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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “In his eye, perhaps?” suggested Prasville, by way of a joke...

  “In his eye? Monsieur le secretaire-general, you have said the word.”

  “What?”

  “I repeat, in his eye. And it is a truth that ought to have occurred to my mind logically, instead of being revealed to me by accident. And I will tell you why. Daubrecq knew that Clarisse had seen a letter from him instructing an English manufacturer to ‘empty the crystal within, so as to leave a void which it was unpossible to suspect.’ Daubrecq was bound, in prudence, to divert any attempt at search. And it was for this reason that he had a crystal stopper made, ‘emptied within,’ after a model supplied by himself. And it is this crystal stopper which you and I have been after for months; and it is this crystal stopper which I dug out of a packet of tobacco. Whereas all I had to do...”

  “Was what?” asked Prasville, greatly puzzled.

  M. Nicole burst into a fresh fit of laughter:

  “Was simply to go for Daubrecq’s eye, that eye ‘emptied within so as to leave a void which it is impossible to suspect,’ the eye which you see before you.”

  And M. Nicole once more took the thing from his pocket and rapped the table with it, producing the sound of a hard body with each rap.

  Prasville whispered, in astonishment:

  “A glass eye!”

  “Why, of course!” cried M. Nicole, laughing gaily. “A glass eye! A common or garden decanter-stopper, which the rascal stuck into his eyesocket in the place of an eye which he had lost — a decanter-stopper, or, if you prefer, a crystal stopper, but the real one, this time, which he faked, which he hid behind the double bulwark of his spectacles and eye-glasses, which contained and still contains the talisman that enabled Daubrecq to work as he pleased in safety.”

  Prasville lowered his head and put his hand to his forehead to hide his flushed face: he was almost possessing the list of the Twenty-seven. It lay before him, on the table.

  Mastering his emotion, he said, in a casual tone:

  “So it is there still?”

  “At least, I suppose so,” declared M. Nicole.

  “What! You suppose so?”

  “I have not opened the hiding-place. I thought, monsieur le secretaire-general, I would reserve that honour for you.”

  Prasville put out his hand, took the thing up and inspected it. It was a block of crystal, imitating nature to perfection, with all the details of the eyeball, the iris, the pupil, the cornea.

  He at once saw a movable part at the back, which slid in a groove. He pushed it. The eye was hollow.

  There was a tiny ball of paper inside. He unfolded it, smoothed it out and, quickly, without delaying to make a preliminary examination of the names, the hand-writing or the signatures, he raised his arms and turned the paper to the light from the windows.

  “Is the cross of Lorraine there?” asked M. Nicole.

  “Yes, it is there,” replied Prasville. “This is the genuine list.”

  He hesitated a few seconds and remained with his arms raised, while reflecting what he would do. Then he folded up the paper again, replaced it in its little crystal sheath and put the whole thing in his pocket. M. Nicole, who was looking at him, asked:

  “Are you convinced?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then we are agreed?”

  “We are agreed.”

  There was a pause, during which the two men watched each other without appearing to. M. Nicole seemed to be waiting for the conversation to be resumed. Prasville, sheltered behind the piles of books on the table, sat with one hand grasping his revolver and the other touching the push of the electric bell. He felt the whole strength of his position with a keen zest. He held the list. He held Lupin:

  “If he moves,” he thought, “I cover him with my revolver and I ring. If he attacks me, I shoot.”

  And the situation appeared to him so pleasant that he prolonged it, with the exquisite relish of an epicure.

  In the end, M. Nicole took up the threads:

  “As we are agreed, monsieur le secretaire-general, I think there is nothing left for you to do but to hurry. Is the execution to take place to-morrow?”

  “Yes, to-morrow.”

  “In that case, I shall wait here.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “The answer from the Elysee.”

  “Oh, is some one to bring you an answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You, monsieur le secretaire-general.”

  Prasville shook his head:

  “You must not count on me, M. Nicole.”

