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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “But, hang it all, the proof of what?” cried Farmer Goussot, irritably.

  The stranger took a shotgun from the rack.

  “Is it loaded?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the youngest of the brothers. “I use it to kill the sparrows with, for fun. It’s small shot.”

  “Capital! A peppering where it won’t hurt him will do the trick.”

  His face suddenly assumed a masterful look. He gripped the farmer by the arm and rapped out, in an imperious tone:

  “Listen to me, Farmer Goussot. I’m not here to do policeman’s work; and I won’t have the poor beggar locked up at any price. Four weeks of starvation and fright is good enough for anybody. So you’ve got to swear to me, you and your sons, that you’ll let him off without hurting him.”

  “He must hand over the money!”

  “Well, of course. Do you swear?”

  “I swear.”

  The gentleman walked back to the door-sill, at the entrance to the orchard. He took a quick aim, pointing his gun a little in the air, in the direction of the cherry tree which overhung the spring. He fired. A hoarse cry rang from the tree; and the scarecrow which had been straddling the main branch for a month past came tumbling to the ground, only to jump up at once and make off as fast as its legs could carry it.

  There was a moment’s amazement, followed by outcries. The sons darted in pursuit and were not long in coming up with the runaway, hampered as he was by his rags and weakened by privation. But the stranger was already protecting him against their wrath:

  “Hands off there! This man belongs to me. I won’t have him touched.... I hope I haven’t stung you up too much, Trainard?”

  Standing on his straw legs wrapped round with strips of tattered cloth, with his arms and his whole body clad in the same materials, his head swathed in linen, tightly packed like a sausage, the old chap still had the stiff appearance of a lay-figure. And the whole effect was so ludicrous and so unexpected that the onlookers screamed with laughter.

  The stranger unbound his head; and they saw a veiled mask of tangled grey beard encroaching on every side upon a skeleton face lit up by two eyes burning with fever.

  The laughter was louder than ever.

  “The money! The six notes!” roared the farmer.

  The stranger kept him at a distance:

  “One moment ... we’ll give you that back, sha’n’t we, Trainard?”

  And, taking his knife and cutting away the straw and cloth, he jested, cheerily:

  “You poor old beggar, what a guy you look! But how on earth did you manage to pull off that trick? You must be confoundedly clever, or else you had the devil’s own luck.... So, on the first night, you used the breathing-time they left you to rig yourself in these togs! Not a bad idea. Who could ever suspect a scarecrow?... They were so accustomed to seeing it stuck up in its tree! But, poor old daddy, how uncomfortable you must have felt, lying flat up there on your stomach, with your arms and legs dangling down! All day long, like that! The deuce of an attitude! And how you must have been put to it, when you ventured to move a limb, eh? And how you must have funked going to sleep!... And then you had to eat! And drink! And you heard the sentry and felt the barrel of his gun within a yard of your nose! Brrrr!... But the trickiest of all, you know, was your bit of straw!... Upon my word, when I think that, without a sound, without a movement so to speak, you had to fish out lengths of straw from your toggery, fix them end to end, let your apparatus down to the water and suck up the heavenly moisture drop by drop.... Upon my word, one could scream with admiration.... Well done, Trainard....” And he added, between his teeth, “Only you’re in a very unappetizing state, my man. Haven’t you washed yourself all this month, you old pig? After all, you had as much water as you wanted!... Here, you people, I hand him over to you. I’m going to wash my hands, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Farmer Goussot and his four sons grabbed at the prey which he was abandoning to them:

  “Now then, come along, fork out the money.”

  Dazed as he was, the tramp still managed to simulate astonishment.

  “Don’t put on that idiot look,” growled the farmer. “Come on. Out with the six notes....”

  “What?... What do you want of me?” stammered old Trainard.

  “The money ... on the nail....”

  “What money?”

  “The bank-notes.”

  “The bank-notes?”

  “Oh, I’m getting sick of you! Here, lads....”

