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

by Maurice Leblanc

  He was shouting in the dark, dragging the two men along with irresistible force.

  They neared the motors.

  “Get ready!” he ordered as soon as he was in sight. “I’ll drive myself.”

  He tried to get into the driver’s seat. But Weber objected and pushed him inside, saying:

  “Don’t trouble — the chauffeur knows his business. He’ll drive faster than you would.”

  Don Luis, the deputy chief, and two detectives crowded into the cab;

  Mazeroux took his seat beside the chauffeur.

  “Versailles Road!” roared Don Luis.

  The car started; and he continued:

  “We’ve got him! You see, it’s a magnificent opportunity. He must be going pretty fast, but without forcing the pace, because he doesn’t think we’re after him. Oh, the villain, we’ll make him sit up! Quicker, driver! But what the devil are we loaded up like this for? You and I, Deputy Chief, would have been enough. Hi, Mazeroux, get down and jump into the other car! That’ll be better, won’t it, Deputy? It’s absurd—”

  He interrupted himself; and, as he was sitting on the back seat, between the deputy chief and a detective, he rose toward the window and muttered:

  “Why, look here, what’s the idiot doing? That’s not the road! I say, what does this mean?”

  A roar of laughter was the only answer. It came from Weber, who was shaking with delight. Don Luis stifled an oath and, making a tremendous effort, tried to leap from the car. Six hands fell upon him and held him motionless. The deputy chief had him by the throat. The detectives clutched his arms. There was no room for him to struggle within the restricted space of the small car; and he felt the cold iron of a revolver on his temple.

  “None of your nonsense,” growled Weber, “or I’ll blow out your brains, my boy! Aha! you didn’t expect this! It’s Weber’s revenge, eh?”

  And, when Perenna continued to wriggle, he went on, in a threatening tone:

  “You’ll have only yourself to blame, mind!… I’m going to count three: one, two—”

  “But what’s it all about?” bellowed Don Luis.

  “Prefect’s orders, received just now.”

  “What orders?”

  “To take you to the lockup if the Florence girl escaped us again.”

  “Have you a warrant?”

  “I have.”

  “And what next?”

  “What next? Nothing: the Sante — the examining magistrate—”

  “But, hang it all, the tiger’s making tracks meanwhile! Oh, rot! Is it possible to be so dense? What mugs those fellows are! Oh, dash it!”

  He was fuming with rage, and when he saw that they were driving into the prison yard, he gathered all his strength, knocked the revolver out of the deputy’s hand, and stunned one of the detectives with a blow of his fist.

  But ten men came crowding round the doors. Resistance was useless. He understood this, and his rage increased.

  “The idiots!” he shouted, while they surrounded him and searched him at the door of the office. “The rotters! The bunglers! To go mucking up a job like that! They can lay hands on the villain if they want to, and they lock up the honest man — while the villain makes himself scarce! And he’ll do more murder yet! Florence! Florence …”

  Under the lamp light, in the midst of the detectives holding him, he was magnificent in his helpless violence.

  They dragged him away. With an unparalleled display of strength, he drew himself up, shook off the men who were hanging on to him like a pack of hounds worrying some animal at bay, got rid of Weber, and accosted Mazeroux in familiar tones. He was gloriously masterful, almost calm, so wholly did he appear to control his seething rage. He gave his orders in breathless little sentences, curt as words of command.

  “Mazeroux, run around to the Prefect’s. Ask him to ring up Valenglay:

  yes, the Prime Minister. I want to see him. Have him informed. Ask the

  Prefect to say it’s I: the man who made the German Emperor play his game.

  My name? He knows. Or, if he forgets, the Prefect can tell him my name.”

  He paused for a second or two; and then, calmer still, he declared:

  “Arsène Lupin! Telephone those two words to him and just say this: ‘Arsène Lupin wishes to speak to the Prime Minister on very important business.’ Get that through to him at once. The Prime Minister would be very angry if he heard afterward that they had neglected to communicate my request. Go, Mazeroux, and then find the villain’s tracks again.”

  The governor of the prison had opened the jail book.

  “You can enter my name, Monsieur le Directeur,” said Don Luis. “Put down

  ‘Arsène Lupin.’”

  The governor smiled and said:

  “I should find a difficulty in putting down any other. It’s on the warrant: ‘Arsène Lupin, alias Don Luis Perenna.’”

  Don Luis felt a little shudder pass through him at the sound of those words. The fact that he was arrested under the name of Arsène Lupin made his position doubly dangerous.

  “Ah,” he said, “so they’ve resolved—”

  “I should think so!” said Weber, in a tone of triumph. “We’ve resolved to take the bull by the horns and to go straight for Lupin. Plucky of us, eh? Never fear, we’ll show you something better than that!”

  Don Luis did not flinch. Turning to Mazeroux again, he said:

  “Don’t forget my instructions, Mazeroux.”

  But there was a fresh blow in store for him. The sergeant did not answer his remark. Don Luis watched him closely and once more gave a start. He had just perceived that Mazeroux also was surrounded by men who were holding him tight. And the poor sergeant stood silently shedding tears.

  Weber’s liveliness increased.

  “You’ll have to excuse him, Lupin. Sergeant Mazeroux accompanies you to prison, though not in the same cell.”

  “Ah!” said Don Luis, drawing himself up. “Is Mazeroux put into jail?”

  “Prefect’s orders, warrant duly executed.”

  “And on what charge?”

  “Accomplice of Arsène Lupin.”

  “Mazeroux my accomplice? Get out! Mazeroux? The most honest man that ever lived!”

  “The most honest man that ever lived, as you say. That didn’t prevent people from going to him when they wanted to write to you or prevent him from bringing you the letters. Which proves that he knew where you were hanging out. And there’s a good deal more which we’ll explain to you, Lupin, in good time. You’ll have plenty of fun, I assure you.”

  Don Luis murmured:

  “My poor Mazeroux!”

  Then, raising his voice, he said:

  “Don’t cry, old chap. It’s just a matter of the remainder of the night. Yes, I’ll share my cards with you and we’ll turn the king and mark game in a very few hours. Don’t cry. I’ve got a much finer berth waiting for you, a more honourable and above all a more lucrative position. I have just what you want.

  “You don’t imagine, surely, that I wasn’t prepared for this! Why, you know me! Take it from me: I shall be at liberty to-morrow, and the government, after setting you free, will pitch you into a colonelcy or something, with a marshal’s pay attached to it. So don’t cry, Mazeroux.”

  Then, addressing Weber, he said to him in the voice of a principal giving an order, and knowing that the order will be executed without discussion:

  “Monsieur, I will ask you to fulfil the confidential mission which I was entrusting to Mazeroux. First, inform the Prefect of Police that I have a communication of the very highest importance to make to the Prime Minister. Next, discover the tiger’s tracks at Versailles before the night is over. I know your merit, Monsieur, and I rely entirely upon your diligence and your zeal. Meet me at twelve o’clock to-morrow.”

  And, still maintaining his attitude of a principal who has given his instructions, he allowed himself to be taken to his cell.

  It was ten to one. For the last fifty minutes the en
emy had been bowling along the highroad, carrying off Florence like a prey which it now seemed impossible to snatch from him.

  The door was locked and bolted.

  Don Luis reflected:

  “Even presuming that Monsieur le Prefect consents to ring up Valenglay, he won’t do so before the morning. So they’ve given the villain eight hours’ start before I’m free. Eight hours! Curse it!”

  He thought a little longer, then shrugged his shoulders with the air of one who, for the moment, has nothing better to do than wait, and flung himself on his mattress, murmuring:

  “Hushaby, Lupin!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  OPEN SESAME!

  IN SPITE OF his usual facility for sleep, Don Luis slept for three hours at most. He was racked with too much anxiety; and, though his plan of conduct was worked out mathematically, he could not help foreseeing all the obstacles which were likely to frustrate that plan. Of course, Weber would speak to M. Desmalions. But would M. Desmalions telephone to Valenglay?

  “He is sure to telephone,” Don Luis declared, stamping his foot. “It doesn’t let him in for anything. And at the same time, he would be running a big risk if he refused, especially as Valenglay must have been consulted about my arrest and is obviously kept informed of all that happens.”

  He next asked himself what exactly Valenglay could do, once he was told. For, after all, was it not too much to expect that the head of the government, that the Prime Minister, should put himself out to obey the injunctions and assist the schemes of M. Arsène Lupin?

  “He will come!” he cried, with the same persistent confidence. “Valenglay doesn’t care a hang for form and ceremony and all that nonsense. He will come, even if it is only out of curiosity, to learn what the Kaiser’s friend can have to say to him. Besides, he knows me! I am not one of those beggars who inconvenience people for nothing. There’s always something to be gained by meeting me. He’ll come!”

  But another question at once presented itself to his mind. Valenglay’s coming in no way implied his consent to the bargain which Perenna meant to propose to him. And even if Don Luis succeeded in convincing him, what risks remained! How many doubtful points to overcome! And then the possibilities of failure!

  Would Weber pursue the fugitive’s motor car with the necessary decision and boldness? Would he get on the track again? And, having got on the track, would he be certain not to lose it?

