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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “No, no, he shall not have that million; he shall not have it! Why should he have it? Ah! clever as he is, he can do nothing. If he goes to claim the money, they will arrest him. Ah! now, we will see, my fine fellow!”

  “What will you do, father?”

  “Defend our just rights, whatever happens! And we will succeed. The million francs belong to me, and I intend to have them.”

  A few minutes later, he sent this telegram:

  “Governor Crédit Foncier

  “rue Capucines, Paris.

  “Am holder of No. 514, series 23. Oppose by all legal means any other claimant.

  “GERBOIS.”

  Almost at the same moment, the Crédit Foncier received the following telegram:

  “No. 514, series 23, is in my possession.

  “ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

  Every time I undertake to relate one of the many extraordinary adventures that mark the life of Arsène Lupin, I experience a feeling of embarrassment, as it seems to me that the most commonplace of those adventures is already well known to my readers. In fact, there is not a movement of our “national thief,” as he has been so aptly described, that has not been given the widest publicity, not an exploit that has not been studied in all its phases, not an action that has not been discussed with that particularity usually reserved for the recital of heroic deeds.

  For instance, who does not know the strange history of “The Blonde Lady,” with those curious episodes which were proclaimed by the newspapers with heavy black headlines, as follows: “Lottery Ticket No. 514!” ... “The Crime on the Avenue Henri-Martin!” ... “The Blue Diamond!” ... The interest created by the intervention of the celebrated English detective, Herlock Sholmes! The excitement aroused by the various vicissitudes which marked the struggle between those famous artists! And what a commotion on the boulevards, the day on which the newsboys announced: “Arrest of Arsène Lupin!”

  My excuse for repeating these stories at this time is the fact that I produce the key to the enigma. Those adventures have always been enveloped in a certain degree of obscurity, which I now remove. I reproduce old newspaper articles, I relate old-time interviews, I present ancient letters; but I have arranged and classified all that material and reduced it to the exact truth. My collaborators in this work have been Arsène Lupin himself, and also the ineffable Wilson, the friend and confidant of Herlock Sholmes.

  Every one will recall the tremendous burst of laughter which greeted the publication of those two telegrams. The name “Arsène Lupin” was in itself a stimulus to curiosity, a promise of amusement for the gallery. And, in this case, the gallery means the entire world.

  An investigation was immediately commenced by the Crédit Foncier, which established these facts: That ticket No. 514, series 23, had been sold by the Versailles branch office of the Lottery to an artillery officer named Bessy, who was afterward killed by a fall from his horse. Some time before his death, he informed some of his comrades that he had transferred his ticket to a friend.

  “And I am that friend,” affirmed Mon. Gerbois.

  “Prove it,” replied the governor of the Crédit Foncier.

  “Of course I can prove it. Twenty people can tell you that I was an intimate friend of Monsieur Bessy, and that we frequently met at the Café de la Place-d’Armes. It was there, one day, I purchased the ticket from him for twenty francs — simply as an accommodation to him.

  “Have you any witnesses to that transaction?”

  “No.”

  “Well, how do you expect to prove it?”

  “By a letter he wrote to me.”

  “What letter?”

  “A letter that was pinned to the ticket.”

  “Produce it.”

  “It was stolen at the same time as the ticket.”

  “Well, you must find it.”

  It was soon learned that Arsène Lupin had the letter. A short paragraph appeared in the Echo de France — which has the honor to be his official organ, and of which, it is said, he is one of the principal shareholders — the paragraph announced that Arsène Lupin had placed in the hands of Monsieur Detinan, his advocate and legal adviser, the letter that Monsieur Bessy had written to him — to him personally.

  This announcement provoked an outburst of laughter. Arsène Lupin had engaged a lawyer! Arsène Lupin, conforming to the rules and customs of modern society, had appointed a legal representative in the person of a well-known member of the Parisian bar!

