“No fine phrases, my boy. Now, listen to me and weigh my words carefully. You will find they are worthy of your consideration. Now, Danègre, three weeks before the murder, you abstracted the cook’s key to the servants’ door, and had a duplicate key made by a locksmith named Outard, 244 rue Oberkampf.”
“It’s a lie — it’s a lie!” growled Victor. “No person has seen that key. There is no such key.”
“Here it is.”
After a silence, Grimaudan continued:
“You killed the countess with a knife purchased by you at the Bazar de la Republique on the same day as you ordered the duplicate key. It has a triangular blade with a groove running from end to end.”
“That is all nonsense. You are simply guessing at something you don’t know. No one ever saw the knife.”
“Here it is.”
Victor Danègre recoiled. The ex-inspector continued:
“There are some spots of rust upon it. Shall I tell you how they came there?”
“Well!.... you have a key and a knife. Who can prove that they belong to me?”
“The locksmith, and the clerk from whom you bought the knife. I have already refreshed their memories, and, when you confront them, they cannot fail to recognize you.”
His speech was dry and hard, with a tone of firmness and precision. Danègre was trembling with fear, and yet he struggled desperately to maintain an air of indifference.
“Is that all the evidence you have?”
“Oh! no, not at all. I have plenty more. For instance, after the crime, you went out the same way you had entered. But, in the centre of the wardrobe-room, being seized by some sudden fear, you leaned against the wall for support.”
“How do you know that? No one could know such a thing,” argued the desperate man.
“The police know nothing about it, of course. They never think of lighting a candle and examining the walls. But if they had done so, they would have found on the white plaster a faint red spot, quite distinct, however, to trace in it the imprint of your thumb which you had pressed against the wall while it was wet with blood. Now, as you are well aware, under the Bertillon system, thumb-marks are one of the principal means of identification.”
Victor Danègre was livid; great drops of perspiration rolled down his face and fell upon the table. He gazed, with a wild look, at the strange man who had narrated the story of his crime as faithfully as if he had been an invisible witness to it. Overcome and powerless, Victor bowed his head. He felt that it was useless to struggle against this marvelous man. So he said:
“How much will you give me, if I give you the pearl?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh! you are joking! Or do you mean that I should give you an article worth thousands and hundreds of thousands and get nothing in return?”
“You will get your life. Is that nothing?”
The unfortunate man shuddered. Then Grimaudan added, in a milder tone:
“Come, Danègre, that pearl has no value in your hands. It is quite impossible for you to sell it; so what is the use of your keeping it?”
“There are pawnbrokers.... and, some day, I will be able to get something for it.”
“But that day may be too late.”
“Why?”
“Because by that time you may be in the hands of the police, and, with the evidence that I can furnish — the knife, the key, the thumb-mark — what will become of you?”
Victor rested his head on his hands and reflected. He felt that he was lost, irremediably lost, and, at the same time, a sense of weariness and depression overcame him. He murmured, faintly:
“When must I give it to you?”
“To-night — within an hour.”
“If I refuse?”
“If you refuse, I shall post this letter to the Procureur of the Republic; in which letter Mademoiselle de Sinclèves denounces you as the assassin.”
Danègre poured out two glasses of wine which he drank in rapid succession, then, rising, said:
“Pay the bill, and let us go. I have had enough of the cursed affair.”
Night had fallen. The two men walked down the rue Lepic and followed the exterior boulevards in the direction of the Place de l’Etoile. They pursued their way in silence; Victor had a stooping carriage and a dejected face. When they reached the Parc Monceau, he said:
“We are near the house.”
“Parbleu! You only left the house once, before your arrest, and that was to go to the tobacco-shop.”
“Here it is,” said Danègre, in a dull voice.
They passed along the garden wall of the countess’ house, and crossed a street on a corner of which stood the tobacco-shop. A few steps further on, Danègre stopped; his limbs shook beneath him, and he sank to a bench.
“Well! what now?” demanded his companion.
“It is there.”
“Where? Come, now, no nonsense!”
“There — in front of us.”
“Where?”
“Between two paving-stones.”
“Which?”
“Look for it.”
“Which stones?”
Victor made no reply.
“Ah; I see!” exclaimed Grimaudan, “you want me to pay for the information.”
“No.... but....I am afraid I will starve to death.”
“So! that is why you hesitate. Well, I’ll not be hard on you. How much do you want?”
“Enough to buy a steerage pass to America.”
“All right.”
“And a hundred francs to keep me until I get work there.”
“You shall have two hundred. Now, speak.”
“Count the paving-stones to the right from the sewer-hole. The pearl is between the twelfth and thirteenth.”
“In the gutter?”
“Yes, close to the sidewalk.”
Grimaudan glanced around to see if anyone were looking. Some tram-cars and pedestrians were passing. But, bah, they will not suspect anything. He opened his pocketknife and thrust it between the twelfth and thirteenth stones.
“And if it is not there?” he said to Victor.
“It must be there, unless someone saw me stoop down and hide it.”
Could it be possible that the back pearl had been cast into the mud and filth of the gutter to be picked up by the first comer? The black pearl — a fortune!
“How far down?” he asked.
“About ten centimetres.”
He dug up the wet earth. The point of his knife struck something. He enlarged the hole with his finger. Then he abstracted the black pearl from its filthy hiding-place.
“Good! Here are your two hundred francs. I will send you the ticket for America.”
On the following day, this article was published in the ‘Echo de France,’ and was copied by the leading newspapers throughout the world:
“Yesterday, the famous black pearl came into the possession of
Arsène Lupin, who recovered it from the murderer of the Countess
d’Andillot. In a short time, fac-similes of that precious jewel
will be exhibited in London, St. Petersburg, Calcutta, Buenos Ayres
and New York.
“Arsène Lupin will be pleased to consider all propositions
submitted to him through his agents.”
“And that is how crime is always punished and virtue rewarded,” said Arsène Lupin, after he had told me the foregoing history of the black pearl.
“And that is how you, under the assumed name of Grimaudan, ex-inspector of detectives, were chosen by fate to deprive the criminal of the benefit of his crime.”
“Exactly. And I confess that the affair gives me infinite satisfaction and pride. The forty minutes that I passed in the apartment of the Countess d’Andillot, after learning of her death, were the most thrilling and absorbing moments of my life. In those forty minutes, involved as I was in a most dangerous plight, I calmly studied the scene of the murder and reached the conclusion that the crime mus
t have been committed by one of the house servants. I also decided that, in order to get the pearl, that servant must be arrested, and so I left the wainscoat button; it was necessary, also, for me to hold some convincing evidence of his guilt, so I carried away the knife which I found upon the floor, and the key which I found in the lock. I closed and locked the door, and erased the finger-marks from the plaster in the wardrobe-closet. In my opinion, that was one of those flashes—”
“Of genius,” I said, interrupting.
“Of genius, if you wish. But, I flatter myself, it would not have occurred to the average mortal. To frame, instantly, the two elements of the problem — an arrest and an acquittal; to make use of the formidable machinery of the law to crush and humble my victim, and reduce him to a condition in which, when free, he would be certain to fall into the trap I was laying for him!”
“Poor devil—”
“Poor devil, do you say? Victor Danègre, the assassin! He might have descended to the lowest depths of vice and crime, if he had retained the black pearl. Now, he lives! Think of that: Victor Danègre is alive!”
“And you have the black pearl.”
He took it out of one of the secret pockets of his wallet, examined it, gazed at it tenderly, and caressed it with loving fingers, and sighed, as he said:
“What cold Russian prince, what vain and foolish rajah may some day possess this priceless treasure! Or, perhaps, some American millionaire is destined to become the owner of this morsel of exquisite beauty that once adorned the fair bosom of Leontine Zalti, the Countess d’Andillot.”
Sherlock Holmes Arrives Too Late
“IT IS REALLY remarkable, Velmont, what a close resemblance you bear to Arsène Lupin!”
“How do you know?”
“Oh! like everyone else, from photographs, no two of which are alike, but each of them leaves the impression of a face.... something like yours.”
Horace Velmont displayed some vexation.
“Quite so, my dear Devanne. And, believe me, you are not the first one who has noticed it.”
“It is so striking,” persisted Devanne, “that if you had not been recommended to me by my cousin d’Estevan, and if you were not the celebrated artist whose beautiful marine views I so admire, I have no doubt I should have warned the police of your presence in Dieppe.”
This sally was greeted with an outburst of laughter. The large dining-hall of the Château de Thibermesnil contained on this occasion, besides Velmont, the following guests: Father Gélis, the parish priest, and a dozen officers whose regiments were quartered in the vicinity and who had accepted the invitation of the banker Georges Devanne and his mother. One of the officers then remarked:
“I understand that an exact description of Arsène Lupin has been furnished to all the police along this coast since his daring exploit on the Paris-Havre express.”
“I suppose so,” said Devanne. “That was three months ago; and a week later, I made the acquaintance of our friend Velmont at the casino, and, since then, he has honored me with several visits — an agreeable preamble to a more serious visit that he will pay me one of these days — or, rather, one of these nights.”
This speech evoked another round of laughter, and the guests then passed into the ancient “Hall of the Guards,” a vast room with a high ceiling, which occupied the entire lower part of the Tour Guillaume — William’s Tower — and wherein Georges Devanne had collected the incomparable treasures which the lords of Thibermesnil had accumulated through many centuries. It contained ancient chests, credences, andirons and chandeliers. The stone walls were overhung with magnificent tapestries. The deep embrasures of the four windows were furnished with benches, and the Gothic windows were composed of small panes of colored glass set in a leaden frame. Between the door and the window to the left stood an immense bookcase of Renaissance style, on the pediment of which, in letters of gold, was the word “Thibermesnil,” and, below it, the proud family device: “Fais ce que veulx” (Do what thou wishest). When the guests had lighted their cigars, Devanne resumed the conversation.
“And remember, Velmont, you have no time to lose; in fact, to-night is the last chance you will have.”
“How so?” asked the painter, who appeared to regard the affair as a joke. Devanne was about to reply, when his mother mentioned to him to keep silent, but the excitement of the occasion and a desire to interest his guests urged him to speak.