  They laid the old fellow flat, tore off the rags that composed his clothes, felt and searched him all over.

  There was nothing on him.

  “You thief and you robber!” yelled old Goussot. “What have you done with it?”

  The old beggar seemed more dazed than ever. Too cunning to confess, he kept on whining:

  “What do you want of me?... Money? I haven’t three sous to call my own....”

  But his eyes, wide with wonder, remained fixed upon his clothes; and he himself seemed not to understand.

  The Goussots’ rage could no longer be restrained. They rained blows upon him, which did not improve matters. But the farmer was convinced that Trainard had hidden the money before turning himself into the scarecrow:

  “Where have you put it, you scum? Out with it! In what part of the orchard have you hidden it?”

  “The money?” repeated the tramp with a stupid look.

  “Yes, the money! The money which you’ve buried somewhere.... Oh, if we don’t find it, your goose is cooked!... We have witnesses, haven’t we?... All of you, friends, eh? And then the gentleman....”

  He turned, with the intention of addressing the stranger, in the direction of the spring, which was thirty or forty steps to the left. And he was quite surprised not to see him washing his hands there:

  “Has he gone?” he asked.

  Some one answered:

  “No, he lit a cigarette and went for a stroll in the orchard.”

  “Oh, that’s all right!” said the farmer. “He’s the sort to find the notes for us, just as he found the man.”

  “Unless ...” said a voice.

  “Unless what?” echoed the farmer. “What do you mean? Have you something in your head? Out with it, then! What is it?”

  But he interrupted himself suddenly, seized with a doubt; and there was a moment’s silence. The same idea dawned on all the country-folk. The stranger’s arrival at Héberville, the breakdown of his motor, his manner of questioning the people at the inn and of gaining admission to the farm: were not all these part and parcel of a put-up job, the trick of a cracksman who had learnt the story from the papers and who had come to try his luck on the spot?...

  “Jolly smart of him!” said the inn-keeper. “He must have taken the money from old Trainard’s pocket, before our eyes, while he was searching him.”

  “Impossible!” spluttered Farmer Goussot. “He would have been seen going out that way ... by the house ... whereas he’s strolling in the orchard.”

  Mother Goussot, all of a heap, suggested:

  “The little door at the end, down there?...”

  “The key never leaves me.”

  “But you showed it to him.”

  “Yes; and I took it back again.... Look, here it is.”

  He clapped his hand to his pocket and uttered a cry:

  “Oh, dash it all, it’s gone!... He’s sneaked it!...”

  He at once rushed away, followed and escorted by his sons and a number of the villagers.

  When they were halfway down the orchard, they heard the throb of a motor-car, obviously the one belonging to the stranger, who had given orders to his chauffeur to wait for him at that lower entrance.

  When the Goussots reached the door, they saw scrawled with a brick, on the worm-eaten panel, the two words:

  “ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

  Stick to it as the angry Goussots might, they found it impossible to prove that old Trainard had stolen any money. Twenty persons had to
bear witness that, when all was said, nothing was discovered on his person. He escaped with a few months’ imprisonment for the assault.

  He did not regret them. As soon as he was released, he was secretly informed that, every quarter, on a given date, at a given hour, under a given milestone on a given road, he would find three gold louis.

  To a man like old Trainard that means wealth.

  EDITH SWAN-NECK

  “ARSÈNE LUPIN, WHAT’S your real opinion of Inspector Ganimard?”

  “A very high one, my dear fellow.”

  “A very high one? Then why do you never miss a chance of turning him into ridicule?”

  “It’s a bad habit; and I’m sorry for it. But what can I say? It’s the way of the world. Here’s a decent detective-chap, here’s a whole pack of decent men, who stand for law and order, who protect us against the apaches, who risk their lives for honest people like you and me; and we have nothing to give them in return but flouts and gibes. It’s preposterous!”

  “Bravo, Lupin! you’re talking like a respectable ratepayer!”

