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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Oh! there’s no harm done; but it was a good joke.”

  “I admit that; but the best jokes have only a short life, and this one can’t last much longer.”

  “I hope not.”

  “This is now the seventh day, and I can remain only three days more. Then I must return to London.”

  “Oh!”

  “I wish to ask you to be in readiness, as I may call on you at any hour on Tuesday or Wednesday night.”

  “For an expedition of the same kind as we had to-night?”

  “Yes, monsieur, the very same.”

  “With what result?”

  “The capture of Arsène Lupin,” replied Sholmes.

  “Do you think so?”

  “I swear it, on my honor, monsieur.”

  Sholmes bade Ganimard good-bye and went to the nearest hotel for a few hours’ sleep; after which, refreshed and with renewed confidence in himself, he returned to the rue Chalgrin, slipped two louis into the hand of the concierge, assured himself that the brothers Leroux had gone out, learned that the house belonged to a Monsieur Harmingeat, and, provided with a candle, descended to the cellar through the low door near which he had found the garnet. At the bottom of the stairs he found another exactly like it.

  “I am not mistaken,” he thought; “this is the means of communication. Let me see if my skeleton-key will open the cellar reserved for the tenant of the ground floor. Yes; it will. Now, I will examine those cases of wine... oh! oh! here are some places where the dust has been cleared away ... and some footprints on the ground....”

  A slight noise caused him to listen attentively. Quickly he pushed the door shut, blew out his candle and hid behind a pile of empty wine cases. After a few seconds he noticed that a portion of the wall swung on a pivot, the light of a lantern was thrown into the cellar, an arm appeared, then a man entered.

  He was bent over, as if he were searching for something. He felt in the dust with his fingers and several times he threw something into a cardboard box that he carried in his left hand. Afterward he obliterated the traces of his footsteps, as well as the footprints left by Lupin and the blonde lady, and he was about to leave the cellar by the same way as he had entered, when he uttered a harsh cry and fell to the ground. Sholmes had leaped upon him. It was the work of a moment, and in the simplest manner in the world the man found himself stretched on the ground, bound and handcuffed. The Englishman leaned over him and said:

  “Have you anything to say?... To tell what you know?”

  The man replied by such an ironical smile that Sholmes realized the futility of questioning him. So he contented himself by exploring the pockets of his captive, but he found only a bunch of keys, a handkerchief and the small cardboard box which contained a dozen garnets similar to those which Sholmes had found.

  Then what was he to do with the man? Wait until his friends came to his help and deliver all of them to the police? What good would that do? What advantage would that give him over Lupin?

  He hesitated; but an examination of the box decided the question. The box bore this name and address: “Leonard, jeweler, rue de la Paix.”

  He resolved to abandon the man to his fate. He locked the cellar and left the house. At a branch postoffice he sent a telegram to Monsieur Destange, saying that he could not come that day. Then he went to see the jeweler and, handing him the garnets, said:

  “Madame sent me with these stones. She wishes to have them reset.”

  Sholmes had struck the right key. The jeweler replied:

  “Certainly; the lady telephoned to me. She said she would be here to-day.”

  Sholmes established himself on the sidewalk to wait for the lady, but it was five o’clock when he saw a heavily-veiled lady approach and enter the store. Through the window he saw her place on the counter a piece of antique jewelry set with garnets.

  She went away almost immediately, walking quickly and passed through streets that were unknown to the Englishman. As it was now almost dark, he walked close behind her and followed her into a five-story house of double flats and, therefore, occupied by numerous tenants. At the second floor she stopped and entered. Two minutes later the Englishman commenced to try the keys on the bunch he had taken from the man in the rue Chalgrin. The fourth key fitted the lock.

