THE SHIPWRECK.
“That’s what I don’t like, Wilson,” said Herlock Sholmes, after he had
read Arsène Lupin’s message; “that is what exasperates me in this
affair—to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me
everywhere. He sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my inmost
thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. Ah! he is possessed
of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive
woman, yes, surpassing even that of Herlock Sholmes himself. Nothing
escapes him. I resemble an actor whose every step and movement are
directed by a stage-manager; who says this and does that in obedience
to a superior will. That is my position. Do you understand, Wilson?”
Certainly Wilson would have understood if his faculties had not been
deadened by the profound slumber of a man whose temperature varies
between one hundred and one hundred and three degrees. But whether he
heard or not was a matter of no consequence to Herlock Sholmes, who
continued:
“I have to concentrate all my energy and bring all my resources into
action in order to make the slightest progress. And, fortunately for
me, those petty annoyances are like so many pricks from a needle and
serve only to stimulate me. As soon as the heat of the wound is
appeased and the shock to my vanity has subsided I say to myself:
‘Amuse yourself, my dear fellow, but remember that he who laughs last
laughs best. Sooner or later you will betray yourself.’ For you know,
Wilson, it was Lupin himself, who, by his first dispatch and the
observation that it suggested to little Henriette, disclosed to me the
secret of his correspondence with Alice Hemun. Have you forgotten that
circumstance, dear boy?”
But Wilson was asleep; and Sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his
speech:
“And, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps,
but the light is creeping in. In the first place, I must learn all
about Monsieur Bresson. Ganimard and I will visit the bank of the
river, at the spot where Bresson threw away the package, and the
particular rôle of that gentleman will be known to me. After that the
game will be played between me and Alice Demun. Rather a light-weight
opponent, hein, Wilson? And do you not think that I will soon know the
phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and
what the isolated letters—the ‘C’ and the ‘H’—mean? That is all I want
to know, Wilson.”
Mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing Sholmes
gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner:
“Monsieur Sholmes, I must scold you if you waken my patient. It isn’t
nice of you to disturb him. The doctor has ordered absolute rest.”
He looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at
her wonderful self-possession.
“Why do you look at me so, Monsieur Sholmes?... You seem to be trying
to read my thoughts.... No?... Then what is it?”
She questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face
and in her frank blue eyes. A smile played upon her lips; and she
displayed so much unaffected candor that the Englishman almost lost his
temper. He approached her and said, in a low voice:
“Bresson killed himself last night.”
She affected not to understand him; so he repeated:
“Bresson killed himself yesterday....”
She did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did
not concern or interest her in any way.
“You have been informed,” said Sholmes, displaying his annoyance.
“Otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. Ah! you
are stronger than I expected. But what’s the use of your trying to
conceal anything from me?”
He picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient
table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said:
“Will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be
arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent
to Bresson four days before the theft of the Jewish lamp?”
“The order?... Bresson?... the theft of the Jewish lamp?”
She repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. He
continued:
“Yes. Here are the letters employed ... on this bit of paper.... What
did you say to Bresson?”
“The letters employed ... what did I say....”
Suddenly she burst into laughter:
“Ah! that is it! I understand! I am an accomplice in the crime! There
is a Monsieur Bresson who stole the Jewish lamp and who has now
committed suicide. And I am the friend of that gentleman. Oh! how
absurd you are!”
“Whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in
the avenue des Ternes?”
“Who? My modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais. Do you suppose that my modiste
and my friend Monsieur Bresson are the same person?”
Despite all he knew, Sholmes was now in doubt. A person can feign
terror, joy, anxiety, in fact all emotions; but a person cannot feign
absolute indifference or light, careless laughter. Yet he continued to
question her:
“Why did you accost me the other evening at the Northern Railway
station? And why did you entreat me to leave Paris immediately without
investigating this theft?”
“Ah! you are too inquisitive, Monsieur Sholmes,” she replied, still
laughing in the most natural manner. “To punish you I will tell you
nothing, and, besides, you must watch the patient while I go to the
pharmacy on an urgent message. Au revoir.”
She left the room.
“I am beaten ... by a girl,” muttered Sholmes. “Not only did I get
nothing out of her but I exposed my hand and put her on her guard.”
And he recalled the affair of the blue diamond and his first interview
with Clotilde Destange. Had not the blonde Lady met his question with
the same unruffled serenity, and was he not once more face to face with
one of those creatures who, under the protection and influence of
Arsène Lupin, maintain the utmost coolness in the face of a terrible
danger?
“Sholmes ... Sholmes....”
It was Wilson who called him. Sholmes approached the bed, and, leaning
over, said:
“What’s the matter, Wilson? Does your wound pain you?”
Wilson’s lips moved, but he could not speak. At last, with a great
effort, he stammered:
“No ... Sholmes ... it is not she ... that is impossible——”
“Come, Wilson, what do you know about it? I tell you that it is she! It
is only when I meet one of Lupin’s creatures, prepared and instructed
by him, that I lose my head and make a fool of myself.... I bet you
that within an hour Lupin will know all about our interview. Within an
hour? What am I saying?... Why, he may know already. The visit to the
pharmacy ... urgent message. All nonsense!... She has gone to telephone
to Lupin.”
Sholmes left the house hurriedly, went down the avenue de Messine, and
was just in time to see Mademoiselle enter a pharmacy. Ten minutes
later she emerged from the shop carrying some small packages and a
bottle wrapped in white paper. But she had not proceeded far, when she
was accosted by a man who, with hat in hand and an obsequious air,
appeared to be asking for charity. She stopped, gave him something, and
proceeded on her way.
“She spoke to him,” said the Englishman to himself.