  “What else am I? I may have peculiar views about other people’s property; but I assure you that it’s very different when my own’s at stake. By Jove, it doesn’t do to lay hands on what belongs to me! Then I’m out for blood! Aha! It’s my pocket, my money, my watch ... hands off! I have the soul of a conservative, my dear fellow, the instincts of a retired tradesman and a due respect for every sort of tradition and authority. And that is why Ganimard inspires me with no little gratitude and esteem.”

  “But not much admiration?”

  “Plenty of admiration too. Over and above the dauntless courage which comes natural to all those gentry at the Criminal Investigation Department, Ganimard possesses very sterling qualities: decision, insight and judgment. I have watched him at work. He’s somebody, when all’s said. Do you know the Edith Swan-neck story, as it was called?”

  “I know as much as everybody knows.”

  “That means that you don’t know it at all. Well, that job was, I daresay, the one which I thought out most cleverly, with the utmost care and the utmost precaution, the one which I shrouded in the greatest darkness and mystery, the one which it took the biggest generalship to carry through. It was a regular game of chess, played according to strict scientific and mathematical rules. And yet Ganimard ended by unravelling the knot. Thanks to him, they know the truth to-day on the Quai des Orfèvres. And it is a truth quite out of the common, I assure you.”

  “May I hope to hear it?”

  “Certainly ... one of these days ... when I have time.... But the Brunelli is dancing at the Opera to-night; and, if she were not to see me in my stall ...!”

  I do not meet Lupin often. He confesses with difficulty, when it suits him. It was only gradually, by snatches, by odds and ends of confidences, that I was able to obtain the different incidents and to piece the story together in all its details.

  The main features are well known and I will merely mention the facts.

  Three years ago, when the train from Brest arrived at Rennes, the door of one of the luggage vans was found smashed in. This van had been booked by Colonel Sparmiento, a rich Brazilian, who was travelling with his wife in the same train. It contained a complete set of tapestry-hangings. The case in which one of these was packed had been broken open and the tapestry had disappeared.

  Colonel Sparmiento started proceedings against the railway-company, claiming heavy damages, not only for the stolen tapestry, but also for the loss in value which the whole collection suffered in consequence of the theft.

  The police instituted inquiries. The company offered a large reward. A fortnight later, a letter which had come undone in the post was opened by the authorities and revealed the fact that the theft had been carried out under the direction of Arsène Lupin and that a package was to leave next day for the United States. That same evening, the tapestry was discovered in a trunk deposited in the cloak-room at the Gare Saint-Lazare.

  The scheme, therefore, had miscarried. Lupin felt the disappointment so much that he vented his ill-humour in a communication to Colonel Sparmiento, ending with the following words, which were clear enough for anybody:

  “It was very considerate of me to take only one. Next time, I shall take the twelve. Verbum sap.

  “A. L.”

  Colonel Sparmiento had been living for some months in a house standing at the end of a small garden at the corner of the Rue de la Faisanderie and the Rue Dufresnoy. He was a rather thick-set, broad-shouldered man, with black hair and a swarthy skin, always well and quietly dressed. He was married to an extremely pretty but delicate Englishwoman, who was much upset by the business of the tapestries. From the first she implored her husband to sell them for what they would fetch. The Colonel had much too forcible and dogged a nature to yield to what he had every right to describe as a woman’s fancies. He sold nothing, but he redoubled his precautions and adopted every measure that was likely to make an attempt at burglary impossible.

  To begin with, so that he might confine his watch to the garden-front, he walled up all the windows on the ground-floor and the first floor overlooking the Rue Dufresnoy. Next, he enlisted the services of a firm which made a speciality of protecting private houses against robberies. Every window of the gallery in which the tapestries were hung was fitted with invisible burglar alarms, the position of which was known, to none but himself. These, at the least touch, switched on all the electric lights and set a whole system of bells and gongs ringing.

