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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Let us attack him just the same,” exclaimed Wilson, who had scarcely uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. Something had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might have caused them serious injury if it had struck them.

  Sholmes looked up. Some men were working on a scaffolding attached to the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. He said:

  “We were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on our heads. I wonder if—”

  Moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and made his way to the balcony in front of the house. But there was no one there.

  “Where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?” he asked the servant.

  “They have just gone.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “By the servants’ stairs.”

  Sholmes leaned out of the window. He saw two men leaving the house, carrying bicycles. They mounted them and quickly disappeared around the corner.

  “How long have they been working on this scaffolding?”

  “Those men?... only since this morning. It’s their first day.”

  Sholmes returned to the street, and joined Wilson. Together they returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful silence.

  On the following day their programme was almost similar. They sat together on a bench in the avenue Henri-Martin, much to Wilson’s disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the house in which the tragedy had occurred.

  “What do you expect, Sholmes? That Arsène Lupin will walk out of the house?”

  “No.”

  “That the blonde Lady will make her appearance?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will furnish me with a clue to work on.”

  “And if it does not occur!”

  “Then I must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the powder.”

  A solitary incident — and that of a disagreeable nature — broke the monotony of the forenoon.

  A gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were sitting, and struck Sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Sholmes, “a little more and I would have had a broken shoulder.”

  The gentleman struggled with his horse. The Englishman drew his revolver and pointed it; but Wilson seized his arm, and said:

  “Don’t be foolish! What are you going to do! Kill the man!”

  “Leave me alone, Wilson! Let go!”

  During the brief struggle between Sholmes and Wilson the stranger rode away.

  “Now, you can shoot,” said Wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was at some distance.

  “Wilson, you’re an idiot! Don’t you understand that the man is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin?”

  Sholmes was trembling from rage. Wilson stammered pitifully:

  “What!... that man ... an accomplice?”

  “Yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us yesterday.”

  “It can’t be possible!”

  “Possible or not, there was only one way to prove it.”

  “By killing the man?”

  “No — by killing the horse. If you hadn’t grabbed my arm, I should have captured one of Lupin’s accomplices. Now, do you understand the folly of your act?”

  Throughout the afternoon both men were morose. They did not speak a word to each other. At five o’clock they visited the rue Clapeyron, but were careful to keep at a safe distance from the houses. However, three young men who were passing through the street, arm in arm, singing, ran against Sholmes and Wilson and refused to let them pass. Sholmes, who was in an ill humor, contested the right of way with them. After a brief struggle, Sholmes resorted to his fists. He struck one of the men a hard blow on the chest, another a blow in the face, and thus subdued two of his adversaries. Thereupon the three of them took to their heels and disappeared.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that does me good. I needed a little exercise.”

  But Wilson was leaning against the wall. Sholmes said:

  “What’s the matter, old chap? You’re quite pale.”

  Wilson pointed to his left arm, which hung inert, and stammered:

  “I don’t know what it is. My arm pains me.”

  “Very much?... Is it serious?”

  “Yes, I am afraid so.”

  He tried to raise his arm, but it was helpless. Sholmes felt it, gently at first, then in a rougher way, “to see how badly it was hurt,” he said. He concluded that Wilson was really hurt, so he led him to a neighboring pharmacy, where a closer examination revealed the fact that the arm was broken and that Wilson was a candidate for the hospital. In the meantime they bared his arm and applied some remedies to ease his suffering.

  “Come, come, old chap, cheer up!” said Sholmes, who was holding Wilson’s arm, “in five or six weeks you will be all right again. But I will pay them back ... the rascals! Especially Lupin, for this is his work ... no doubt of that. I swear to you if ever — —”

  He stopped suddenly, dropped the arm — which caused Wilson such an access of pain that he almost fainted — and, striking his forehead, Sholmes said:

  “Wilson, I have an idea. You know, I have one occasionally.”

  He stood for a moment, silent, with staring eyes, and then muttered, in short, sharp phrases:

  “Yes, that’s it ... that will explain all ... right at my feet ... and I didn’t see it ... ah, parbleu! I should have thought of it before.... Wilson, I shall have good news for you.”

  Abruptly leaving his old friend, Sholmes ran into the street and went directly to the house known as number 25. On one of the stones, to the right of the door, he read this inscription: “Destange, architect, 1875.”

  There was a similar inscription on the house numbered 23.

  Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. But what might be read on the houses in the avenue Henri-Martin?

  A carriage was passing. He engaged it and directed the driver to take him to No. 134 avenue Henri-Martin. He was roused to a high pitch of excitement. He stood up in the carriage and urged the horse to greater speed. He offered extra pourboires to the driver. Quicker! Quicker!

  How great was his anxiety as they turned from the rue de la Pompe! Had he caught a glimpse of the truth at last?