If not a certainty, it was at least an intuition, and quite sufficient
to cause him to change his tactics. Leaving the girl to pursue her own
course, he followed the suspected mendicant, who walked slowly to the
avenue des Ternes and lingered for a long time around the house in
which Bresson had lived, sometimes raising his eyes to the windows of
the second floor and watching the people who entered the house.
At the end of an hour he climbed to the top of a tramcar going in the
direction of Neuilly. Sholmes followed and took a seat behind the man,
and beside a gentleman who was concealed behind the pages of a
newspaper. At the fortifications the gentleman lowered the paper, and
Sholmes recognized Ganimard, who thereupon whispered, as he pointed to
the man in front:
“It is the man who followed Bresson last night. He has been watching
the house for an hour.”
“Anything new in regard to Bresson?” asked Sholmes.
“Yes, a letter came to his address this morning.”
“This morning? Then it was posted yesterday before the sender could
know of Bresson’s death.”
“Exactly. It is now in the possession of the examining magistrate. But
I read it. It says: _He will not accept any compromise. He wants
everything—the first thing as well as those of the second affair.
Otherwise he will proceed._”
“There is no signature,” added Ganimard. “It seems to me those few
lines won’t help us much.”
“I don’t agree with you, Monsieur Ganimard. To me those few lines are
very interesting.”
“Why so? I can’t see it.”
“For reasons that are personal to me,” replied Sholmes, with the
indifference that he frequently displayed toward his colleague.
The tramcar stopped at the rue de Château, which was the terminus. The
man descended and walked away quietly. Sholmes followed at so short a
distance that Ganimard protested, saying:
“If he should turn around he will suspect us.”
“He will not turn around.”
“How do you know?”
“He is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin, and the fact that he walks in
that manner, with his hands in his pockets, proves, in the first place,
that he knows he is being followed and, in the second place, that he is
not afraid.”
“But I think we are keeping too close to him.”
“Not too close to prevent his slipping through our fingers. He is too
sure of himself.”
“Ah! Look there! In front of that café there are two of the bicycle
police. If I summon them to our assistance, how can the man slip
through our fingers?”
“Well, our friend doesn’t seem to be worried about it. In fact, he is
asking for their assistance himself.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Ganimard, “he has a nerve.”
The man approached the two policemen just as they were mounting their
bicycles. After a few words with them he leaped on a third bicycle,
which was leaning against the wall of the café, and rode away at a fast
pace, accompanied by the two policemen.
“Hein! one, two, three and away!” growled Sholmes. “And through whose
agency, Monsieur Ganimard? Two of your colleagues.... Ah! but Arsène
Lupin has a wonderful organization! Bicycle policemen in his
service!... I told you our man was too calm, too sure of himself.”
“Well, then,” said Ganimard, quite vexed, “what are we to do now? It is
easy enough to laugh! Anyone can do that.”
“Come, come, don’t lose your temper! We will get our revenge. But, in
the meantime, we need reinforcements.”
“Folenfant is waiting for me at the end of the avenue de Neuilly.”
“Well, go and get him and join me later. I will follow our fugitive.”
Sholmes followed the bicycle tracks, which were plainly visible in the
dust of the road as two of the machines were furnished with striated
tires. Very soon he ascertained that the tracks were leading him to the
edge of the Seine, and that the three men had turned in the direction
taken by Bresson on the preceding evening. Thus he arrived at the
gateway where he and Ganimard had concealed themselves, and, a little
farther on, he discovered a mingling of the bicycle tracks which showed
that the men had halted at that spot. Directly opposite there was a
little point of land which projected into the river and, at the
extremity thereof, an old boat was moored.
It was there that Bresson had thrown away the package, or, rather, had
dropped it. Sholmes descended the bank and saw that the declivity was
not steep and the water quite shallow, so it would be quite easy to
recover the package, provided the three men had not forestalled him.
“No, that can’t be,” he thought, “they have not had time. A quarter of
an hour at the most. And yet, why did they come this way?”
A fisherman was seated on the old boat. Sholmes asked him:
“Did you see three men on bicycles a few minutes ago?”
The fisherman made a negative gesture. But Sholmes insisted:
“Three men who stopped on the road just on top of the bank?”
The fisherman rested his pole under his arm, took a memorandum book
from his pocket, wrote on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it
to Sholmes. The Englishman gave a start of surprise. In the middle of
the paper which he held in his hand he saw the series of letters cut
from the alphabet-book:
CDEHNOPRZEO—237.
The man resumed his fishing, sheltered from the sun by a large straw
hat, with his coat and vest lying beside him. He was intently watching
the cork attached to his line as it floated on the surface of the
water.
There was a moment of silence—solemn and terrible.
“Is it he?” conjectured Sholmes, with an anxiety that was almost
pitiful. Then the truth burst upon him:
“It is he! It is he! No one else could remain there so calmly, without
the slightest display of anxiety, without the least fear of what might
happen. And who else would know the story of those mysterious letters?
Alice had warned him by means of her messenger.”
Suddenly the Englishman felt that his hand—that his own hand had
involuntarily seized the handle of his revolver, and that his eyes were
fixed on the man’s back, a little below the neck. One movement, and the
drama would be finished; the life of the strange adventurer would come
to a miserable end.
The fisherman did not stir.
Sholmes nervously toyed with his revolver, and experienced a wild
desire to fire it and end everything; but the horror of such an act was
repugnant to his nature. Death would be certain and would end all.
“Ah!” he thought, “let him get up and defend himself. If he doesn’t, so
much the worse for him. One second more ... and I fire....”
But a sound of footsteps behind him caused him to turn his head. It was
Ganimard coming with some assistants.
Then, quickly changing his plans, Sholmes leaped into the boat, which
was broken from its moorings by his sudden action; he pounced upon the
man and seized him around the body. They rolled to the bottom of the
boat together.
“Well, now!” exclaimed Lupin, struggling to free himself, “what does
this mean? When one of us has conquered the other, what good will it
do? You will not know what to do with me, nor I with you. We will
remain here like two idiots.”
