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

by Maurice Leblanc

  She raised her eyes and looked at him as he had requested. Then, without saying a word, she pointed to a ring he was wearing on his forefinger. Only the ring was visible; but the setting, which was turned toward the palm of his hand, consisted of a magnificent ruby. Arsène Lupin blushed. The ring belonged to Georges Devanne. He smiled bitterly, and said:

  “You are right. Nothing can be changed. Arsène Lupin is now and always will be Arsène Lupin. To you, he cannot be even so much as a memory. Pardon me....I should have known that any attention I may now offer you is simply an insult. Forgive me.”

  He stepped aside, hat in hand. Nelly passed before him. He was inclined to detain her and beseech her forgiveness. But his courage failed, and he contented himself by following her with his eyes, as he had done when she descended the gangway to the pier at New York. She mounted the steps leading to the door, and disappeared within the house. He saw her no more.

  A cloud obscured the sun. Arsène Lupin stood watching the imprints of her tiny feet in the sand. Suddenly, he gave a start. Upon the box which contained the bamboo, beside which Nelly had been standing, he saw the rose, the white rose which he had desired but dared not ask for. Forgotten, no doubt — it, also! But how — designedly or through distraction? He seized it eagerly. Some of its petals fell to the ground. He picked them up, one by one, like precious relics.

  “Come!” he said to himself, “I have nothing more to do here. I must think of my safety, before Sherlock Holmes arrives.”

  The park was deserted, but some gendarmes were stationed at the park-gate. He entered a grove of pine trees, leaped over the wall, and, as a short cut to the railroad station, followed a path across the fields. After walking about ten minutes, he arrived at a spot where the road grew narrower and ran between two steep banks. In this ravine, he met a man traveling in the opposite direction. It was a man about fifty years of age, tall, smooth-shaven, and wearing clothes of a foreign cut. He carried a heavy cane, and a small satchel was strapped across his shoulder. When they met, the stranger spoke, with a slight English accent:

  “Excuse me, monsieur, is this the way to the castle?”

  “Yes, monsieur, straight ahead, and turn to the left when you come to the wall. They are expecting you.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes, my friend Devanne told us last night that you were coming, and I am delighted to be the first to welcome you. Sherlock Holmes has no more ardent admirer than.... myself.”

  There was a touch of irony in his voice that he quickly regretted, for Sherlock Holmes scrutinized him from head to foot with such a keen, penetrating eye that Arsène Lupin experienced the sensation of being seized, imprisoned and registered by that look more thoroughly and precisely than he had ever been by a camera.

  “My negative is taken now,” he thought, “and it will be useless to use a disguise with that man. He would look right through it. But, I wonder, has he recognized me?”

  They bowed to each other as if about to part. But, at that moment, they heard a sound of horses’ feet, accompanied by a clinking of steel. It was the gendarmes. The two men were obliged to draw back against the embankment, amongst the brushes, to avoid the horses. The gendarmes passed by, but, as they followed each other at a considerable distance, they were several minutes in doing so. And Lupin was thinking:

  “It all depends on that question: has he recognized me? If so, he will probably take advantage of the opportunity. It is a trying situation.”

  When the last horseman had passed, Sherlock Holmes stepped forth and brushed the dust from his clothes. Then, for a moment, he and Arsène Lupin gazed at each other; and, if a person could have seen them at that moment, it would have been an interesting sight, and memorable as the first meeting of two remarkable men, so strange, so powerfully equipped, both of superior quality, and destined by fate, through their peculiar attributes, to hurl themselves one at the other like two equal forces that nature opposes, one against the other, in the realms of space.

  Then the Englishman said: “Thank you, monsieur.”

  They parted. Lupin went toward the railway station, and Sherlock Holmes continued on his way to the castle.