  Notwithstanding the darkness of the rooms, he perceived that they were absolutely empty, as if unoccupied, and the various doors were standing open so that he could see all the apartments. At the end of a corridor he perceived a ray of light and, by approaching on tiptoe and looking through the glass door, he saw the veiled lady who had removed her hat and dress and was now wearing a velvet dressing-gown. The discarded garments were lying on the only chair in the room and a lighted lamp stood on the mantel.

  Then he saw her approach the fireplace and press what appeared to be the button of an electric bell. Immediately the panel to the right of the fireplace moved and slowly glided behind the adjoining panel, thus disclosing an opening large enough for a person to pass through. The lady disappeared through this opening, taking the lamp with her.

  The operation was a very simple one. Sholmes adopted it and followed the lady. He found himself in total darkness and immediately he felt his face brushed by some soft articles. He lighted a match and found that he was in a very small room completely filled with cloaks and dresses suspended on hangers. He picked his way through until he reached a door that was draped with a portiere. He peeped through and, behold, the blonde lady was there, under his eyes, and almost within reach of his hand.

  She extinguished the lamp and turned on the electric lights. Then for the first time Herlock Sholmes obtained a good look at her face. He was amazed. The woman, whom he had overtaken after so much trouble and after so many tricks and manoeuvres, was none other than Clotilde Destange.

  Clotilde Destange, the assassin of the Baron d’Hautrec and the thief who stole the blue diamond! Clotilde Destange, the mysterious friend of Arsène Lupin! And the blonde lady!

  “Yes, I am only a stupid ass,” thought Herlock Sholmes at that moment. “Because Lupin’s friend was a blonde and Clotilde is a brunette, I never dreamed that they were the same person. But how could the blonde lady remain a blonde after the murder of the baron and the theft of the diamond?”

  Sholmes could see a portion of the room; it was a boudoir, furnished with the most delightful luxury and exquisite taste, and adorned with beautiful tapestries and costly ornaments. A mahogany couch, upholstered in silk, was located on the side of the room opposite the door at which Sholmes was standing. Clotilde was sitting on this couch, motionless, her face covered by her hands. Then he perceived that she was weeping. Great tears rolled down her pale cheeks and fell, drop by drop, on the velvet corsage. The tears came thick and fast, as if their source were inexhaustible.

  A door silently opened behind her and Arsène Lupin entered. He looked at her for a long time without making his presence known; then he approached her, knelt at her feet, pressed her head to his breast, folded her in his arms, and his actions indicated an infinite measure of love and sympathy. For a time not a word was uttered, but her tears became less abundant.

  “I was so anxious to make you happy,” he murmured.

  “I am happy.”

  “No; you are crying.... Your tears break my heart, Clotilde.”

  The caressing and sympathetic tone of his voice soothed her, and she listened to him with an eager desire for hope and happiness. Her features were softened by a smile, and yet how sad a smile! He continued to speak in a tone of tender entreaty:

  “You should not be unhappy, Clotilde; you have no cause to be.”

  She displayed her delicate white hands and said, solemnly:

  “Yes, Maxime; so long as I see those hands I shall be sad.”

  “Why?”

  “They are stained with blood.”

  “Hush! Do not think of that!” exclaimed Lupin. “The dead is past and gone. Do not resurrect it.”

  And he kissed the long, del
icate hand, while she regarded him with a brighter smile as if each kiss effaced a portion of that dreadful memory.

  “You must love me, Maxime; you must — because no woman will ever love you as I do. For your sake, I have done many things, not at your order or request, but in obedience to your secret desires. I have done things at which my will and conscience revolted, but there was some unknown power that I could not resist. What I did I did involuntarily, mechanically, because it helped you, because you wished it ... and I am ready to do it again to-morrow ... and always.”

  “Ah, Clotilde,” he said, bitterly, “why did I draw you into my adventurous life? I should have remained the Maxime Bermond that you loved five years ago, and not have let you know the ... other man that I am.”

  She replied in a low voice:

  “I love the other man, also, and I have nothing to regret.”

  “Yes, you regret your past life — the free and happy life you once enjoyed.”