The two oars slipped into the water. The boat drifted into the stream.
“Good Lord, what a fuss you make! A man of your age ought to know
better! You act like a child.”
Lupin succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of the detective,
who, thoroughly exasperated and ready to kill, put his hand in his
pocket. He uttered an oath: Lupin had taken his revolver. Then he knelt
down and tried to capture one of the lost oars in order to regain the
shore, while Lupin was trying to capture the other oar in order to
drive the boat down the river.
“It’s gone! I can’t reach it,” said Lupin. “But it’s of no consequence.
If you get your oar I can prevent your using it. And you could do the
same to me. But, you see, that is the way in this world, we act without
any purpose or reason, as our efforts are in vain since Fate decides
everything. Now, don’t you see, Fate is on the side of his friend
Lupin. The game is mine! The current favors me!”
The boat was slowly drifting down the river.
“Look out!” cried Lupin, quickly.
Someone on the bank was pointing a revolver. Lupin stooped, a shot was
fired; it struck the water beyond the boat. Lupin burst into laughter.
“God bless me! It’s my friend Ganimard! But it was very wrong of you to
do that, Ganimard. You have no right to shoot except in self-defense.
Does poor Lupin worry you so much that you forget yourself?... Now, be
good, and don’t shoot again!... If you do you will hit our English
friend.”
He stood behind Sholmes, facing Ganimard, and said:
“Now, Ganimard, I am ready! Aim for his heart!... Higher!... A little
to the left.... Ah! you missed that time ... deuced bad shot.... Try
again.... Your hand shakes, Ganimard.... Now, once more ... one, two,
three, fire!... Missed!... Parbleu! the authorities furnish you with
toy-pistols.”
Lupin drew a long revolver and fired without taking aim. Ganimard put
his hand to his hat: the bullet had passed through it.
“What do you think of that, Ganimard! Ah! that’s a real revolver! A
genuine English bulldog. It belongs to my friend, Herlock Sholmes.”
And, with a laugh, he threw the revolver to the shore, where it landed
at Ganimard’s feet.
Sholmes could not withhold a smile of admiration. What a torrent of
youthful spirits! And how he seemed to enjoy himself! It appeared as if
the sensation of peril caused him a physical pleasure; and this
extraordinary man had no other purpose in life than to seek for dangers
simply for the amusement it afforded him in avoiding them.
Many people had now gathered on the banks of the river, and Ganimard
and his men followed the boat as it slowly floated down the stream.
Lupin’s capture was a mathematical certainty.
“Confess, old fellow,” said Lupin, turning to the Englishman, “that you
would not exchange your present position for all the gold in the
Transvaal! You are now in the first row of the orchestra chairs! But,
in the first place, we must have the prologue ... after which we can
leap, at one bound, to the fifth act of the drama, which will represent
the capture or escape of Arsène Lupin. Therefore, I am going to ask you
a plain question, to which I request a plain answer—a simple yes or no.
Will you renounce this affair? At present I can repair the damage you
have done; later it will be beyond my power. Is it a bargain?”
“No.”
Lupin’s face showed his disappointment and annoyance. He continued:
“I insist. More for your sake than my own, I insist, because I am
certain you will be the first to regret your intervention. For the last
time, yes or no?”
“No.”
Lupin stooped down, removed one of the boards in the bottom of the
boat, and, for some minutes, was engaged in a work the nature of which
Sholmes could not discern. Then he arose, seated himself beside the
Englishman, and said:
“I believe, monsieur, that we came to the river to-day for the same
purpose: to recover the object which Bresson threw away. For my part I
had invited a few friends to join me here, and I was on the point of
making an examination of the bed of the river when my friends announced
your approach. I confess that the news did not surprise me, as I have
been notified every hour concerning the progress of your investigation.
That was an easy matter. Whenever anything occurred in the rue Murillo
that might interest me, simply a ring on the telephone and I was
informed.”
He stopped. The board that he had displaced in the bottom of the boat
was rising and water was working into the boat all around it.
“The deuce! I didn’t know how to fix it. I was afraid this old boat
would leak. You are not afraid, monsieur?”
Sholmes shrugged his shoulders. Lupin continued:
“You will understand then, in those circumstances, and knowing in
advance that you would be more eager to seek a battle than I would be
to avoid it, I assure you I was not entirely displeased to enter into a
contest of which the issue is quite certain, since I hold all the trump
cards in my hand. And I desired that our meeting should be given the
widest publicity in order that your defeat may be universally known, so
that another Countess de Crozon or another Baron d’Imblevalle may not
be tempted to solicit your aid against me. Besides, my dear monsieur—”
He stopped again and, using his half-closed hands as a lorgnette, he
scanned the banks of the river.
“Mon Dieu! they have chartered a superb boat, a real war-vessel, and
see how they are rowing. In five minutes they will be along-side, and I
am lost. Monsieur Sholmes, a word of advice; you seize me, bind me and
deliver me to the officers of the law. Does that programme please
you?... Unless, in the meantime, we are shipwrecked, in which event we
can do nothing but prepare our wills. What do you think?”
They exchanged looks. Sholmes now understood Lupin’s scheme: he had
scuttled the boat. And the water was rising. It had reached the soles
of their boots. Then it covered their feet; but they did not move. It
was half-way to their knees. The Englishman took out his tobacco,
rolled a cigarette, and lighted it. Lupin continued to talk:
“But do not regard that offer as a confession of my weakness. I
surrender to you in a battle in which I can achieve a victory in order
to avoid a struggle upon a field not of my own choosing. In so doing I
recognize the fact that Sholmes is the only enemy I fear, and announce
my anxiety that Sholmes will not be diverted from my track. I take this
opportunity to tell you these things since fate has accorded me the
honor of a conversation with you. I have only one regret; it is that
our conversation should have occurred while we are taking a foot-bath
... a situation that is lacking in dignity, I must confess.... What did
I say? A foot-bath? It is worse than that.”