  Mon. Detinan had never enjoyed the pleasure of meeting Arsène Lupin — a fact he deeply regretted — but he had actually been retained by that mysterious gentleman and felt greatly honored by the choice. He was prepared to defend the interests of his client to the best of his ability. He was pleased, even proud, to exhibit the letter of Mon. Bessy, but, although it proved the transfer of the ticket, it did not mention the name of the purchaser. It was simply addressed to “My Dear Friend.”

  “My Dear Friend! that is I,” added Arsène Lupin, in a note attached to Mon. Bessy’s letter. “And the best proof of that fact is that I hold the letter.”

  The swarm of reporters immediately rushed to see Mon. Gerbois, who could only repeat:

  “My Dear Friend! that is I.... Arsène Lupin stole the letter with the lottery ticket.”

  “Let him prove it!” retorted Lupin to the reporters.

  “He must have done it, because he stole the writing-desk!” exclaimed Mon. Gerbois before the same reporters.

  “Let him prove it!” replied Lupin.

  Such was the entertaining comedy enacted by the two claimants of ticket No. 514; and the calm demeanor of Arsène Lupin contrasted strangely with the nervous perturbation of poor Mon. Gerbois. The newspapers were filled with the lamentations of that unhappy man. He announced his misfortune with pathetic candor.

  “Understand, gentlemen, it was Suzanne’s dowry that the rascal stole! Personally, I don’t care a straw for it,... but for Suzanne! Just think of it, a whole million! Ten times one hundred thousand francs! Ah! I knew very well that the desk contained a treasure!”

  It was in vain to tell him that his adversary, when stealing the desk, was unaware that the lottery ticket was in it, and that, in any event, he could not foresee that the ticket would draw the grand prize. He would reply;

  “Nonsense! of course, he knew it ... else why would he take the trouble to steal a poor, miserable desk?”

  “For some unknown reason; but certainly not for a small scrap of paper which was then worth only twenty francs.”

  “A million francs! He knew it;... he knows everything! Ah! you do not know him — the scoundrel!... He hasn’t robbed you of a million francs!”

  The controversy would have lasted for a much longer time, but, on the twelfth day, Mon. Gerbois received from Arsène Lupin a letter, marked “confidential,” which read as follows:

  “Monsieur, the gallery is being amused at our expense. Do you not think it is time for us to be serious? The situation is this: I possess a ticket to which I have no legal right, and you have the legal right to a ticket you do not possess. Neither of us can do anything. You will not relinquish your rights to me; I will not deliver the ticket to you. Now, what is to be done?

  “I see only one way out of the difficulty: Let us divide the spoils. A half-million for you; a half-million for me. Is not that a fair division? In my opinion, it is an equitable solution, and an immediate one. I will give you three days’ time to consider the proposition. On Thursday morning I shall expect to read in the personal column of the Echo de France a discreet message addressed to M. Ars. Lup, expressing in veiled terms your consent to my offer. By so doing you will recover immediate possession of the ticket; then you can collect the money and send me half a million in a manner that I will describe to you later.

  “In case of your refusal, I shall resort to other measures to accomplish the same result. But, apart from the very serious annoyances that such obstinacy on your part will cause you, it will cost you twenty-five thousand fran
cs for supplementary expenses.

  “Believe me, monsieur, I remain your devoted servant, ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

  In a fit of exasperation Mon. Gerbois committed the grave mistake of showing that letter and allowing a copy of it to be taken. His indignation overcame his discretion.

  “Nothing! He shall have nothing!” he exclaimed, before a crowd of reporters. “To divide my property with him? Never! Let him tear up the ticket if he wishes!”

  “Yet five hundred thousand francs is better than nothing.”

  “That is not the question. It is a question of my just right, and that right I will establish before the courts.”

  “What! attack Arsène Lupin? That would be amusing.”

  “No; but the Crédit Foncier. They must pay me the million francs.”

  “Without producing the ticket, or, at least, without proving that you bought it?”

  “That proof exists, since Arsène Lupin admits that he stole the writing-desk.”

  “But would the word of Arsène Lupin carry any weight with the court?”