  “I have no regrets when you are here,” she said, passionately. “All faults and crimes disappear when I see you. When you are away I may suffer, and weep, and be horrified at what I have done; but when you come it is all forgotten. Your love wipes it all away. And I am happy again.... But you must love me!”

  “I do not love you on compulsion, Clotilde. I love you simply because ... I love you.”

  “Are you sure of it?”

  “I am just as sure of my own love as I am of yours. Only my life is a very active and exciting one, and I cannot spend as much time with you as I would like — just now.”

  “What is it? Some new danger? Tell me!”

  “Oh! nothing serious. Only....”

  “Only what?” she asked.

  “Well, he is on our track.”

  “Who? Herlock Sholmes?”

  “Yes; it was he who dragged Ganimard into that affair at the Hungarian restaurant. It was he who instructed the two policemen to watch the house in the rue Chalgrin. I have proof of it. Ganimard searched the house this morning and Sholmes was with him. Besides — —”

  “Besides? What?”

  “Well, there is another thing. One of our men is missing.”

  “Who?”

  “Jeanniot.”

  “The concierge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, I sent him to the rue Chalgrin this morning to pick up the garnets that fell out of my brooch.”

  “There is no doubt, then, that Sholmes caught him.”

  “No; the garnets were delivered to the jeweler in the rue de la Paix.”

  “Then, what has become of him!”

  “Oh! Maxime, I am afraid.”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of, but I confess the situation is very serious. What does he know? Where does he hide himself? His isolation is his strong card. I cannot reach him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Act with extreme prudence, Clotilde. Some time ago I decided to change my residence to a safer place, and Sholmes’ appearance on the scene has prompted me to do so at once. When a man like that is on your track, you must be prepared for the worst. Well, I am making my preparations. Day after to-morrow, Wednesday, I shall move. At noon it will be finished. At two o’clock I shall leave the place, after removing the last trace of our residence there, which will be no small matter. Until then — —”

  “Well?”

  “Until then we must not see each other and no one must see you, Clotilde. Do not go out. I have no fear for myself, but I have for you.”

  “That Englishman cannot possibly reach me.”

  “I am not so sure of that. He is a dangerous man. Yesterday I came here to search the cupboard that contains all of Monsieur Destange’s old papers and records. There is danger there. There is danger everywhere. I feel that he is watching us — that he is drawing his net around us closer and closer. It is one of those intuitions which never deceive me.”

  “In that case, Maxime, go, and think no more of my tears. I shall be brave, and wait patiently until the danger is past. Adieu, Maxime.”

  They held one another for some time in a last fond embrace. And it was she that gently pushed him outside. Sholmes could hear the sound of their voices in the distance.

  Emboldened by the necessities of the situation and the urgent need of bringing his investigation to a speedy termination, Sholmes proceeded to make an examination of the house in which he now found himself. He passed through Clotilde’s boudoir into a corridor, at the end of which there was a stairway leading to the lower floor; he was about to descend this stairway when he heard voices below, which caused him to change his route. He followed the corridor, which was a circular one, and discovered another stairway, which he descended and found himself amidst surroundings that bore a familiar appearance. He passed through a door that stood partly open and entered a large circular room. It was Monsieur Destange’s library.

  “Ah! splendid!” he exclaimed. “Now I understand everything. The boudoir of Mademoiselle Clotilde — the blonde Lady — communicates with a room in the adjoining house, and that house does not front on the Place Malesherbes, but upon an adjacent street, the rue Montchanin, if I remember the name correctly.... And I now understand how Clotilde Destange can meet her lover and at the same time create the impression that she never leaves the house; and I understand also how Arsène Lupin was enabled to make his mysterious entrance to the gallery last night. Ah! there must be another connection between the library and the adjoining room. One more house full of ways that are dark! And no doubt Lucien Destange was the architect, as usual!... I should take advantage of this opportunity to examine the contents of the cupboard and perhaps learn the location of other houses with secret passages constructed by Monsieur Destange.”

  Sholmes ascended to the gallery and concealed himself behind some draperies, where he remained until late in the evening. At last a servant came and turned off the electric lights. An hour later the Englishman, by the light of his lantern, made his way to the cupboard. As he had surmised, it contained the architect’s old papers, plans, specifications and books of account. It also contained a series of registers, arranged according to date, and Sholmes, having selected those of the most recent dates, searched in the indexes for the name “Harmingeat.” He found it in one of the registers with a reference to page 63. Turning to that page, he read:

  “Harmingeat, 40 rue Chalgrin.”

  This was followed by a detailed account of the work done in and about the installation of a furnace in the house. And in the margin of the book someone had written these words: “See account M.B.”

  “Ah! I thought so!” said Sholmes; “the account M.B. is the one I want. I shall learn from it the actual residence of Monsieur Lupin.”

  It was morning before he found that important account. It comprised sixteen pages, one of which was a copy of the page on which was described the work done for Mon. Harmingeat of the rue Chalgrin. Another page described the work performed for Mon. Vatinel as owner of the house at No. 25 rue Clapeyron. Another page was reserved for the Baron d’Hautrec, 134 avenue Henri-Martin; another was devoted to the Château de Crozon, and the eleven other pages to various owners of houses in Paris.

  Sholmes made a list of those eleven names and addresses; after which he returned the books to their proper places, opened a window, jumped out onto the deserted street and closed the shutters behind him.

  When he reached his room at the hotel he lighted his pipe with all the solemnity with which he was wont to characterize that act, and amidst clouds of smoke he studied the deductions that might be drawn from the account of M.B., or rather, from the account of Maxime Bermond alias Arsène Lupin.

  At eight o’clock he sent the following message to Ganimard:

  “I expect to pass through the rue Pergolese this forenoon and will inform you of a person whose arrest is of the highest importance. In any event, be at home to-night and to-morrow until noon and have at least thirty men at your service.”

  Then he engaged an a
utomobile at the stand on the boulevard, choosing one whose chauffeur looked good-natured but dull-witted, and instructed him to drive to the Place Malesherbes, where he stopped him about one hundred feet from Monsieur Destange’s house.

  “My boy, close your carriage,” he said to the chauffeur; “turn up the collar of your coat, for the wind is cold, and wait patiently. At the end of an hour and a half, crank up your machine. When I return we will go to the rue Pergolese.”

  As he was ascending the steps leading to the door a doubt entered his mind. Was it not a mistake on his part to be spending his time on the affairs of the blonde Lady, while Arsène Lupin was preparing to move? Would he not be better engaged in trying to find the abode of his adversary amongst the eleven houses on his list?

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, “when the blonde Lady becomes my prisoner, I shall be master of the situation.”

  And he rang the bell.

  Monsieur Destange was already in the library. They had been working only a few minutes, when Clotilde entered, bade her father good morning, entered the adjoining parlor and sat down to write. From his place Sholmes could see her leaning over the table and from time to time absorbed in deep meditation. After a short time he picked up a book and said to Monsieur Destange:

  “Here is a book that Mademoiselle Destange asked me to bring to her when I found it.”

  He went into the little parlor, stood before Clotilde in such a manner that her father could not see her, and said:

  “I am Monsieur Stickmann, your father’s new secretary.”

  “Ah!” said Clotilde, without moving, “my father has changed his secretary? I didn’t know it.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle, and I desire to speak with you.”

  “Kindly take a seat, monsieur; I have finished.”

  She added a few words to her letter, signed it, enclosed it in the envelope, sealed it, pushed her writing material away, rang the telephone, got in communication with her dressmaker, asked the latter to hasten the completion of a traveling dress, as she required it at once, and then, turning to Sholmes, she said:

  “I am at your service, monsieur. But do you wish to speak before my father? Would not that be better?”