The water had reached the board on which they were sitting, and the
boat was gradually sinking.
Sholmes, smoking his cigarette, appeared to be calmly admiring the
scenery. For nothing in the world, while face to face with that man
who, while threatened by dangers, surrounded by a crowd, followed by a
posse of police, maintained his equanimity and good humor, for nothing
in the world would he, Sholmes, display the slightest sign of
nervousness.
Each of them looked as if he might say: Should a person be disturbed by
such trifles? Are not people drowned in a river every day? Is it such
an unusual event as to deserve special attention? One chatted, whilst
the other dreamed; both concealing their wounded pride beneath a mask
of indifference.
One minute more and the boat will sink. Lupin continued his chatter:
“The important thing to know is whether we will sink before or after
the arrival of the champions of the law. That is the main question. As
to our shipwreck, that is a foregone conclusion. Now, monsieur, the
hour has come in which we must make our wills. I give, devise and
bequeath all my property to Herlock Sholmes, a citizen of England, for
his own use and benefit. But, mon Dieu, how quickly the champions of
the law are approaching! Ah! the brave fellows! It is a pleasure to
watch them. Observe the precision of the oars! Ah! is it you, Brigadier
Folenfant? Bravo! The idea of a war-vessel is an excellent one. I
commend you to your superiors, Brigadier Folenfant.... Do you wish a
medal? You shall have it. And your comrade Dieuzy, where is he?... Ah!
yes, I think I see him on the left bank of the river at the head of a
hundred natives. So that, if I escape shipwreck, I shall be captured on
the left by Dieuzy and his natives, or, on the right, by Ganimard and
the populace of Neuilly. An embarrassing dilemma!”
The boat entered an eddy; it swung around and Sholmes caught hold of
the oarlocks. Lupin said to him:
“Monsieur, you should remove your coat. You will find it easier to swim
without a coat. No? You refuse? Then I shall put on my own.”
He donned his coat, buttoned it closely, the same as Sholmes, and said:
“What a discourteous man you are! And what a pity that you should be so
stubborn in this affair, in which, of course, you display your
strength, but, oh! so vainly! really, you mar your genius——”
“Monsieur Lupin,” interrupted Sholmes, emerging from his silence, “you
talk too much, and you frequently err through excess of confidence and
through your frivolity.”
“That is a severe reproach.”
“Thus, without knowing it, you furnished me, only a moment ago, with
the information I required.”
“What! you required some information and you didn’t tell me?”
“I had no occasion to ask you for it—you volunteered it. Within three
hours I can deliver the key of the mystery to Monsieur d’Imblevalle.
That is the only reply——”
He did not finish the sentence. The boat suddenly sank, taking both of
the men down with it. It emerged immediately, with its keel in the air.
Shouts were heard on either bank, succeeded by an anxious moment of
silence. Then the shouts were renewed: one of the shipwrecked party had
come to the surface.
It was Herlock Sholmes. He was an excellent swimmer, and struck out,
with powerful strokes, for Folenfant’s boat.
“Courage, Monsieur Sholmes,” shouted Folenfant; “we are here. Keep it
up ... we will get you ... a little more, Monsieur Sholmes ... catch
the rope.”
The Englishman seized the rope they had thrown to him. But, while they
were hauling him into the boat, he heard a voice behind him, saying:
“The key of the mystery, monsieur, yes, you shall have it. I am
astonished that you haven’t got it already. What then? What good will
it do you? By that time you will have lost the battle....”
Now comfortably installed astride the keel of the boat, Lupin continued
his speech with solemn gestures, as if he hoped to convince his
adversary.
“You must understand, my dear Sholmes, there is nothing to be done,
absolutely nothing. You find yourself in the deplorable position of a
gentleman——”
“Surrender, Lupin!” shouted Folenfant.
“You are an ill-bred fellow, Folenfant, to interrupt me in the middle
of a sentence. I was saying——”
“Surrender, Lupin!”
“Oh! parbleu! Brigadier Folenfant, a man surrenders only when he is in
danger. Surely, you do not pretend to say that I am in any danger.”
“For the last time, Lupin, I call on you to surrender.”
“Brigadier Folenfant, you have no intention of killing me; you may wish
to wound me since you are afraid I may escape. But if by chance the
wound prove mortal? Just think of your remorse! It would embitter your
old age.”
The shot was fired.
Lupin staggered, clutched at the keel of the boat for a moment, then
let go and disappeared.
It was exactly three o’clock when the foregoing events transpired.
Precisely at six o’clock, as he had foretold, Herlock Sholmes, dressed
in trousers that were too short and a coat that was too small, which he
had borrowed from an innkeeper at Neuilly, wearing a cap and a flannel
shirt, entered the boudoir in the Rue Murillo, after having sent word
to Monsieur and Madame d’Imblevalle that he desired an interview.
They found him walking up and down the room. And he looked so ludicrous
in his strange costume that they could scarcely suppress their mirth.
With pensive air and stooped shoulders, he walked like an automaton
from the window to the door and from the door to the window, taking
each time the same number of steps, and turning each time in the same
manner.
He stopped, picked up a small ornament, examined it mechanically, and
resumed his walk. At last, planting himself before them, he asked:
“Is Mademoiselle here?”
“Yes, she is in the garden with the children.”
“I wish Mademoiselle to be present at this interview.”
“Is it necessary——”
“Have a little patience, monsieur. From the facts I am going to present
to you, you will see the necessity for her presence here.”
“Very well. Suzanne, will you call her?”