  In addition to this, the insurance companies to which he applied refused to grant policies to any considerable amount unless he consented to let three men, supplied by the companies and paid by himself, occupy the ground-floor of his house every night. They selected for the purpose three ex-detectives, tried and trustworthy men, all of whom hated Lupin like poison. As for the servants, the colonel had known them for years and was ready to vouch for them.

  After taking these steps and organizing the defence of the house as though it were a fortress, the colonel gave a great house-warming, a sort of private view, to which he invited the members of both his clubs, as well as a certain number of ladies, journalists, art-patrons and critics.

  They felt, as they passed through the garden-gate, much as if they were walking into a prison. The three private detectives, posted at the foot of the stairs, asked for each visitor’s invitation card and eyed him up and down suspiciously, making him feel as though they were going to search his pockets or take his finger-prints.

  The colonel, who received his guests on the first floor, made laughing apologies and seemed delighted at the opportunity of explaining the arrangements which he had invented to secure the safety of his hangings. His wife stood by him, looking charmingly young and pretty, fair-haired, pale and sinuous, with a sad and gentle expression, the expression of resignation often worn by those who are threatened by fate.

  When all the guests had come, the garden-gates and the hall-doors were closed. Then everybody filed into the middle gallery, which was reached through two steel doors, while its windows, with their huge shutters, were protected by iron bars. This was where the twelve tapestries were kept.

  They were matchless works of art and, taking their inspiration from the famous Bayeux Tapestry, attributed to Queen Matilda, they represented the story of the Norman Conquest. They had been ordered in the fourteenth century by the descendant of a man-at-arms in William the Conqueror’s train; were executed by Jehan Gosset, a famous Arras weaver; and were discovered, five hundred years later, in an old Breton manor-house. On hearing of this, the colonel had struck a bargain for fifty thousand francs. They were worth ten times the money.

  But the finest of the twelve hangings composing the set, the most uncommon because the subject had not been treated by Queen Matilda, was the one which Arsène Lupin had stolen and which had been so fortunately recovered. It portrayed Edith Swan-neck on the battlefield of Hastings, seeking among the dead for the body of her sweethear
t Harold, last of the Saxon kings.

  The guests were lost in enthusiasm over this tapestry, over the unsophisticated beauty of the design, over the faded colours, over the life-like grouping of the figures and the pitiful sadness of the scene. Poor Edith Swan-neck stood drooping like an overweighted lily. Her white gown revealed the lines of her languid figure. Her long, tapering hands were outstretched in a gesture of terror and entreaty. And nothing could be more mournful than her profile, over which flickered the most dejected and despairing of smiles.

  “A harrowing smile,” remarked one of the critics, to whom the others listened with deference. “A very charming smile, besides; and it reminds me, Colonel, of the smile of Mme. Sparmiento.”

  And seeing that the observation seemed to meet with approval, he enlarged upon his idea:

  “There are other points of resemblance that struck me at once, such as the very graceful curve of the neck and the delicacy of the hands ... and also something about the figure, about the general attitude....”

  “What you say is so true,” said the colonel, “that I confess that it was this likeness that decided me to buy the hangings. And there was another reason, which was that, by a really curious chance, my wife’s name happens to be Edith. I have called her Edith Swan-neck ever since.” And the colonel added, with a laugh, “I hope that the coincidence will stop at this and that my dear Edith will never have to go in search of her true-love’s body, like her prototype.”

  He laughed as he uttered these words, but his laugh met with no echo; and we find the same impression of awkward silence in all the accounts of the evening that appeared during the next few days. The people standing near him did not know what to say. One of them tried to jest:

  “Your name isn’t Harold, Colonel?”

  “No, thank you,” he declared, with continued merriment. “No, that’s not my name; nor am I in the least like the Saxon king.”

  All have since agreed in stating that, at that moment, as the colonel finished speaking, the first alarm rang from the windows — the right or the middle window: opinions differ on this point — rang short and shrill on a single note. The peal of the alarm-bell was followed by an exclamation of terror uttered by Mme. Sparmiento, who caught hold of her husband’s arm. He cried: