Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  His portrait? How can I describe him? I have seen him twenty times and each time he was a different person; even he himself said to me on one occasion: “I no longer know who I am. I cannot recognize myself in the mirror.” Certainly, he was a great actor, and possessed a marvelous faculty for disguising himself. Without the slightest effort, he could adopt the voice, gestures and mannerisms of another person.

  “Why,” said he, “why should I retain a definite form and feature? Why not avoid the danger of a personality that is ever the same? My actions will serve to identify me.”

  Then he added, with a touch of pride:

  “So much the better if no one can ever say with absolute certainty: There is Arsène Lupin! The essential point is that the public may be able to refer to my work and say, without fear of mistake: Arsène Lupin did that!”

  Arsène Lupin in Prison

  THERE IS NO tourist worthy of the name who does not know the banks of the Seine, and has not noticed, in passing, the little feudal castle of the Malaquis, built upon a rock in the centre of the river. An arched bridge connects it with the shore. All around it, the calm waters of the great river play peacefully amongst the reeds, and the wagtails flutter over the moist crests of the stones.

  The history of the Malaquis castle is stormy like its name, harsh like its outlines. It has passed through a long series of combats, sieges, assaults, rapines and massacres. A recital of the crimes that have been committed there would cause the stoutest heart to tremble. There are many mysterious legends connected with the castle, and they tell us of a famous subterranean tunnel that formerly led to the abbey of Jumieges and to the manor of Agnes Sorel, mistress of Charles VII.

  In that ancient habitation of heroes and brigands, the Baron Nathan Cahorn now lived; or Baron Satan as he was formerly called on the Bourse, where he had acquired a fortune with incredible rapidity. The lords of Malaquis, absolutely ruined, had been obliged to sell the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an admirable collection of furniture, pictures, wood carvings, and faience. The Baron lived there alone, attended by three old servants. No one ever enters the place. No one had ever beheld the three Rubens that he possessed, his two Watteau, his Jean Goujon pulpit, and the many other treasures that he had acquired by a vast expenditure of money at public sales.

  Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the treasures that he had accumulated with such an earnest devotion and with so much perspicacity that the shrewdest merchant could not say that the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment. He loved them — his bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the court of honor are closed and barred. At the least touch on these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.

  One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal. He scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he said:

  “It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap and blouse.”

  “One can never tell,” muttered the Baron.

  The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:

  “And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new.”

  “Something new?”

  “Yes, a letter. A registered letter.”

  Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron never received any letters, and the one now presented to him immediately aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent that dared to disturb the tranquility of his retreat?

  “You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron.”

  He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper, bearing this heading: Prison de la Santé, Paris. He looked at the signature: Arsène Lupin. Then he read:

  “Monsieur le Baron:

  “There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe

  de Champaigne, of exquisite finish, which pleases me beyond

  measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as your

  smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the

  Louis XIII cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire

  gueridon signed ‘Jacob,’ and the Renaissance chest. In the salon

  to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.

  “For the present, I will content myself with those articles that

  can be conveniently removed. I will therefore ask you to pack

  them carefully and ship them to me, charges prepaid, to the

  station at Batignolles, within eight days, otherwise I shall be

  obliged to remove them myself during the night of 27 September;

  but, under those circumstances, I shall not content myself with

  the articles above mentioned.

  “Accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may cause you, and

  believe me to be your humble servant,

  “Arsène Lupin.”

  “P. S. — Please do not send the largest Watteau. Although you

  paid thirty thousand francs for it, it is only a copy, the

  original having been burned, under the Directoire by Barras,

  during a night of debauchery. Consult the memoirs of Garat.

  “I do not care for the Louis XV chatelaine, as I doubt its

  authenticity.”

  That letter completely upset the baron. Had it borne any other signature, he would have been greatly alarmed — but signed by Arsène Lupin!

  As an habitual reader of the newspapers, he was versed in the history of recent crimes, and was therefore well acquainted with the exploits of the mysterious burglar. Of course, he knew that Lupin had been arrested in America by his enemy Ganimard and was at present incarcerated in the Prison de la Santé. But he knew also that any miracle might be expected from Arsène Lupin. Moreover, that exact knowledge of the castle, the location of the pictures and furniture, gave the affair an alarming aspect. How could he have acquired that information concerning things that no one had ever seen?

  The baron raised his eyes and contemplated the stern outlines of the castle, its steep rocky pedestal, the depth of the surrounding water, and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly, there was no danger. No one in the world could force an entrance to the sanctuary that contained his priceless treasures.

  No one, perhaps, but Arsène Lupin! For him, gates, walls and drawbridges did not exist. What use were the most formidable obstacles or the most careful precautions, if Arsène Lupin had decided to effect an entrance?

  That evening, he wrote to the Procurer of the Republique at Rouen. He enclosed the threatening letter and solicited aid and protection.

  The reply came at once to the effect that Arsène Lupin was in custody in the Prison de la Santé, under close surveillance, with no opportunity to write such a letter, which was, no doubt, the work of some imposter. But, as an act of precaution, the Procurer had submitted the letter to an expert in handwriting, who declared that, in spite of certain resemblances, the writing was not that of the prisoner.

  But the words “in spite of certain resemblances” caught the attention of the baron; in them, he read the possibility of a doubt which appeared to him quite sufficient to warrant the intervention of the law. His fears increased. He read Lupin’s letter over and over again. “I shall be obliged to remove them myself.” And then there was the fixed date: the night of 27 September.

  To confide in his servants was a proceeding repugnant to his nature; but now, for the
first time in many years, he experienced the necessity of seeking counsel with some one. Abandoned by the legal official of his own district, and feeling unable to defend himself with his own resources, he was on the point of going to Paris to engage the services of a detective.

  Two days passed; on the third day, he was filled with hope and joy as he read the following item in the ‘Réveil de Caudebec’, a newspaper published in a neighboring town:

  “We have the pleasure of entertaining in our city, at the present time, the veteran detective Mon. Ganimard who acquired a world-wide reputation by his clever capture of Arsène Lupin. He has come here for rest and recreation, and, being an enthusiastic fisherman, he threatens to capture all the fish in our river.”

  Ganimard! Ah, here is the assistance desired by Baron Cahorn! Who could baffle the schemes of Arsène Lupin better than Ganimard, the patient and astute detective? He was the man for the place.

  The baron did not hesitate. The town of Caudebec was only six kilometers from the castle, a short distance to a man whose step was accelerated by the hope of safety.

  After several fruitless attempts to ascertain the detective’s address, the baron visited the office of the ‘Réveil,’ situated on the quai. There he found the writer of the article who, approaching the window, exclaimed:

  “Ganimard? Why, you are sure to see him somewhere on the quai with his fishing-pole. I met him there and chanced to read his name engraved on his rod. Ah, there he is now, under the trees.”

  “That little man, wearing a straw hat?”

  “Exactly. He is a gruff fellow, with little to say.”

  Five minutes later, the baron approached the celebrated Ganimard, introduced himself, and sought to commence a conversation, but that was a failure. Then he broached the real object of his interview, and briefly stated his case. The other listened, motionless, with his attention riveted on his fishing-rod. When the baron had finished his story, the fisherman turned, with an air of profound pity, and said:

  “Monsieur, it is not customary for thieves to warn people they are about to rob. Arsène Lupin, especially, would not commit such a folly.”

  “But—”

  “Monsieur, if I had the least doubt, believe me, the pleasure of again capturing Arsène Lupin would place me at your disposal. But, unfortunately, that young man is already under lock and key.”

  “He may have escaped.”

  “No one ever escaped from the Santé.”

  “But, he—”

  “He, no more than any other.”

  “Yet—”

  “Well, if he escapes, so much the better. I will catch him again. Meanwhile, you go home and sleep soundly. That will do for the present. You frighten the fish.”

  The conversation was ended. The baron returned to the castle, reassured to some extent by Ganimard’s indifference. He examined the bolts, watched the servants, and, during the next forty-eight hours, he became almost persuaded that his fears were groundless. Certainly, as Ganimard had said, thieves do not warn people they are about to rob.

  The fateful day was close at hand. It was now the twenty-sixth of September and nothing had happened. But at three o’clock the bell rang. A boy brought this telegram:

  “No goods at Batignolles station. Prepare everything for tomorrow night. Arsène.”

  This telegram threw the baron into such a state of excitement that he even considered the advisability of yielding to Lupin’s demands.

  However, he hastened to Caudebec. Ganimard was fishing at the same place, seated on a campstool. Without a word, he handed him the telegram.

  “Well, what of it?” said the detective.

  “What of it? But it is tomorrow.”

  “What is tomorrow?”

  “The robbery! The pillage of my collections!”

  Ganimard laid down his fishing-rod, turned to the baron, and exclaimed, in a tone of impatience:

  “Ah! Do you think I am going to bother myself about such a silly story as that!”

  “How much do you ask to pass tomorrow night in the castle?”

  “Not a sou. Now, leave me alone.”

  “Name your own price. I am rich and can pay it.”

  This offer disconcerted Ganimard, who replied, calmly:

  “I am here on a vacation. I have no right to undertake such work.”

  “No one will know. I promise to keep it secret.”

  “Oh! nothing will happen.”

  “Come! three thousand francs. Will that be enough?”

  The detective, after a moment’s reflection, said:

  “Very well. But I must warn you that you are throwing your money out of the window.”

  “I do not care.”

  “In that case... but, after all, what do we know about this devil Lupin! He may have quite a numerous band of robbers with him. Are you sure of your servants?”

  “My faith—”

  “Better not count on them. I will telegraph for two of my men to help me. And now, go! It is better for us not to be seen together. Tomorrow evening about nine o’clock.”

  The following day — the date fixed by Arsène Lupin — Baron Cahorn arranged all his panoply of war, furbished his weapons, and, like a sentinel, paced to and fro in front of the castle. He saw nothing, heard nothing. At half-past eight o’clock in the evening, he dismissed his servants. They occupied rooms in a wing of the building, in a retired spot, well removed from the main portion of the castle. Shortly thereafter, the baron heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Ganimard and his two assistants — great, powerful fellows with immense hands, and necks like bulls. After asking a few questions relating to the location of the various entrances and rooms, Ganimard carefully closed and barricaded all the doors and windows through which one could gain access to the threatened rooms. He inspected the walls, raised the tapestries, and finally installed his assistants in the central gallery which was located between the two salons.

  “No nonsense! We are not here to sleep. At the slightest sound, open the windows of the court and call me. Pay attention also to the water-side. Ten metres of perpendicular rock is no obstacle to those devils.”

  Ganimard locked his assistants in the gallery, carried away the keys, and said to the baron:

  “And now, to our post.”

  He had chosen for himself a small room located in the thick outer wall, between the two principal doors, and which, in former years, had been the watchman’s quarters. A peep-hole opened upon the bridge; another on the court. In one corner, there was an opening to a tunnel.

  “I believe you told me, Monsieur le Baron, that this tunnel is the only subterranean entrance to the castle and that it has been closed up for time immemorial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, unless there is some other entrance, known only to Arsène Lupin, we are quite safe.”

  He placed three chairs together, stretched himself upon them, lighted his pipe and sighed:

  “Really, Monsieur le Baron, I feel ashamed to accept your money for such a sinecure as this. I will tell the story to my friend Lupin. He will enjoy it immensely.”

  The baron did not laugh. He was anxiously listening, but heard nothing save the beating of his own heart. From time to time, he leaned over the tunnel and cast a fearful eye into its depths. He heard the clock strike eleven, twelve, one.

  Suddenly, he seized Ganimard’s arm. The latter leaped up, awakened from his sleep.

  “Do you hear?” asked the baron, in a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “I was snoring, I suppose.”

  “No, no, listen.”

  “Ah! yes, it is the horn of an automobile.”

  “Well?”

  “Well! it is very improbable that Lupin would use an automobile like a battering-ram to demolish your castle. Come, Monsieur le Baron, return to your post. I am going to sleep. Good-night.”

  That was the only alarm. Ganimard resumed his interrupted slumbers, and the baron heard not
hing except the regular snoring of his companion. At break of day, they left the room. The castle was enveloped in a profound calm; it was a peaceful dawn on the bosom of a tranquil river. They mounted the stairs, Cahorn radiant with joy, Ganimard calm as usual. They heard no sound; they saw nothing to arouse suspicion.

  “What did I tell you, Monsieur le Baron? Really, I should not have accepted your offer. I am ashamed.”

  He unlocked the door and entered the gallery. Upon two chairs, with drooping heads and pendent arms, the detective’s two assistants were asleep.

  “Tonnerre de nom d’un chien!” exclaimed Ganimard. At the same moment, the baron cried out:

  “The pictures! The credence!”

  He stammered, choked, with arms outstretched toward the empty places, toward the denuded walls where naught remained but the useless nails and cords. The Watteau, disappeared! The Rubens, carried away! The tapestries taken down! The cabinets, despoiled of their jewels!

  “And my Louis XVI candelabra! And the Regent chandelier!...And my twelfth-century Virgin!”

  He ran from one spot to another in wildest despair. He recalled the purchase price of each article, added up the figures, counted his losses, pell-mell, in confused words and unfinished phrases. He stamped with rage; he groaned with grief. He acted like a ruined man whose only hope is suicide.

  If anything could have consoled him, it would have been the stupefaction displayed by Ganimard. The famous detective did not move. He appeared to be petrified; he examined the room in a listless manner. The windows?.... closed. The locks on the doors?.... intact. Not a break in the ceiling; not a hole in the floor. Everything was in perfect order. The theft had been carried out methodically, according to a logical and inexorable plan.