  On one of the stones of the late Baron’s house he read the words: “Destange, architect, 1874.” And a similar inscription appeared on the two adjoining houses.

  The reaction was such that he settled down in the seat of the carriage, trembling from joy. At last, a tiny ray of light had penetrated the dark shadows which encompassed these mysterious crimes! In the vast sombre forest wherein a thousand pathways crossed and re-crossed, he had discovered the first clue to the track followed by the enemy!

  He entered a branch postoffice and obtained telephonic connection with the château de Crozon. The Countess answered the telephone call.

  “Hello!... Is that you, madame?”

  “Monsieur Sholmes, isn’t it? Everything going all right?”

  “Quite well, but I wish to ask you one question.... Hello!”

  “Yes, I hear you.”

  “Tell me, when was the château de Crozon built?”

  “It was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago.”

  “Who built it, and in what year?”

  “There is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: ‘Lucien Destange, architect, 1877.’”

  “Thank you, madame, that is all. Good-bye.”

  He went away, murmuring: “Destange ... Lucien Destange ... that name has a familiar sound.”

  He noticed a public reading-room, entered,
consulted a dictionary of modern biography, and copied the following information: “Lucien Destange, born 1840, Grand-Prix de Rome, officer of the Legion of Honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc....”

  Then he returned to the pharmacy and found that Wilson had been taken to the hospital. There Sholmes found him with his arm in splints, and shivering with fever.

  “Victory! Victory!” cried Sholmes. “I hold one end of the thread.”

  “Of what thread?”

  “The one that leads to victory. I shall now be walking on solid ground, where there will be footprints, clues....”

  “Cigarette ashes?” asked Wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain.

  “And many other things! Just think, Wilson, I have found the mysterious link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde Lady played a part. Why did Lupin select those three houses for the scenes of his exploits?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because those three houses were built by the same architect. That was an easy problem, eh? Of course ... but who would have thought of it?”

  “No one but you.”

  “And who, except I, knows that the same architect, by the use of analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality, quite simple and easy?”

  “That was a stroke of good luck.”

  “And it was time, dear boy, as I was becoming very impatient. You know, this is our fourth day.”

  “Out of ten.”

  “Oh! after this — —”

  Sholmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual.

  “And when I think that these rascals might have attacked me in the street and broken my arm just as they did yours! Isn’t that so, Wilson?”

  Wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. Sholmes continued:

  “We must profit by the lesson. I can see, Wilson, that we were wrong to try and fight Lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his attacks.”

  “I can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm,” said Wilson.

  “You have one consolation, Wilson; that is, that I escaped. Now, I must be doubly cautious. In an open fight he will defeat me; but if I can work in the dark, unseen by him, I have the advantage, no matter how strong his forces may be.”

  “Ganimard might be of some assistance.”

  “Never! On the day that I can truly say: Arsène Lupin is there; I show you the quarry, and how to catch it; I shall go and see Ganimard at one of the two addresses that he gave me — his residence in the rue Pergolese, or at the Suisse tavern in the Place du Châtelet. But, until that time, I shall work alone.”

  He approached the bed, placed his hand on Wilson’s shoulder — on the sore one, of course — and said to him:

  “Take care of yourself, old fellow. Henceforth your rôle will be to keep two or three of Arsène Lupin’s men busy watching here in vain for my return to enquire about your health. It is a secret mission for you, eh?”

  “Yes, and I shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. Then you do not expect to come here any more?”

  “What for?” asked Sholmes.

  “I don’t know ... of course.... I am getting on as well as possible. But, Herlock, do me a last service: give me a drink.”

  “A drink?”

  “Yes, I am dying of thirst; and with my fever — —”

  “To be sure — directly — —”

  He made a pretense of getting some water, perceived a package of tobacco, lighted his pipe, and then, as if he had not heard his friend’s request, he went away, whilst Wilson uttered a mute prayer for the inaccessible water.

  “Monsieur Destange!”

  The servant eyed from head to foot the person to whom he had opened the door of the house — the magnificent house that stood at the corner of the Place Malesherbes and the rue Montchanin — and at the sight of the man with gray hairs, badly shaved, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a body as ill-formed and ungracious as his face, he replied with the disdain which he thought the occasion warranted:

  “Monsieur Destange may or may not be at home. That depends. Has monsieur a card?”

  Monsieur did not have a card, but he had a letter of introduction and, after the servant had taken the letter to Mon. Destange, he was conducted into the presence of that gentleman who was sitting in a large circular room or rotunda which occupied one of the wings of the house. It was a library, and contained a profusion of books and architectural drawings. When the stranger entered, the architect said to him:

  “You are Monsieur Stickmann?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “My secretary tells me that he is ill, and has sent you to continue the general catalogue of the books which he commenced under my direction, and, more particularly, the catalogue of German books. Are you familiar with that kind of work?”

  “Yes, monsieur, quite so,” he replied, with a strong German accent.

  Under those circumstances the bargain was soon concluded, and Mon. Destange commenced work with his new secretary.

  Herlock Sholmes had gained access to the house.

  In order to escape the vigilance of Arsène Lupin and gain admittance to the house occupied by Lucien Destange and his daughter Clotilde, the famous detective had been compelled to resort to a number of stratagems, and, under a variety of names, to ingratiate himself into the good graces and confidence of a number of persons — in short, to live, during forty-eight hours, a most complicated life. During that time he had acquired the following information: Mon. Destange, having retired from active business on account of his failing health, now lived amongst the many books he had accumulated on the subject of architecture. He derived infinite pleasure in viewing and handling those dusty old volumes.

  His daughter Clotilde was considered eccentric. She passed her time in another part of the house, and never went out.

  “Of course,” Sholmes said to himself, as he wrote in a register the titles of the books which Mon. Destange dictated to him, “all that is vague and incomplete, but it is quite a long step in advance. I shall surely solve one of these absorbing problems: Is Mon. Destange associated with Arsène Lupin? Does he continue to see him? Are the papers relating to the construction of the three houses still in existence? Will those papers not furnish me with the location of other houses of similar construction which Arsène Lupin and his associates will plunder in the future?

  “Monsieur Destange, an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! That venerable man, an officer of the Legion of Honor, working in league with a burglar — such an idea was absurd! Besides, if we concede that such a complicity exists, how could Mon. Destange, thirty years ago, have possibly foreseen the thefts of Arsène Lupin, who was then an infant?”

  No matter! The Englishman was implacable. With his marvellous scent, and that instinct which never fails him, he felt that he was in the heart of some strange mystery. Ever since he first entered the house, he had been under the influence of that impression, and yet he could not define the grounds on which he based his suspicions.

  Up to the morning of the second day he had not made any significant discovery. At two o’clock of that day he saw Clotilde Destange for the first time; she came to the library in search of a book. She was about thirty years of age, a brunette, slow and silent in her movements, with features imbued with that expression of indifference which is characteristic of people who live a secluded life. She exchanged a few words with her father, and then retired, without even looking at Sholmes.

  The afternoon dragged along monotonously. At five o’clock Mon. Destange announced his intention to go out. Sholmes was alone on the circular gallery that was constructed about ten feet above the floor of the rotunda. It was almost dark. He was on the point of going out, when he heard a slight sound and, at the same time, experienced the feeling that there was someone in the room. Several minutes passed before he saw or heard anything more. Then he shuddered; a shadowy form emerged
from the gloom, quite close to him, upon the balcony. It seemed incredible. How long had this mysterious visitor been there? Whence did he come?

  The strange man descended the steps and went directly to a large oaken cupboard. Sholmes was a keen observer of the man’s movements. He watched him searching amongst the papers with which the cupboard was filled. What was he looking for?

  Then the door opened and Mlle. Destange entered, speaking to someone who was following her:

  “So you have decided not to go out, father?... Then I will make a light ... one second ... do not move....”

  The strange man closed the cupboard and hid in the embrasure of a large window, drawing the curtains together. Did Mlle. Destange not see him? Did she not hear him? Calmly she turned on the electric lights; she and her father sat down close to each other. She opened a book she had brought with her, and commenced to read. After the lapse of a few minutes she said:

  “Your secretary has gone.”

  “Yes, I don’t see him.”

  “Do you like him as well as you did at first?” she asked, as if she were not aware of the illness of the real secretary and his replacement by Stickmann.

  “Oh! yes.”

  Monsieur Destange’s head bobbed from one side to the other. He was asleep. The girl resumed her reading. A moment later one of the window curtains was pushed back, and the strange man emerged and glided along the wall toward the door, which obliged him to pass behind Mon. Destange but in front of Clotilde, and brought him into the light so that Herlock Sholmes obtained a good view of the man’s face. It was Arsène Lupin.

  The Englishman was delighted. His forecast was verified; he had penetrated to the very heart of the mystery, and found Arsène Lupin to be the moving spirit in it.

  Clotilde had not yet displayed any knowledge of his presence, although it was quite improbable that any movement of the intruder had escaped her notice. Lupin had almost reached the door and, in fact, his hand was already seeking the door-knob, when his coat brushed against a small table and knocked something to the floor. Monsieur Destange awoke with a start. Arsène Lupin was already standing in front of him, hat in hand, smiling.

  “Maxime Bermond,” exclaimed Mon. Destange, joyfully. “My dear Maxime, what lucky chance brings you here?”