  The local officers had given up the investigation after several hours of fruitless efforts, and the people at the castle were awaiting the arrival of the English detective with a lively curiosity. At first sight, they were a little disappointed on account of his commonplace appearance, which differed so greatly from the pictures they had formed of him in their own minds. He did not in any way resemble the romantic hero, the mysterious and diabolical personage that the name of Sherlock Holmes had evoked in their imaginations. However, Mon. Devanne exclaimed with much gusto:

  “Ah! monsieur, you are here! I am delighted to see you. It is a long-deferred pleasure. Really, I scarcely regret what has happened, since it affords me the opportunity to meet you. But, how did you come?”

  “By the train.”

  “But I sent my automobile to meet you at the station.”

  “An official reception, eh? with music and fireworks! Oh! no, not for me. That is not the way I do business,” grumbled the Englishman.

  This speech disconcerted Devanne, who replied, with a forced smile:

  “Fortunately, the business has been greatly simplified since I wrote to you.”

  “In what way?”

  “The robbery took place last night.”

  “If you had not announced my intended visit, it is probable the robbery would not have been committed last night.”

  “When, then?”

  “To-morrow, or some other day.”

  “And in that case?”

  “Lupin would have been trapped,” said the detective.

  “And my furniture?”

  “Would not have been carried away.”

  “Ah! but my goods are here. They were brought back at three o’clock.”

  “By Lupin.”

  “By two army-wagons.”

  Sherlock Holmes put on his cap and adjusted his satchel. Devanne exclaimed, anxiously:

  “But, monsieur, what are you going to do?”

  “I am going home.”

  “Why?”

  “Your goods have been returned; Arsène Lupin is far away — there is nothing for me to do.”

  “Yes, there is. I need your assistance. What happened yesterday, may happen again to-morrow, as we do not know how he entered, or how he escaped, or why, a few hours later, he returned the goods.”

  “Ah! you don’t know—”

  The idea of a problem to be solved quickened the interest of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Very well, let us make a search — at once — and alone, if possible.”

  Devanne understood, and conducted the Englishman to the salon. In a dry, crisp voice, in sentences that seemed to have been prepared in advance, Holmes asked a number of questions about the events of the preceding evening, and enquired also concerning the guests and the members of the household. Then he examined the two volumes of the “Chronique,” compared the plans of the subterranean passage, requested a repetition of the sentences discovered by Father Gélis, and then asked:

  “Was yesterday the first time you have spoken those two sentences to any one?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had never communicated then to Horace Velmont?”

  “No.”

  “Well, order the automobile. I must leave in an hour.”

  “In an hour?”

  “Yes; within that time, Arsène Lupin solved the problem that you placed before him.”

  “I.... placed before him—”

  “Yes, Arsène Lupin or Horace Velmont — same thing.”

  “I thought so. Ah! the scoundrel!”

  “Now, let us see,” said Holmes, “last night at ten o’clock, you furnished Lupin with the information that he lacked, and that he had been seeking for many weeks. During the night, he found time to solve the problem, collect his men, and rob the castle. I shall be quite as expeditious.”


  He walked from end to end of the room, in deep thought, then sat down, crossed his long legs and closed his eyes.

  Devanne waited, quite embarrassed. Thought he: “Is the man asleep? Or is he only meditating?” However, he left the room to give some orders, and when he returned he found the detective on his knees scrutinizing the carpet at the foot of the stairs in the gallery.

  “What is it?” he enquired.

  “Look.... there.... spots from a candle.”

  “You are right — and quite fresh.”

  “And you will also find them at the top of the stairs, and around the cabinet that Arsène Lupin broke into, and from which he took the bibelots that he afterward placed in this armchair.”

  “What do you conclude from that?”

  “Nothing. These facts would doubtless explain the cause for the restitution, but that is a side issue that I cannot wait to investigate. The main question is the secret passage. First, tell me, is there a chapel some two or three hundred metres from the castle?”

  “Yes, a ruined chapel, containing the tomb of Duke Rollo.”