  “No matter; I will fight it out.”

  The gallery shouted with glee; and wagers were freely made upon the result with the odds in favor of Lupin. On the following Thursday the personal column in the Echo de France was eagerly perused by the expectant public, but it contained nothing addressed to M. Ars. Lup. Mon. Gerbois had not replied to Arsène Lupin’s letter. That was the declaration of war.

  That evening the newspapers announced the abduction of Mlle. Suzanne Gerbois.

  The most entertaining feature in what might be called the Arsène Lupin dramas is the comic attitude displayed by the Parisian police. Arsène Lupin talks, plans, writes, commands, threatens and executes as if the police did not exist. They never figure in his calculations.

  And yet the police do their utmost. But what can they do against such a foe — a foe that scorns and ignores them?

  Suzanne had left the house at twenty minutes to ten; such was the testimony of the servant. On leaving the college, at five minutes past ten, her father did not find her at the place she was accustomed to wait for him. Consequently, whatever had happened must have occurred during the course of Suzanne’s walk from the house to the college. Two neighbors had met her about three hundred yards from the house. A lady had seen, on the avenue, a young girl corresponding to Suzanne’s description. No one else had seen her.

  Inquiries were made in all directions; the employees of the railways and street-car lines were questioned, but none of them had seen anything of the missing girl. However, at Ville-d’Avray, they found a shopkeeper who had furnished gasoline to an automobile that had come from Paris on the day of the abduction. It was occupied by a blonde woman — extremely blonde, said the witness. An hour later, the automobile again passed through Ville-d’Avray on its way from Versailles to Paris. The shopkeeper declared that the automobile now contained a second woman who was heavily veiled. No doubt, it was Suzanne Gerbois.

  The abduction must have taken place in broad daylight, on a frequented street, in the very heart of the town. How? And at what spot? Not a cry was heard; not a suspicious action had been seen. The shopkeeper described the automobile as a royal-blue limousine of twenty-four horse-power made by the firm of Peugeon & Co. Inquiries were then made at the Grand-Garage, managed by Madame Bob-Walthour, who made a specialty of abductions by automobile. It was learned that she had rented a Peugeon limousine on that day to a blonde woman whom she had never seen before nor since.

  “Who was the chauffeur?”

  “A young man named Ernest, whom I had engaged only the day before. He came well recommended.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No. He brought back the machine, but I haven’t seen him since,” said Madame Bob-Walthour.

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “You might see the people who recommended him to me. Here are the names.”

  Upon inquiry, it was learned that none of these people knew the man called Ernest. The recommendations were forged.

  Such was the fate of every clue followed by the police. It ended nowhere. The mystery remained unsolved.

  Mon. Gerbois had not the strength or courage to wage such an unequal battle. The disappearance of his daughter crushed him; he capitulated to the enemy. A short announcement in the Echo de France proclaimed his unconditional surrender.

  Two days later, Mon. Gerbois visited the office of the Crédit Foncier and handed lottery ticket number 514, series 23, to the governor, who exclaimed, with surprise:

  “Ah! you have it! He has returned it to you!”

  “It was mislaid. That was all,” replied Mon. Gerbois.

  “But you pretended that it had been stolen.”

  “At first, I thought it had ... but here it is.”

  “We will require some evidence to establish your right to the ticket.”

  “Will the letter of the purchaser, Monsieur Bessy, be sufficient!”

  “Yes, that will do.”

  “Here it is,” said Mon. Gerbois, producing the letter.

  “Very well. Leave these papers with us. The rules of the lottery allow us fifteen days’ time to investigate your claim. I will let you know when to call for your money. I presume you desire, as much as I do, that this affair should be closed without further publicity.”

  “Quite so.”

  Mon. Gerbois and the governor henceforth maintained a discreet silence. But the secret was revealed in some way, for it was soon commonly known that Arsène Lupin had returned the lottery ticket to Mon. Gerbois. The public received the news with astonishment and admiration. Certainly, he was a bold gamester who thus threw upon the table a trump card of such importance as the precious ticket. But, it was true, he still retained a trump card of equal importance. However, if the young girl should escape? If the hostage held by Arsène Lupin should be rescued?

  The police thought they had discovered the weak spot of the enemy, and now redoubled their efforts. Arsène Lupin disarmed by his own act, crushed by the wheels of his own machination, deprived of every sou of the coveted million ... public interest now centered in the camp of his adversary.

  But it was necessary to find Suzanne. And they did not find her, nor did she escape. Consequently, it must be admitted, Arsène Lupin had won the first hand. But the game was not yet decided. The most difficult point remained. Mlle. Gerbois is in his possession, and he will hold her until he receives five hundred thousand francs. But how and where will such an exchange be made? For that purpose, a meeting must be arranged, and then what will prevent Mon. Gerbois from warning the police and, in that way, effecting the rescue of his daughter and, at the same time, keeping his money? The professor was interviewed, but he was extremely reticent. His answer was:

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “And Mlle. Gerbois?”

  “The search is being continued.”

  “But Arsène Lupin has written to you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you swear to that?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is true. What are his instructions?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Then the interviewers attacked Mon. Detinan, and found him equally discreet.

  “Monsieur Lupin is my client, and I cannot discuss his affairs,” he replied, with an affected air of gravity.

  These mysteries served to irritate the gallery. Obviously, some secret negotiations were in progress. Arsène Lupin had arranged and tightened the meshes of his net, while the police maintained a close watch, day and night, over Mon. Gerbois. And the three and only possible dénouements — the arrest, the triumph, or the ridiculous and pitiful abortion — were freely discussed; but the curiosity of the public was only partially satisfied, and it was reserved for these pages to reveal the exact truth of the affair.

  On Monday, March 12th, Mon. Gerbois received a notice from the Crédit Foncier. On Wednesday, he took the one o’clock train for Paris. At two o’clock, a thousand ba
nk-notes of one thousand francs each were delivered to him. Whilst he was counting them, one by one, in a state of nervous agitation — that money, which represented Suzanne’s ransom — a carriage containing two men stopped at the curb a short distance from the bank. One of the men had grey hair and an unusually shrewd expression which formed a striking contrast to his shabby make-up. It was Detective Ganimard, the relentless enemy of Arsène Lupin. Ganimard said to his companion, Folenfant:

  “In five minutes, we will see our clever friend Lupin. Is everything ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many men have we?”

  “Eight — two of them on bicycles.”

  “Enough, but not too many. On no account, must Gerbois escape us; if he does, it is all up. He will meet Lupin at the appointed place, give half a million in exchange for the girl, and the game will be over.”

  “But why doesn’t Gerbois work with us? That would be the better way, and he could keep all the money himself.”

  “Yes, but he is afraid that if he deceives the other, he will not get his daughter.”

  “What other?”

  “Lupin.”

  Ganimard pronounced the word in a solemn tone, somewhat timidly, as if he were speaking of some supernatural creature whose claws he already felt.

  “It is very strange,” remarked Folenfant, judiciously, “that we are obliged to protect this gentleman contrary to his own wishes.”

  “Yes, but Lupin always turns the world upside down,” said Ganimard, mournfully.

  A moment later, Mon. Gerbois appeared, and started up the street. At the end of the rue des Capucines, he turned into the boulevards, walking slowly, and stopping frequently to gaze at the shop-windows.

  “Much too calm, too self-possessed,” said Ganimard. “A man with a million in his pocket would not have that air of tranquillity.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “Oh! nothing, evidently.... But I have a suspicion that it is Lupin — yes, Lupin!”

  At that moment, Mon. Gerbois stopped at a news-stand, purchased a paper, unfolded it and commenced to read it as he walked slowly away. A moment later, he gave a sudden bound into an automobile that was standing at the curb. Apparently, the machine had been waiting for him, as it started away rapidly, turned at the Madeleine and disappeared.