“Bah!” he murmured. “I can tell it now. It won’t do any harm.”
The guests drew closer, and he commenced to speak with the satisfied air of a man who has an important announcement to make.
“To-morrow afternoon at four o’clock, Sherlock Holmes, the famous English detective, for whom such a thing as mystery does not exist; Sherlock Holmes, the most remarkable solver of enigmas the world has ever known, that marvelous man who would seem to be the creation of a romantic novelist — Sherlock Holmes will be my guest!”
Immediately, Devanne was the target of numerous eager questions. “Is Sherlock Holmes really coming?” “Is it so serious as that?” “Is Arsène Lupin really in this neighborhood?”
“Arsène Lupin and his band are not far away. Besides the robbery of the Baron Cahorn, he is credited with the thefts at Montigny, Gruchet and Crasville.”
“Has he sent you a warning, as he did to Baron Cahorn?”
“No,” replied Devanne, “he can’t work the same trick twice.”
“What then?”
“I will show you.”
He rose, and pointing to a small empty space between the two enormous folios on one of the shelves of the bookcase, he said:
“There used to be a book there — a book of the sixteenth century entitled ‘Chronique de Thibermesnil,’ which contained the history of the castle since its construction by Duke Rollo on the site of a former feudal fortress. There were three engraved plates in the book; one of which was a general view of the whole estate; another, the plan of the buildings; and the third — I call your attention to it, particularly — the third was the sketch of a subterranean passage, an entrance to which is outside the first line of ramparts, while the other end of the passage is here, in this very room. Well, that book disappeared a month ago.”
“The deuce!” said Velmont, “that looks bad. But it doesn’t seem to be a sufficient reason for sending for Sherlock Holmes.”
“Certainly, that was not sufficient in itself, but another incident happened that gives the disappearance of the book a special significance. There was another copy of this book in the National Library at Paris, and the two books differed in certain details relating to the subterranean passage; for instance, each of them contained drawings and annotations, not printed, but written in ink and more or less effaced. I knew those facts, and I knew that the exact location of the passage could be determined only by a comparison of the two books. Now, the day after my book disappeared, the book was called for in the National Library by a reader who carried it away, and no one knows how the theft was effected.”
The guests uttered many exclamations of surprise.
“Certainly, the affair looks serious,” said one.
“Well, the police investigated the matter, and, as usual, discovered no clue whatever.”
“They never do, when Arsène Lupin is concerned in it.”
“Exactly; and so I decided to ask the assistance of Sherlock Holmes, who replied that he was ready and anxious to enter the lists with Arsène Lupin.”
“What glory for Arsène Lupin!” said Velmont. “But if our national thief, as they call him, has no evil designs on your castle, Sherlock Holmes will have his trip in vain.”
“There are other things that will interest him, such as the discovery of the subterranean passage.”
“But you told us that one end of the passage was outside the ramparts and the other was in this very room!”
“Yes, but in what part of the room? The line which represents the passage on the charts ends here, with a small circle marked with
the letters ‘T.G.,’ which no doubt stand for ‘Tour Guillaume.’ But the tower is round, and who can tell the exact spot at which the passage touches the tower?”
Devanne lighted a second cigar and poured himself a glass of Benedictine. His guests pressed him with questions and he was pleased to observe the interest that his remarks had created. The he continued:
“The secret is lost. No one knows it. The legend is to the effect that the former lords of the castle transmitted the secret from father to son on their deathbeds, until Geoffroy, the last of the race, was beheaded during the Revolution in his nineteenth year.”
“That is over a century ago. Surely, someone has looked for it since that time?”
“Yes, but they failed to find it. After I purchased the castle, I made a diligent search for it, but without success. You must remember that this tower is surrounded by water and connected with the castle only by a bridge; consequently, the passage must be underneath the old moat. The plan that was in the book in the National Library showed a series of stairs with a total of forty-eight steps, which indicates a depth of more than ten meters. You see, the mystery lies within the walls of this room, and yet I dislike to tear them down.”
“Is there nothing to show where it is?”
“Nothing.”
“Mon. Devanne, we should turn our attention to the two quotations,” suggested Father Gélis.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mon. Devanne, laughing, “our worthy father is fond of reading memoirs and delving into the musty archives of the castle. Everything relating to Thibermesnil interests him greatly. But the quotations that he mentions only serve to complicate the mystery. He has read somewhere that two kings of France have known the key to the puzzle.”
“Two kings of France! Who were they?”
“Henry the Fourth and Louis the Sixteenth. And the legend runs like this: On the eve of the battle of Arques, Henry the Fourth spent the night in this castle. At eleven o’clock in the evening, Louise de Tancarville, the prettiest woman in Normandy, was brought into the castle through the subterranean passage by Duke Edgard, who, at the same time, informed the king of the secret passage. Afterward, the king confided the secret to his minister Sully, who, in turn, relates the story in his book, “Royales Economies d’Etat,” without making any comment upon it, but linking with it this incomprehensible sentence: ‘Turn one eye on the bee that shakes, the other eye will lead to God!’”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 16