Madame d’Imblevalle arose, went out, and returned almost immediately,
accompanied by Alice Demun. Mademoiselle, who was a trifle paler than
usual, remained standing, leaning against a table, and without even
asking why she had been called. Sholmes did not look at her, but,
suddenly turning toward Monsieur d’Imblevalle, he said, in a tone which
did not admit of a reply:
“After several days’ investigation, monsieur, I must repeat what I told
you when I first came here: the Jewish lamp was stolen by some one
living in the house.”
“The name of the guilty party?”
“I know it.”
“Your proof?”
“I have sufficient to establish that fact.”
“But we require more than that. We desire the restoration of the stolen
goods.”
“The Jewish lamp? It is in my possession.”
“The opal necklace? The snuff-box?”
“The opal necklace, the snuff-box, and all the goods stolen on the
second occasion are in my possession.”
Sholmes delighted in these dramatic dialogues, and it pleased him to
announce his victories in that curt manner. The baron and his wife were
amazed, and looked at Sholmes with a silent curiosity, which was the
highest praise.
He related to them, very minutely, what he had done during those three
days. He told of his discovery of the alphabet book, wrote upon a sheet
of paper the sentence formed by the missing letters, then related the
journey of Bresson to the bank of the river and the suicide of the
adventurer, and, finally, his struggle with Lupin, the shipwreck, and
the disappearance of Lupin. When he had finished, the baron said, in a
low voice:
“Now, you have told us everything except the name of the guilty party.
Whom do you accuse?”
“I accuse the person who cut the letters from the alphabet book, and
communicated with Arsène Lupin by means of those letters.”
“How do you know that such correspondence was carried on with Arsène
Lupin?”
“My information comes from Lupin himself.”
He produced a piece of paper that was wet and crumpled. It was the page
which Lupin had torn from his memorandum-book, and upon which he had
written the phrase.
“And you will notice,” said Sholmes, with satisfaction, “that he was
not obliged to give me that sheet of paper, and, in that way, disclose
his identity. Simple childishness on his part, and yet it gave me
exactly the information I desired.”
“What was it?” asked the baron. “I don’t understand.”
Sholmes took a pencil and made a fresh copy of the letters and figures.
“CDEHNOPRZEO—237.”
“Well?” said the baron; “it is the formula you showed me yourself.”
“No. If you had turned and returned that formula in every way, as I
have done, you would have seen at first glance that this formula is not
like the first one.”
“In what respect do they differ?”
“This one has two more letters—an E and an O.”
“Really; I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Join those two letters to the C and the H which remained after forming
the word ‘respondez,’ and you will agree with me that the only possible
word is ECHO.”
“What does that mean?”
“It refers to the _Echo de France_, Lupin’s newspaper, his official
organ, the one in which he publishes his communications. Reply in the
_Echo de France_, in the personal advertisements, under number 237.
That is the key to the mystery, and Arsène Lupin was kind enough to
furnish it to me. I went to the newspaper office.”
“What did you find there?”
“I found the entire story of the relations between Arsène Lupin and his
accomplice.”
Sholmes produced seven newspapers which he opened at the fourth page
and pointed to the following lines:
1. Ars. Lup. Lady implores protection. 540.
2. 540. Awaiting particulars. A.L.
3. A.L. Under domin. enemy. Lost.
4. 540. Write address. Will make investigation.
5. A.L. Murillo.
6. 540. Park three o’clock. Violets.
7. 237. Understand. Sat. Will be Sun. morn. park.
“And you call that the whole story!” exclaimed the baron.
“Yes, and if you will listen to me for a few minutes, I think I can
convince you. In the first place, a lady who signs herself 540 implores
the protection of Arsène Lupin, who replies by asking for particulars.
The lady replies that she is under the domination of an enemy—who is
Bresson, no doubt—and that she is lost if some one does not come to her
assistance. Lupin is suspicious and does not yet venture to appoint an
interview with the unknown woman, demands the address and proposes to
make an investigation. The lady hesitates for four days—look at the
dates—finally, under stress of circumstances and influenced by
Bresson’s threats, she gives the name of the street—Murillo. Next day,
Arsène Lupin announces that he will be in the Park Monceau at three
o’clock, and asks his unknown correspondent to wear a bouquet of
violets as a means of identification. Then there is a lapse of eight
days in the correspondence. Arsène Lupin and the lady do not require to
correspond through the newspaper now, as they see each other or write
directly. The scheme is arranged in this way: in order to satisfy
Bresson’s demands, the lady is to carry off the Jewish lamp. The date
is not yet fixed. The lady who, as a matter of prudence, corresponds by
means of letters cut out of a book, decides on Saturday and adds:
_Reply Echo 237_. Lupin replies that it is understood and that he will
be in the park on Sunday morning. Sunday morning, the theft takes
place.”
“Really, that is an excellent chain of circumstantial evidence and
every link is complete,” said the baron.
“The theft has taken place,” continued Sholmes. “The lady goes out on
Sunday morning, tells Lupin what she has done, and carries the Jewish
lamp to Bresson. Everything occurs then exactly as Lupin had foreseen.
The officers of the law, deceived by an open window, four holes in the
ground and two scratches on the balcony railing, immediately advance
the theory that the theft was committed by a burglar. The lady is
safe.”
“Yes, I confess the theory was a logical one,” said the baron. “But the
second theft—”
“The second theft was provoked by the first. The newspapers having
related how the Jewish lamp had disappeared, some one conceived the
idea of repeating the crime and carrying away what had been left. This
time, it was not a simulated theft, but a real one, a genuine burglary,
with ladders and other paraphernalia—”
“Lupin, of course—”
“No. Lupin does not act so stupidly. He doesn’t fire at people for
trifling reasons.”
“Then, who was it?”
“Bresson, no doubt, and unknown to the lady whom he had menaced. It was
Bresson who entered here; it was Bresson that I pursued; it was Bresson
who wounded poor Wilson.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“Absolutely. One of Bresson’s accomplices wrote to him yesterday,
before his suicide, a letter which proves that negotiations were
pending between this accomplice and Lupin for the restitution of all
the articles stolen from your house. Lupin demanded everything, ‘_the
first thing_ (that is, the Jewish lamp) _as well as those of the second
affair_.’ Moreover, he was watching Bresson. When the latter returned
from the river last night, one of Lupin’s men followed him as well as
we.”
“What was Bresson doing at the river?”
“Having been warned of the progress of my investigations——”
“Warned! by whom?”
“By the same lady, who justly feared that the discovery of the Jewish
lamp would lead to the discovery of her own adventure. Thereupon,
Bresson, having been warned, made into a package all the things that
could compromise him and threw them into a place where he thought he
could get them again when the danger was past. It was after his return,
tracked by Ganimard and myself, having, no doubt, other sins on his
conscience, that he lost his head and killed himself.”
“But what did the package contain?”
“The Jewish lamp and your other ornaments.”
“Then, they are not in your possession?”
“Immediately after Lupin’s disappearance, I profited by the bath he had
forced upon me, went to the spot selected by Bresson, where I found the
stolen articles wrapped in some soiled linen. They are there, on the
table.”
Without a word, the baron cut the cord, tore open the wet linen, picked
out the lamp, turned a screw in the foot, then divided the bowl of the
lamp which opened in two equal parts and there he found the golden
chimera, set with rubies and emeralds.
It was intact.
There was in that scene, so natural in appearance and which consisted
of a simple exposition of facts, something which rendered it
frightfully tragic—it was the formal, direct, irrefutable accusation
that Sholmes launched in each of his words against Mademoiselle. And it
was also the impressive silence of Alice Demun.
During that long, cruel accumulation of accusing circumstances heaped
one upon another, not a muscle of her face had moved, not a trace of
revolt or fear had marred the serenity of her limpid eyes. What were
her thoughts. And, especially, what was she going to say at the solemn
moment when it would become necessary for her to speak and defend
herself in order to break the chain of evidence that Herlock Sholmes
had so cleverly woven around her?
That moment had come, but the girl was silent.
“Speak! Speak!” cried Mon. d’Imblevalle.
She did not speak. So he insisted:
“One word will clear you. One word of denial, and I will believe you.”
That word, she would not utter.
The baron paced to and fro in his excitement; then, addressing Sholmes,
he said:
“No, monsieur, I cannot believe it, I do not believe it. There are
impossible crimes! and this is opposed to all I know and to all that I
have seen during the past year. No, I cannot believe it.”
He placed his hand on the Englishman’s shoulder, and said:
“But you yourself, monsieur, are you absolutely certain that you are
right?”
Sholmes hesitated, like a man on whom a sudden demand is made and
cannot frame an immediate reply. Then he smiled, and said:
“Only the person whom I accuse, by reason of her situation in your
house, could know that the Jewish lamp contained that magnificent
jewel.”
“I cannot believe it,” repeated the baron.
“Ask her.”
It was, really, the very thing he would not have done, blinded by the
confidence the girl had inspired in him. But he could no longer refrain
from doing it. He approached her and, looking into her eyes, said:
“Was it you, mademoiselle? Was it you who took the jewel? Was it you
who corresponded with Arsène Lupin and committed the theft?”
“It was I, monsieur,” she replied.
She did not drop her head. Her face displayed no sign of shame or fear.
“Is it possible?” murmured Mon. d’Imblevalle. “I would never have
believed it.... You are the last person in the world that I would have
suspected. How did you do it?”
“I did it exactly as Monsieur Sholmes has told it. On Saturday night I
came to the boudoir, took the lamp, and, in the morning I carried it
... to that man.”
“No,” said the baron; “what you pretend to have done is impossible.”
“Impossible—why?”
“Because, in the morning I found the door of the boudoir bolted.”
She blushed, and looked at Sholmes as if seeking his counsel. Sholmes
was astonished at her embarrassment. Had she nothing to say? Did the
confessions, which had corroborated the report that he, Sholmes, had
made concerning the theft of the Jewish lamp, merely serve to mask a
lie? Was she misleading them by a false confession?
The baron continued:
“That door was locked. I found the door exactly as I had left it the
night before. If you entered by that door, as you pretend, some one
must have opened it from the interior—that is to say, from the boudoir
or from our chamber. Now, there was no one inside these two rooms ...
there was no one except my wife and myself.”
Sholmes bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in order to
conceal his emotion. A sudden light had entered his mind, that startled
him and made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Everything was revealed to
him, like the sudden lifting of a fog from the morning landscape. He
was annoyed as well as ashamed, because his deductions were fallacious
and his entire theory was wrong.
Alice Demun was innocent!
Alice Demun was innocent. That proposition explained the embarrassment
he had experienced from the beginning in directing the terrible
accusation against that young girl. Now, he saw the truth; he knew it.
After a few seconds, he raised his head, and looked at Madame
d’Imblevalle as naturally as he could. She was pale—with that unusual
pallor which invades us in the relentless moments of our lives. Her
hands, which she endeavored to conceal, were trembling as if stricken
with palsy.
“One minute more,” thought Sholmes, “and she will betray herself.”
He placed himself between her and her husband in the desire to avert
the awful danger which, _through his fault_, now threatened that man
and woman. But, at sight of the baron, he was shocked to the very
centre of his soul. The same dreadful idea had entered the mind of
Monsieur d’Imblevalle. The same thought was at work in the brain of the
husband. He understood, also! He saw the truth!
In desperation, Alice Demun hurled herself against the implacable
truth, saying:
“You are right, monsieur. I made a mistake. I did not enter by this
door. I came through the garden and the vestibule ... by aid of a
ladder—”
It was a supreme effort of true devotion. But a useless effort! The
words rang false. The voice did not carry conviction, and the poor girl
no longer displayed those clear, fearless eyes and that natural air of
innocence which had served her so well. Now, she bowed her
head—vanquished.
The silence became painful. Madame d’Imblevalle was waiting for her
husband’s next move, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. The baron
appeared to be struggling against the dreadful suspicion, as if he
would not submit to the overthrow of his happiness. Finally, he said to
his wife:
“Speak! Explain!”
“I have nothing to tell you,” she replied, in a very low voice, and
with features drawn by anguish.
“So, then ... Mademoiselle....”
“Mademoiselle saved me ... through devotion ... through affection ...
and accused herself....”
“Saved you from what? From whom?”
“From that man.”
“Bresson?”
“Yes; it was I whom he held in fear by threats.... I met him at one of
my friends’.... and I was foolish enough to listen to him. Oh! there
was nothing that you cannot pardon. But I wrote him two letters ...
letters which you will see.... I had to buy them back ... you know
how.... Oh! have pity on me?... I have suffered so much!”
“You! You! Suzanne!”
He raised his clenched fists, ready to strike her, ready to kill her.
But he dropped his arms, and murmured:
“You, Suzanne.... You!... Is it possible?”
By short detached sentences, she related the heartrending story, her
dreadful awakening to the infamy of the man, her remorse, her fear, and
she also told of Alice’s devotion; how the young girl divined the
sorrow of her mistress, wormed a confession out of her, wrote to Lupin,
and devised the scheme of the theft in order to save her from Bresson.
“You, Suzanne, you,” repeated Monsieur d’Imblevalle, bowed with grief
and shame.... “How could you?”
On the same evening, the steamer “City of London,” which plies between
Calais and Dover, was gliding slowly over the smooth sea. The night was
dark; the wind was fainter than a zephyr. The majority of the
passengers had retired to their cabins; but a few, more intrepid, were
promenading on the deck or sleeping in large rocking-chairs, wrapped in
their travelling-rugs. One could see, here and there, the light of a
cigar, and one could hear, mingled with the soft murmur of the breeze,
the faint sound of voices which were carefully subdued to harmonize
with the deep silence of the night.
One of the passengers, who had been pacing to and fro upon the deck,
stopped before a woman who was lying on a bench, scrutinized her, and,
when she moved a little, he said:
“I thought you were asleep, Mademoiselle Alice.”
“No, Monsieur Sholmes, I am not sleepy. I was thinking.”
“Of what? If I may be so bold as to inquire?”
“I was thinking of Madame d’Imblevalle. She must be very unhappy. Her
life is ruined.”
“Oh! no, no,” he replied quickly. “Her mistake was not a serious one.
Monsieur d’Imblevalle will forgive and forget it. Why, even before we
left, his manner toward her had softened.”
“Perhaps ... but he will remember it for a long time ... and she will
suffer a great deal.”
“You love her?”
“Very much. It was my love for her that gave me strength to smile when
I was trembling from fear, that gave me courage to look in your face
when I desired to hide from your sight.”
“And you are sorry to leave her?”
“Yes, very sorry. I have no relatives, no friends—but her.”
“You will have friends,” said the Englishman, who was affected by her
sorrow. “I have promised that. I have relatives ... and some influence.
I assure you that you will have no cause to regret coming to England.”
“That may be, monsieur, but Madame d’Imblevalle will not be there.”
Herlock Sholmes resumed his promenade upon the deck. After a few
minutes, he took a seat near his travelling companion, filled his pipe,
and struck four matches in a vain effort to light it. Then, as he had
no more matches, he arose and said to a gentleman who was sitting near
him:
“May I trouble you for a match?”
The gentleman opened a box of matches and struck one. The flame lighted
up his face. Sholmes recognized him—it was Arsène Lupin.
If the Englishman had not given an almost imperceptible movement of
surprise, Lupin would have supposed that his presence on board had been
known to Sholmes, so well did he control his feelings and so natural
was the easy manner in which he extended his hand to his adversary.
“How’s the good health, Monsieur Lupin?”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Lupin, who could not repress a cry of admiration at
the Englishman’s sang-froid.
“Bravo? and why?”
“Why? Because I appear before you like a ghost, only a few hours after
you saw me drowned in the Seine; and through pride—a quality that is
essentially English—you evince not the slightest surprise. You greet me
as a matter of course. Ah! I repeat: Bravo! Admirable!”
“There is nothing remarkable about it. From the manner in which you
fell from the boat, I knew very well that you fell voluntarily, and
that the bullet had not touched you.”
“And you went away without knowing what had become of me?”
“What had become of you? Why, I knew that. There were at least five
hundred people on the two banks of the river within a space of
half-a-mile. If you escaped death, your capture was certain.”
“And yet I am here.”
“Monsieur Lupin, there are two men in the world at whom I am never
astonished: in the first place, myself—and then, Arsène Lupin.”
The treaty of peace was concluded.
If Sholmes had not been successful in his contests with Arsène Lupin;
if Lupin remained the only enemy whose capture he must never hope to
accomplish; if, in the course of their struggles, he had not always
displayed a superiority, the Englishman had, none the less, by means of
his extraordinary intuition and tenacity, succeeded in recovering the
Jewish lamp as well as the blue diamond.
This time, perhaps, the finish had not been so brilliant, especially
from the standpoint of the public spectators, since Sholmes was
obliged to maintain a discreet silence in regard to the circumstances
in which the Jewish lamp had been recovered, and to announce that he
did not know the name of the thief. But as man to man, Arsène Lupin
against Herlock Sholmes, detective against burglar, there was neither
victor nor vanquished. Each of them had won corresponding victories.
Therefore they could now converse as courteous adversaries who had lain
down their arms and held each other in high regard.
At Sholmes’ request, Arsène Lupin related the strange story of his
escape.