  “Tell your chauffer to wait for us near that chapel.”

  “My chauffer hasn’t returned. If he had, they would have informed me. Do you think the secret passage runs to the chapel? What reason have—”

  “I would ask you, monsieur,” interrupted the detective, “to furnish me with a ladder and a lantern.”

  “What! do you require a ladder and a lantern?”

  “Certainly, or I shouldn’t have asked for them.”

  Devanne, somewhat disconcerted by this crude logic, rang the bell. The two articles were given with the sternness and precision of military commands.

  “Place the ladder against the bookcase, to the left of the word Thibermesnil.”

  Devanne placed the ladder as directed, and the Englishman continued:

  “More to the left.... to the right....There!....Now, climb up.... All the letters are in relief, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “First, turn the letter I one way or the other.”

  “Which one? There are two of them.”

  “The first one.”

  Devanne took hold of the letter, and exclaimed:

  “Ah! yes, it turns toward the right. Who told you that?”

  Sherlock Holmes did not reply to the question, but continued his directions:

  “Now, take the letter B. Move it back and forth as you would a bolt.”

  Devanne did so, and, to his great surprise, it produced a clicking sound.

  “Quite right,” said Holmes. “Now, we will go to the other end of the word Thibermesnil, try the letter I, and see if it will open like a wicket.”

  With a certain degree of solemnity, Devanne seized the letter. It opened, but Devanne fell from the ladder, for the entire section of the bookcase, lying between the first and last letters of the words, turned on a pivot and disclosed the subterranean passage.

  Sherlock Holmes said, coolly:

  “You are not hurt?”

  “No, no,” said Devanne, as he rose to his feet, “not hurt, only bewildered. I can’t understand now.... those letters turn.... the secret passage opens....”

  “Certainly. Doesn’t that agree exactly with the formula given by Sully? Turn one eye on the bee that shakes, the other eye will lead to God.”

  “But Louis the sixteenth?” asked Devanne.

  “Louis the sixteenth was a clever locksmith. I have read a book he wrote about combination locks. It was a good idea on the part of the owner of Thibermesnil to show His Majesty a clever bit of mechanism. As an aid to his memory, the king wrote: 3-4-11, that is to say, the third, fourth and eleventh letters of the word.”

  “Exactly. I understand that. It explains how Lupin got out of the room, but it does not explain how he entered. And it is certain he came from the outside.”

  Sherlock Holmes lighted his lantern, and stepped into the passage.

  “Look! All the mechanism is exposed here, like the works of a clock, and the reverse side of the letters can be reached. Lupin worked the combination from this side — that is all.”

  “What proof is there of that?”

  “Proof? Why, look at that puddle of oil. Lupin foresaw that the wheels would require oiling.”

  “Did he know about the other entrance?”

  “As well as I know it,” said Holmes. “Follow me.”

  “Into that dark passage?”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No, but are you sure you can find the way out?”

  “With my eyes closed.”

  At first, they descended twelve steps, then twelve more, and, farther on, two other flights of twelve steps each. Then they walked through a long passageway, the brick walls of which showed the marks of successive restorations, and, in spots, were dripping with water. The earth, also, was very damp.

  “We are passing under the pond,” said Devanne, somewhat nervously.

  At last, they came to a stairway of twelve steps, followed by three others of twelve steps each, which they mounted with difficulty, and then found themselves in a small cavity cut in the rock. They could go no further.

  “The deuce!” muttered Holmes, “nothing but bare walls. This is provoking.”

  “Let us go back,” said Devanne. “I have seen enough to satisfy me.”

  But the Englishman raised his eye and uttered a sigh of relief. There, he saw the same mechanism and the same word as before. He had merely to work the three letters. He did so, and a block of granite swung out of place. On the other side, this granite block formed the tombstone of Duke Rollo, and the word “Thibermesnil” was engraved on it in relief. Now, they were in the little ruined chapel, and the detective said:

  “The other eye leads to God; that means, to the chapel.”