  “Really?” said M. Nicole, with an air of surprise. “May I ask the reason?”

  “I have changed my mind.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. I have come to the conclusion that, as things stand, after this last scandal, it is impossible to try to do anything in Gilbert’s favour. Besides, an attempt in this direction at the Elysee, under present conditions, would constitute a regular case of blackmail, to which I absolutely decline to lend myself.”

  “You are free to do as you please, monsieur. Your scruples do you honour, though they come rather late, for they did not trouble you yesterday. But, in that case, monsieur le secretaire-general, as the compact between us is destroyed, give me back the list of the Twenty-seven.”

  “What for?”

  “So that I may apply to another spokesman.”

  “What’s the good? Gilbert is lost.”

  “Not at all, not at all. On the contrary, I consider that, now that his accomplice is dead, it will be much easier to grant him a pardon which everybody will look upon as fair and humane. Give me back the list.”

  “Upon my word, monsieur, you have a short memory and none too nice a conscience. Have you forgotten your promise of yesterday?”

  “Yesterday, I made a promise to a M. Nicole.”

  “Well?”

  “You are not M. Nicole.”

  “Indeed! Then, pray, who am I?”

  “Need I tell you?”

  M. Nicole made no reply, but began to laugh softly, as though pleased at the curious turn which the conversation was taking; and Prasville felt a vague misgiving at observing that fit of merriment. He grasped the butt-end of his revolver and wondered whether he ought not to ring for help.

  M. Nicole drew his chair close to the desk, put his two elbows on the table, looked Prasville straight in the face and jeered:

  “So, M. Prasville, you know who I am and you have the assurance to play this game with me?”

  “I have that assurance,” said Prasville, accepting the sneer without flinching.

  “Which proves that you consider me, Arsène Lupin — we may as well use the name: yes, Arsène Lupin — which proves that you consider me fool enough, dolt enough to deliver myself like this, bound hand and foot into your hands.”

  “Upon my word,” said Prasville, airily, patting the waistcoat-pocket in which he had secreted the crystal ball, “I don’t quite see what you can do, M. Nicole, now that Daubrecq’s eye is here, with the list of the Twenty-seven inside it.”

  “What I can do?” echoed M. Nicole, ironically.

  “Yes! The talisman no longer protects you; and you are now no better off than any other man who might venture into the very heart of the police-office, among some dozens of stalwart fellows posted behind each of those doors and some hundreds of others who will hasten up at the first signal.”

  M. Nicole shrugged his shoulders and gave Prasville a look of great commiseration:

  “Shall I tell you what is happening, monsieur le secretaire-general? Well, you too are having your head turned by all this business. Now that you possess the list, your state of mind has suddenly sunk to that of a Daubrecq or a d’Albufex. There is no longer even a question, in your thoughts, of taking it to your superiors, so that this ferment of disgrace and discord may be ended. No, no; a sodden temptation has seized upon you and intoxicated you; and, losing your head, you say to yourself, ‘It is
here, in my pocket. With its aid, I am omnipotent. It means wealth, absolute, unbounded power. Why not benefit by it? Why not let Gilbert and Clarisse Mergy die? Why not lock up that idiot of a Lupin? Why not seize this unparalleled piece of fortune by the forelock?’”

  He bent toward Prasville and, very softly, in a friendly and confidential tone, said:

  “Don’t do that, my dear sir, don’t do it.”

  “And why not?”

  “It is not to your interest, believe me.”

  “Really!”

  “No. Or, if you absolutely insist on doing it, have the kindness first to consult the twenty-seven names on the list of which you have just robbed me and reflect, for a moment, on the name of the third person on it.”

  “Oh? And what is the name of that third person?”

  “It is the name of a friend of yours.”

  “What friend?”

  “Stanislas Vorenglade, the ex-deputy.”

  “And then?” said Prasville, who seemed to be losing some of his self-confidence.

  “Then? Ask yourself if an inquiry, however summary, would not end by discovering, behind that Stanislas Vorenglade, the name of one who shared certain little profits with him.”

  “And whose name is?”

  “Louis Prasville.”

  M. Nicole banged the table with his fist.

  “Enough of this humbug, monsieur! For twenty minutes, you and I have been beating about the bush. That will do. Let us understand each other. And, to begin with, drop your pistols. You can’t imagine that I am frightened of those playthings! Stand up, sir, stand up, as I am doing, and finish the business: I am in a hurry.”

  He put his hand on Prasville’s shoulder and, speaking with great deliberation, said:

  “If, within an hour from now, you are not back from the Elysee, bringing with you a line to say that the decree of pardon has been signed; if, within one hour and ten minutes, I, Arsène Lupin, do not walk out of this building safe and sound and absolutely free, this evening four Paris newspapers will receive four letters selected from the correspondence exchanged between Stanislas Vorenglade and yourself, the correspondence which Stanislas Vorenglade sold me this morning. Here’s your hat, here’s your overcoat, here’s your stick. Be off. I will wait for you.”

  Then happened this extraordinary and yet easily understood thing, that Prasville did not raise the slightest protest nor make the least show of fight. He received the sudden, far-reaching, utter conviction of what the personality known as Arsène Lupin meant, in all its breadth and fulness. He did not so much as think of carping, of pretending — as he had until then believed — that the letters had been destroyed by Vorenglade the deputy or, at any rate, that Vorenglade would not dare to hand them over, because, in so doing, Vorenglade was also working his own destruction. No, Prasville did not speak a word. He felt himself caught in a vise of which no human strength could force the jaws asunder. There was nothing to do but yield. He yielded.

  “Here, in an hour,” repeated M. Nicole.

  “In an hour,” said Prasville, tamely. Nevertheless, in order to know exactly where he stood, he added, “The letters, of course, will be restored to me against Gilbert’s pardon?”

  “No.”

  “How do you mean, no? In that case, there is no object in...”

  “They will be restored to you, intact, two months after the day when my friends and I have brought about Gilbert’s escape... thanks to the very slack watch which will be kept upon him, in accordance with your orders.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, there are two further conditions: first, the immediate payment of a cheque for forty thousand francs.”

  “Forty thousand francs?”

  “The sum for which Stanislas Vorenglade sold me the letters. It is only fair...”

  “And next?”

  “Secondly, your resignation, within six months, of your present position.”

  “My resignation? But why?”

  M. Nicole made a very dignified gesture:

  “Because it is against public morals that one of the highest positions in the police-service should be occupied by a man whose hands are not absolutely clean. Make them send you to parliament or appoint you a minister, a councillor of State, an ambassador, in short, any post which your success in the Daubrecq case entitles you to demand. But not secretary-general of police; anything but that! The very thought of it disgusts me.”

  Prasville reflected for a moment. He would have rejoiced in the sudden destruction of his adversary and he racked his brain for the means to effect it. But he was helpless.

  He went to the door and called:

  “M. Lartigue.” And, sinking his voice, but not very low, for he wished M. Nicole to hear, “M. Lartigue, dismiss your men. It’s a mistake. And let no one come into my office while I am gone. This gentleman will wait for me here.”

  He came back, took the hat, stick and overcoat which M. Nicole handed him and went out.

  “Well done, sir,” said Lupin, between his teeth, when the door was closed. “You have behaved like a sportsman and a gentleman... So did I, for that matter... perhaps with too obvious a touch of contempt... and a little too bluntly. But, tush, this sort of business has to be carried through with a high hand! The enemy’s got to be staggered! Besides, when one’s own conscience is clear, one can’t take up too bullying a tone with that sort of individual. Lift your head, Lupin. You have been the champion of outraged morality. Be proud of your work. And now take a chair, stretch out your legs and have a rest. You’ve deserved it.”

  When Prasville returned, he found Lupin sound asleep and had to tap him on the shoulder to wake him.

  “Is it done?” asked Lupin.

  “It’s done. The pardon will be signed presently. Here is the written promise.”

  “The forty thousand francs?”

  “Here’s your cheque.”

  “Good. It but remains for me to thank you, monsieur.”

  “So the correspondence...”

  “The Stanislas Vorenglade correspondence will be handed to you on the conditions stated. However, I am glad to be able to give you, here and now, as a sign of my gratitude, the four letters which I meant to send to the papers this evening.”

  “Oh, so you had them on you?” said Prasville.

  “I felt so certain, monsieur le secretaire-general, that we should end by coming to an understanding.”

  He took from his hat a fat envelope, sealed with five red seals, which was pinned inside the lining, and handed it to Prasville, who thrust it into his pocket. Then he said:

  “Monsieur le secretaire-general, I don’t know when I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again. If you have the least communication to make to me, one line in the agony column of the Journal will be sufficient. Just head it, ‘M. Nicole.’ Good-day to you.”

  And he withdrew.

  Prasville, when he was alone, felt as if he were waking from a nightmare during which he had performed incoherent actions over which his conscious mind had no control. He was almost thinking of ringing and causing a stir in the passages; but, just then, there was a tap at the door and one of the office-messengers came hurrying in.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Prasville.

  “Monsieur le secretaire-general, it’s Monsieur le Depute Daubrecq asking to see you... on a matter of the highest importance.”

  “Daubrecq!” exclaimed Prasville, in bewilderment. “Daubrecq here! Show him in.”

  Daubrecq had not waited for the order. He ran up to Prasville, out of breath, with his clothes in disorder, a bandage over his left eye, no tie, no collar, looking like an escaped lunatic; and the door was not closed before he caught hold of Prasville with his two enormous hands:

  “Have you the list?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you bought it?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the price of Gilbert’s pardon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it signed?”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  Daubrecq made a furious gesture:

  “You fool! You fool! You’ve been trapped! For hatred of me, I expect? And now you’re going to take your revenge?”

  “With a certain satisfaction, Daubrecq. Remember my little friend, the opera-dancer, at Nice... It’s your turn now to dance.”

  “So it means prison?”

  “I should think so,” said Prasville. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. You’re done for, anyhow. Deprived of the list, without defence of any kind, you’re bound to fall to pieces of your own weight. And I shall be present at the break-up. That’s my revenge.”

  “And you believe that!” yelled Daubrecq, furiously. “You believe that they will wring my neck like a chicken’s and that I shall not know how to defend myself and that I have no claws left and no teeth to bite with! Well, my boy, if I do come to grief, there’s always one who will fall with me and that is Master Prasville, the partner of Stanislas Vorenglade, who is going to hand me every proof in existence against him, so that I may get him sent to gaol without delay. Aha, I’ve got you fixed, old chap! With those letters, you’ll go as I please, hang it all, and there will be fine days yet for Daubrecq the deputy! What! You’re laughing, are you? Perhaps those letters don’t exist?”

  Prasville shrugged his shoulders:

  “Yes, they exist. But Vorenglade no longer has them in his possession.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since this morning. Vorenglade sold them, two hours ago, for the sum of forty thousand francs; and I have bought them back at the same price.”

  Daubrecq burst into a great roar of laughter:

  “Lord, how funny! Forty thousand francs! You’ve paid forty thousand francs! To M. Nicole, I suppose, who sold you the list of the Twenty-seven? Well, would you like me to tell you the real name of M. Nicole? It’s Arsène Lupin!”

  “I know that.”

  “Very likely. But what you don’t know, you silly ass, is that I have come straight from Stanislas Vorenglade’s and that Stanislas Vorenglade left Paris four days ago! Oh, what a joke! They’ve sold you waste paper! And your forty thousand francs! What an ass! What an ass!”

  He walked out of the room, screaming with laughter and leaving Prasville absolutely dumbfounded.