“If I may dignify it by calling it an escape,” he said. “It was so
simple! My friends were watching for me, as I had asked them to meet me
there to recover the Jewish lamp. So, after remaining a good half-hour
under the overturned boat, I took advantage of an occasion when
Folenfant and his men were searching for my dead body along the bank of
the river, to climb on top of the boat. Then my friends simply picked
me up as they passed by in their motor-boat, and we sailed away under
the staring eyes of an astonished multitude, including Ganimard and
Folenfant.”
“Very good,” exclaimed Sholmes, “very neatly played. And now you have
some business in England?”
“Yes, some accounts to square up.... But I forgot ... what about
Monsieur d’Imblevalle?”
“He knows everything.”
“All! my dear Sholmes, what did I tell you? The wrong is now
irreparable. Would it not have been better to have allowed me to carry
out the affair in my own way? In a day or two more, I should have
recovered the stolen goods from Bresson, restored them to Monsieur
d’Imblevalle, and those two honest citizens would have lived together
in peace and happiness ever after. Instead of that—”
“Instead of that,” said Sholmes, sneeringly, “I have mixed the cards
and sown the seeds of discord in the bosom of a family that was under
your protection.”
“Mon Dieu! of course, I was protecting them. Must a person steal, cheat
and wrong all the time?”
“Then you do good, also?”
“When I have the time. Besides, I find it amusing. Now, for instance,
in our last adventure, I found it extremely diverting that I should be
the good genius seeking to help and save unfortunate mortals, while you
were the evil genius who dispensed only despair and tears.”
“Tears! Tears!” protested Sholmes.
“Certainly! The d’Imblevalle household is demolished, and Alice Demun
weeps.”
“She could not remain any longer. Ganimard would have discovered her
some day, and, through her, reached Madame d’Imblevalle.”
“Quite right, monsieur; but whose fault is it?”
Two men passed by. Sholmes said to Lupin, in a friendly tone:
“Do you know those gentlemen?”
“I thought I recognized one of them as the captain of the steamer.”
“And the other?”
“I don’t know.”
“It is Austin Gilett, who occupies in London a position similar to that
of Monsieur Dudouis in Paris.”
“Ah! how fortunate! Will you be so kind as to introduce me? Monsieur
Dudouis is one of my best friends, and I shall be delighted to say as
much of Monsieur Austin Gilett.”
The two gentlemen passed again.
“And if I should take you at your word, Monsieur Lupin?” said Sholmes,
rising, and seizing Lupin’s wrist with a hand of iron.
“Why do you grasp me so tightly, monsieur? I am quite willing to follow
you.”
In fact, he allowed himself to be dragged along without the least
resistance. The two gentlemen were disappearing from sight. Sholmes
quickened his pace. His finger-nails even sank into Lupin’s flesh.
“Come! Come!” he exclaimed, with a sort of feverish haste, in harmony
with his action. “Come! quicker than that.”
But he stopped suddenly. Alice Demun was following them.
“What are you doing, Mademoiselle? You need not come. You must not
come!”
It was Lupin who replied:
“You will notice, monsieur, that she is not coming of her own free
will. I am holding her wrist in the same tight grasp that you have on
mine.”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to present her also. Her part in the affair of the
Jewish lamp is much more important than mine. Accomplice of Arsène
Lupin, accomplice of Bresson, she has a right to tell her adventure
with the Baroness d’Imblevalle—which will deeply interest Monsieur
Gilett as an officer of the law. And by introducing her also, you will
have carried your gracious intervention to the very limit, my dear
Sholmes.”
The Englishman released his hold on his prisoner’s wrist. Lupin
liberated Mademoiselle.
They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, silently and
motionless. Then Sholmes returned to the bench and sat down, followed
by Lupin and the girl. After a long silence, Lupin said: “You see,
monsieur, whatever we may do, we will never be on the same side. You
are on one side of the fence; I am on the other. We can exchange
greetings, shake hands, converse a moment, but the fence is always
there. You will remain Herlock Sholmes, detective, and I, Arsène Lupin,
gentleman-burglar. And Herlock Sholmes will ever obey, more or less
spontaneously, with more or less propriety, his instinct as a
detective, which is to pursue the burglar and run him down, if
possible. And Arsène Lupin, in obedience to his burglarious instinct,
will always be occupied in avoiding the reach of the detective, and
making sport of the detective, if he can do it. And, this time, he can
do it. Ha-ha-ha!”
He burst into a loud laugh, cunning, cruel and odious.
Then, suddenly becoming serious, he addressed Alice Demun:
“You may be sure, mademoiselle, even when reduced to the last
extremity, I shall not betray you. Arsène Lupin never betrays
anyone—especially those whom he loves and admires. And, may I be
permitted to say, I love and admire the brave, dear woman you have
proved yourself to be.”
He took from his pocket a visiting card, tore it in two, gave one-half
of it to the girl, as he said, in a voice shaken with emotion:
“If Monsieur Sholmes’ plans for you do not succeed, mademoiselle, go to
Lady Strongborough—you can easily find her address—and give her that
half of the card, and, at the same time, say to her: _Faithful friend_.
Lady Strongborough will show you the true devotion of a sister.”
“Thank you,” said the girl; “I shall see her to-morrow.”
“And now, Monsieur Sholmes,” exclaimed Lupin, with the satisfied air of
a gentleman who has fulfilled his duty, “I will say good-night. We will
not land for an hour yet, so I will get that much rest.”
He lay down on the bench, with his hands beneath his head.
In a short time the high cliffs of the English coast loomed up in the
increasing light of a new-born day. The passengers emerged from the
cabins and crowded the deck, eagerly gazing on the approaching shore.
Austin Gilette passed by, accompanied by two men whom Sholmes
recognized as sleuths from Scotland Yard.
Lupin was asleep, on his bench.
THE END.
_The further startling, wonderful and thrilling adventures of “Arsène
Lupin” will be found in the book entitled “Arsène Lupin
Gentleman-Burglar”._