  “It is marvelous!” exclaimed Devanne, amazed at the clairvoyance and vivacity of the Englishman. “Can it be possible that those few words were sufficient for you?”

  “Bah!” declared Holmes, “they weren’t even necessary. In the chart in the book of the National Library, the drawing terminates at the left, as you know, in a circle, and at the right, as you do not know, in a cross. Now, that cross must refer to the chapel in which we now stand.”

  Poor Devanne could not believe his ears. It was all so new, so novel to him. He exclaimed:

  “It is incredible, miraculous, and yet of a childish simplicity! How is it that no one has ever solved the mystery?”

  “Because no one has ever united the essential elements, that is to say, the two books and the two sentences. No one, but Arsène Lupin and myself.”

  “But, Father Gélis and I knew all about those things, and, likewise—”

  Holmes smiled, and said:

  “Monsieur Devanne, everybody cannot solve riddles.”

  “I have been trying for ten years to accomplish what you did in ten minutes.”

  “Bah! I am used to it.”

  They emerged from the chapel, and found an automobile.

  “Ah! there’s an auto waiting for us.”

  “Yes, it is mine,” said Devanne.

  “Yours? You said your chauffeur hadn’t returned.”

  They approached the machine, and Mon. Devanne questioned the chauffer:

  “Edouard, who gave you orders to come here?”

  “Why, it was Monsieur Velmont.”

  “Mon. Velmont? Did you meet him?”

  “Near the railway station, and he told me to come to the chapel.”

  “To come to the chapel! What for?”

  “To wait for you, monsieur, and your friend.”

  Devanne and Holmes exchanged looks, and Mon. Devanne said:

  “He knew the mystery would be a simple one for you. It is a delicate compliment.”

  A smile of satisfaction lighted up the detective’s serious features for a moment. The compliment pleased him. He shook his head, as he said:

  “A clever man! I knew that when I saw him.”

 
“Have you seen him?”

  “I met him a short time ago — on my way from the station.”

  “And you knew it was Horace Velmont — I mean, Arsène Lupin?”

  “That is right. I wonder how it came—”

  “No, but I supposed it was — from a certain ironical speech he made.”

  “And you allowed him to escape?”

  “Of course I did. And yet I had everything on my side, such as five gendarmes who passed us.”

  “Sacrableu!” cried Devanne. “You should have taken advantage of the opportunity.”

  “Really, monsieur,” said the Englishman, haughtily, “when I encounter an adversary like Arsène Lupin, I do not take advantage of chance opportunities, I create them.”

  But time pressed, and since Lupin had been so kind as to send the automobile, they resolved to profit by it. They seated themselves in the comfortable limousine; Edouard took his place at the wheel, and away they went toward the railway station. Suddenly, Devanne’s eyes fell upon a small package in one of the pockets of the carriage.

  “Ah! what is that? A package! Whose is it? Why, it is for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes, it is addressed: Sherlock Holmes, from Arsène Lupin.”

  The Englishman took the package, opened it, and found that it contained a watch.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, with an angry gesture.

  “A watch,” said Devanne. “How did it come there?”

  The detective did not reply.

  “Oh! it is your watch! Arsène Lupin returns your watch! But, in order to return it, he must have taken it. Ah! I see! He took your watch! That is a good one! Sherlock Holmes’ watch stolen by Arsène Lupin! Mon Dieu! that is funny! Really.... you must excuse me....I can’t help it.”

  He roared with laughter, unable to control himself. After which, he said, in a tone of earnest conviction:

  “A clever man, indeed!”

  The Englishman never moved a muscle. On the way to Dieppe, he never spoke a word, but fixed his gaze on the flying landscape. His silence was terrible, unfathomable, more violent than the wildest rage. At the railway station, he spoke calmly, but in a voice that impressed one with the vast energy and will power of that famous man. He said: