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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is one of the most natural in the world.”

  “Why do you not arrest him?” stammered Wilson.

  “Have you not observed, Wilson, that the gentleman is between me and the door, and only a few steps from the door. By the time I could move my little finger he would be outside.”

  “Don’t let that make any difference,” said Lupin, who now walked around the table and seated himself so that the Englishman was between him and the door — thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner.

  Wilson looked at Sholmes to find out if he had the right to admire this act of wanton courage. The Englishman’s face was impenetrable; but, a moment later, he called:

  “Waiter!”

  When the waiter came he ordered soda, beer and whisky. The treaty of peace was signed — until further orders. In a few moments the four men were conversing in an apparently friendly manner.

  Herlock Sholmes is a man such as you might meet every day in the business world. He is about fifty years of age, and looks as if he might have passed his life in an office, adding up columns of dull figures or writing out formal statements of business accounts. There was nothing to distinguish him from the average citizen of London, except the appearance of his eyes, his terribly keen and penetrating eyes.

  But then he is Herlock Sholmes — which means that he is a wonderful combination of intuition, observation, clairvoyance and ingenuity. One could readily believe that nature had been pleased to take the two most extraordinary detectives that the imagination of man has hitherto conceived, the Dupin of Edgar Allen Poe and the Lecoq of Emile Gaboriau, and, out of that material, constructed a new detective, more extraordinary and supernatural than either of them. And when a person reads the history of his exploits, which have made him famous throughout the entire world, he asks himself whether Herlock Sholmes is not a mythical personage, a fictitious hero born in the brain of a great novelist — Conan Doyle, for instance.

  When Arsène Lupin questioned him in regard to the length of his sojourn in France he turned the conversation into its proper channel by saying:

  “That depends on you, monsieur.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Lupin, laughing, “if it depends on me you can return to England to-night.”

  “That is a little too soon, but I expect to return in the course of eight or nine days — ten at the outside.”

  “Are you in such a hurry?”

  “I have many cases to attend to; such as the robbery of the Anglo-Chinese Bank, the abduction of Lady Eccleston.... But, don’t you think, Monsieur Lupin, that I can finish my business in Paris within a week?”

  “Certainly, if you confine your efforts to the case of the blue diamond. It is, moreover, the length of time that I require to make preparations for my safety in case the solution of that affair should give you certain dangerous advantages over me.”

  “And yet,” said the Englishman, “I expect to close the business in eight or ten days.”

  “And arrest me on the eleventh, perhaps?”

  “No, the tenth is my limit.”

  Lupin shook his head thoughtfully, as he said:

  “That will be difficult — very difficult.”

  “Difficult, perhaps, but possible, therefore certain—”

  “Absolutely certain,” said Wilson, as if he had clearly worked out the long series of operations which would conduct his collaborator to the desired result.

  “Of course,” said Herlock Sholmes, “I do not hold all the trump cards, as these cases are already several months old, and I lack certain information and clues upon which I am accustomed to base my investigations.”

  “Such as spots of mud and cigarette ashes,” said Wilson, with an air of importance.

  “In addition to the remarkable conclusions formed by Monsieur Ganimard, I have obtained all the articles written on the subject, and have formed a few deductions of my own.”

  “Some ideas which were suggested to us by analysis or hypothesis,” added Wilson, sententiously.

  “I wish to enquire,” said Arsène Lupin, in that deferential tone which he employed in speaking to Sholmes, “would I be indiscreet if I were to ask you what opinion you have formed about the case?”

  Really, it was a most exciting situation to see those two men facing each other across the table, engaged in an earnest discussion as if they were obliged to solve some abstruse problem or come to an agreement upon some controverted fact. Wilson was in the seventh heaven of delight. Herlock Sholmes filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and said:

  “This affair is much simpler than it appeared to be at first sight.”

  “Much simpler,” said Wilson, as a faithful echo.

  “I say ‘this affair,’ for, in my opinion, there is only one,” said Sholmes. “The death of the Baron d’Hautrec, the story of the ring, and, let us not forget, the mystery of lottery ticket number 514, are only different phases of what one might call the mystery of the blonde Lady. Now, according to my view, it is simply a question of discovering the bond that unites those three episodes in the same story — the fact which proves the unity of the three events. Ganimard, whose judgment is rather superficial, finds that unity in the faculty of disappearance; that is, in the power of coming and going unseen and unheard. That theory does not satisfy me.”

  “Well, what is your idea?” asked Lupin.

  “In my opinion,” said Sholmes, “the characteristic feature of the three episodes is your design and purpose of leading the affair into a certain channel previously chosen by you. It is, on your part, more than a plan; it is a necessity, an indispensable condition of success.”

  “Can you furnish any details of your theory?”

  “Certainly. For example, from the beginning of your conflict with Monsieur Gerbois, is it not evident that the apartment of Monsieur Detinan is the place selected by you, the inevitable spot where all the parties must meet? In your opinion, it was the only safe place, and you arranged a rendezvous there, publicly, one might say, for the blonde Lady and Mademoiselle Gerbois.”

  “The professor’s daughter,” added Wilson. “Now, let us consider the case of the blue diamond. Did you try to appropriate it while the Baron d’Hautrec possessed it! No. But the baron takes his brother’s house. Six months later we have the intervention of Antoinette Bréhat and the first attempt. The diamond escapes you, and the sale is widely advertised to take place at the Drouot auction-rooms. Will it be a free and open sale? Is the richest amateur sure to carry off the jewel! No. Just as the banker Herschmann is on the point of buying the ring, a lady sends him a letter of warning, and it is the Countess de Crozon, prepared and influenced by the same lady, who becomes the purchaser of the diamond. Will the ring disappear at once? No; you lack the opportunity. Therefore, you must wait. At last the Countess goes to her château. That is what you were waiting for. The ring disappears.”

  “To reappear again in the tooth-powder of Herr Bleichen,” remarked Lupin.

  “Oh! such nonsense!” exclaimed Sholmes, striking the table with his fist, “don’t tell me such a fairy tale. I am too old a fox to be led away by a false scent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” said Sholmes, then paused a moment as if he wished to arrange his effect. At last he said:

  “The blue diamond that was found in the tooth-powder was false. You kept the genuine stone.”

  Arsène Lupin remained silent for a moment; then, with his eyes fixed on the Englishman, he replied, calmly:

  “You are impertinent, monsieur.”

  “Impertinent, indeed!” repeated Wilson, beaming with admiration.

  “Yes,” said Lupin, “and, yet, to do you credit, you have thrown a strong light on a very mysterious subject. Not a magistrate, not a special reporter, who has been engaged on this case, has come so near the truth. It is a marvellous display of intuition and logic.”

  “Oh! a person has simply to use his brains,” said Her
lock Sholmes, nattered at the homage of the expert criminal.

  “And so few have any brains to use,” replied Lupin. “And, now, that the field of conjectures has been narrowed down, and the rubbish cleared away — —”

  “Well, now, I have simply to discover why the three episodes were enacted at 25 rue Clapeyron, 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and within the walls of the Château de Crozon and my work will be finished. What remains will be child’s play. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes, I think you are right.”

  “In that case, Monsieur Lupin, am I wrong in saying that my business will be finished in ten days?”

  “In ten days you will know the whole truth,” said Lupin.

  “And you will be arrested.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “In order that I may be arrested there must occur such a series of improbable and unexpected misfortunes that I cannot admit the possibility of such an event.”

  “We have a saying in England that ‘the unexpected always happens.’”

  They looked at each other for a moment calmly and fearlessly, without any display of bravado or malice. They met as equals in a contest of wit and skill. And this meeting was the formal crossing of swords, preliminary to the duel.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Lupin, “at last I shall have an adversary worthy of the name — one whose defeat will be the proudest achievement in my career.”

  “Are you not afraid!” asked Wilson.

  “Almost, Monsieur Wilson,” replied Lupin, rising from his chair, “and the proof is that I am about to make a hasty retreat. Then, we will say ten days, Monsieur Sholmes?”

  “Yes, ten days. This is Sunday. A week from next Wednesday, at eight o’clock in the evening, it will be all over.”

  “And I shall be in prison?”

  “No doubt of it.”

  “Ha! not a pleasant outlook for a man who gets so much enjoyment out of life as I do. No cares, a lively interest in the affairs of the world, a justifiable contempt for the police, and the consoling sympathy of numerous friends and admirers. And now, behold, all that is about to be changed! It is the reverse side of the medal. After sunshine comes the rain. It is no longer a laughing matter. Adieu!”

  “Hurry up!” said Wilson, full of solicitude for a person in whom Herlock Sholmes had inspired so much respect, “do not lose a minute.”

  “Not a minute, Monsieur Wilson; but I wish to express my pleasure at having met you, and to tell you how much I envy the master in having such a valuable assistant as you seem to be.”

  Then, after they had courteously saluted each other, like adversaries in a duel who entertain no feeling of malice but are obliged to fight by force of circumstances, Lupin seized me by the arm and drew me outside.

  “What do you think of it, dear boy? The strange events of this evening will form an interesting chapter in the memoirs you are now preparing for me.”

  He closed the door of the restaurant behind us, and, after taking a few steps, he stopped and said:

  “Do you smoke?”

  “No. Nor do you, it seems to me.”

  “You are right, I don’t.”

  He lighted a cigarette with a wax-match, which he shook several times in an effort to extinguish it. But he threw away the cigarette immediately, ran across the street, and joined two men who emerged from the shadows as if called by a signal. He conversed with them for a few minutes on the opposite sidewalk, and then returned to me.

  “I beg your pardon, but I fear that cursed Sholmes is going to give me trouble. But, I assure you, he is not yet through with Arsène Lupin. He will find out what kind of fuel I use to warm my blood. And now — au revoir! The genial Wilson is right; there is not a moment to lose.”

  He walked away rapidly.

  Thus ended the events of that exciting evening, or, at least, that part of them in which I was a participant. Subsequently, during the course of the evening, other stirring incidents occurred which have come to my knowledge through the courtesy of other members of that unique dinner-party.

  At the very moment in which Lupin left me, Herlock Sholmes rose from the table, and looked at his watch.

  “Twenty minutes to nine. At nine o’clock I am to meet the Count and Countess at the railway station.”

  “Then, we must be off!” exclaimed Wilson, between two drinks of whisky.

  They left the restaurant.

  “Wilson, don’t look behind. We may be followed, and, in that case, let us act as if we did not care. Wilson, I want your opinion: why was Lupin in that restaurant?”

  “To get something to eat,” replied Wilson, quickly.

  “Wilson, I must congratulate you on the accuracy of your deduction. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  Wilson blushed with pleasure, and Sholmes continued:

  “To get something to eat. Very well, and, after that, probably, to assure himself whether I am going to the Château de Crozon, as announced by Ganimard in his interview. I must go in order not to disappoint him. But, in order to gain time on him, I shall not go.”

  “Ah!” said Wilson, nonplused.

  “You, my friend, will walk down this street, take a carriage, two, three carriages. Return later and get the valises that we left at the station, and make for the Elysée-Palace at a galop.”

  “And when I reach the Elysée-Palace?”

  “Engage a room, go to sleep, and await my orders.”

  Quite proud of the important rôle assigned to him, Wilson set out to perform his task. Herlock Sholmes proceeded to the railway station, bought a ticket, and repaired to the Amiens’ express in which the Count and Countess de Crozon were already installed. He bowed to them, lighted his pipe, and had a quiet smoke in the corridor. The train started. Ten minutes later he took a seat beside the Countess, and said to her:

  “Have you the ring here, madame?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you kindly let me see it?”

  He took it, and examined it closely.

  “Just as I suspected: it is a manufactured diamond.”

  “A manufactured diamond?”

  “Yes; a new process which consists in submitting diamond dust to a tremendous heat until it melts and is then molded into a single stone.”

  “But my diamond is genuine.”

  “Yes, your diamond is; but this is not yours.”

  “Where is mine?”

  “It is held by Arsène Lupin.”

  “And this stone?”

  “Was substituted for yours, and slipped into Herr Bleichen’s tooth-powder, where it was afterwards found.”

  “Then you think this is false?”

  “Absolutely false.”

  The Countess was overwhelmed with surprise and grief, while her husband scrutinized the diamond with an incredulous air. Finally she stammered:

  “Is it possible? And why did they not merely steal it and be done with it? And how did they steal it?”

  “That is exactly what I am going to find out.”

  “At the Château de Crozon?”

  “No. I shall leave the train at Creil and return to Paris. It is there the game between me and Arsène Lupin must be played. In fact, the game has commenced already, and Lupin thinks I am on my way to the château.”

  “But—”

  “What does it matter to you, madame? The essential thing is your diamond, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t worry. I have just undertaken a much more difficult task than that. You have my promise that I will restore the true diamond to you within ten days.”

  The train slackened its speed. He put the false diamond in his pocket and opened the door. The Count cried out:

  “That is the wrong side of the train. You are getting out on the tracks.”

  “That is my intention. If Lupin has anyone on my track, he will lose sight of me now. Adieu.”

  An employee protested in vain. After the departure of the train, the Englishman sought the station-mas
ter’s office. Forty minutes later he leaped into a train that landed him in Paris shortly before midnight. He ran across the platform, entered the lunch-room, made his exit at another door, and jumped into a cab.

  “Driver — rue Clapeyron.”

  Having reached the conclusion that he was not followed, he stopped the carriage at the end of the street, and proceeded to make a careful examination of Monsieur Detinan’s house and the two adjoining houses. He made measurements of certain distances and entered the figures in his notebook.

  “Driver — avenue Henri-Martin.”

  At the corner of the avenue and the rue de la Pompe, he dismissed the carriage, walked down the street to number 134, and performed the same operations in front of the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec and the two adjoining houses, measuring the width of the respective façades and calculating the depth of the little gardens that stood in front of them.

  The avenue was deserted, and was very dark under its four rows of trees, between which, at considerable intervals, a few gas-lamps struggled in vain to light the deep shadows. One of them threw a dim light over a portion of the house, and Sholmes perceived the “To-let” sign posted on the gate, the neglected walks which encircled the small lawn, and the large bare windows of the vacant house.

  “I suppose,” he said to himself, “the house has been unoccupied since the death of the baron.... Ah! if I could only get in and view the scene of the murder!”

  No sooner did the idea occur to him than he sought to put it in execution. But how could he manage it? He could not climb over the gate; it was too high. So he took from his pocket an electric lantern and a skeleton key which he always carried. Then, to his great surprise, he discovered that the gate was not locked; in fact, it was open about three or four inches. He entered the garden, and was careful to leave the gate as he had found it — partly open. But he had not taken many steps from the gate when he stopped. He had seen a light pass one of the windows on the second floor.

  He saw the light pass a second window and a third, but he saw nothing else, except a silhouette outlined on the walls of the rooms. The light descended to the first floor, and, for a long time, wandered from room to room.