders. Then they
stood still, in surprise. A shot had been fired in the adjoining room.
Another shot, and the sound of a falling body.
When they entered they saw the man lying on the floor with his face
toward the marble mantel. His revolver had fallen from his hand.
Ganimard stooped and turned the man’s head. The face was covered with
blood, which was flowing from two wounds, one in the cheek, the other
in the temple.
“You can’t recognize him for blood.”
“No matter!” said Sholmes. “It is not Lupin.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even looked at him.”
“Do you think that Arsène Lupin is the kind of a man that would kill
himself?” asked Sholmes, with a sneer.
“But we thought we recognized him outside.”
“We thought so, because the wish was father to the thought. That man
has us bewitched.”
“Then it must be one of his accomplices.”
“The accomplices of Arsène Lupin do not kill themselves.”
“Well, then, who is it?”
They searched the corpse. In one pocket Herlock Sholmes found an empty
pocketbook; in another Ganimard found several louis. There were no
marks of identification on any part of his clothing. In a trunk and two
valises they found nothing but wearing apparel. On the mantel there was
a pile of newspapers. Ganimard opened them. All of them contained
articles referring to the theft of the Jewish lamp.
An hour later, when Ganimard and Sholmes left the house, they had
acquired no further knowledge of the strange individual who had been
driven to suicide by their untimely visit.
Who was he? Why had he killed himself? What was his connection with the
affair of the Jewish lamp? Who had followed him on his return from the
river? The situation involved many complex questions—many mysteries——
Herlock Sholmes went to bed in a very bad humor. Early next morning he
received the following telephonic message:
“Arsène Lupin has the honor to inform you of his tragic death in the
person of Monsieur Bresson, and requests the honor of your presence at
the funeral service and burial, which will be held at the public
expense on Thursday, 25 June.”