  And then — and then, even supposing that all the chances were favourable, was it not too late? Taking for granted that they hunted down the wild beast, that they drove him to bay, would he not meanwhile have killed his prey? Knowing himself beaten, would a monster of that kind hesitate to add one more murder to the long list of his crimes?

  And this, to Don Luis, was the crowning terror. After all the difficulties which, in his stubbornly confident imagination, he had managed to surmount, he was brought face to face with the horrible vision of Florence being sacrificed, of Florence dead!

  “Oh, the torture of it!” he stammered. “I alone could have succeeded; and they shut me up!”

  He hardly put himself out to inquire into the reasons for which M. Desmalions, suddenly changing his mind, had consented to his arrest, thus bringing back to life that troublesome Arsène Lupin with whom the police had not hitherto cared to hamper themselves. No, that did not interest him. Florence alone mattered. And the minutes passed; and each minute wasted brought Florence nearer to her doom.

  He remembered a similar occasion when, some years before, he waited in the same way for the door of his cell to open and the German Emperor to appear. But how much greater was the solemnity of the present moment! Before, it was at the very most his liberty that was at stake. This time it was Florence’s life which fate was about to offer or refuse him.

  “Florence! Florence!” he kept repeating, in his despair.

  He no longer had a doubt of her innocence. Nor did he doubt that the other loved her and had carried her off not so much for the hostage of a coveted fortune as for a love spoil, which a man destroys if he cannot keep it.

  “Florence! Florence!”

  He was suffering from an extraordinary fit of depression. His defeat seemed irretrievable. There was no question of hastening after Florence, of catching the murderer. Don Luis was in prison under his own name of Arsène Lupin; and the whole problem lay in knowing how long he would remain there, for months or for years!

  It was then that he fully realized what his love for Florence meant. He perceived that it took the place in his life of his former passions, his craving for luxury, his desire for mastery, his pleasure in fighting, his ambition, his revenge. For two months he had been struggling to win her and for nothing else. The search after the truth and the punishment of the criminal were to him no more than means of saving Florence from the dangers that threatened her.

  If Florence had to die, if it was too late to snatch her from the enemy, in that case he might as well remain in prison. Arsène Lupin spending the rest of his days in a convict settlement was a fitting end to the spoilt life of a man who had not even been able to win the love of the only woman he had really loved.

  It was a passing mood and, being totally opposed to Don Luis’s nature, finished abruptly in a state of utter confidence which no longer admitted the least particle of anxiety or doubt. The sun had risen. The cell gradually became filled with daylight. And Don Luis remembered that Valenglay reached his office on the Place Beauveau at seven o’clock in the morning.

  From this moment he felt absolutely calm. Coming events presented an entirely different aspect to him, as though they had, so to speak, turned right round. The contest seemed to him easy, the facts free from complications. He understood as clearly as if the actions had been performed that his will could not but be obeyed. The deputy chief must inevitably have made a faithful report to the Prefect of Police. The Prefect of Police must inevitably that morning have transmitted Arsène Lupin’s request to Valenglay.

  Valenglay would inevitably give himself the pleasure of an interview with Arsène Lupin. Arsène Lupin would inevitably, in the course of that interview, obtain Valenglay’s consent. These were not suppositions, but certainties; not problems awaiting solution, but problems already solved. Starting from A and continuing along B and C, you arrive, whether you wish it or not, at D.

  Don Luis began to laugh:

  “Come, come, Arsène, old chap, remember that you brought Mr. Hohenzollern all the way from his Brandenburg Marches. Valenglay does not live as far as that, by Jove! And, if necessary, you can put yourself out a little…. That’s it: I’ll consent to take the first step. I will go and call on M. de Beauveau. M. Valenglay, it is a pleasure to see you.”

  He went gayly to the door, pretending that it was open and that he had only to walk through to be received when his turn came.

  He repeated this child’s play three times, bowing low and long, as though holding a plumed hat in his hand, and murmuring:

  “Open sesame!”

  At the fourth time, the door opened, and a warder appeared.

  Don Luis said, in a ceremonious tone:

  “I hope I have not kept the Prime Minister waiting?”

  There were four inspectors in the corridor.

  “Are these gentlemen my escort?” he asked. “That’s right. Announce Arsène Lupin, grandee of Spain, his most Catholic Majesty’s cousin. My lords, I follow you. Turnkey, here are twenty crowns for your pains, my friend.”

  He stopped in the corridor.

  “By Jupiter, no gloves; and I haven’t shaved since yesterday!”

  The inspectors had surrounded him and were pushing him a little roughly.

  He seized two of them by the arm. They groaned.

  “That’ll teach you,” he said. “You’ve no orders to thrash me, have you?

  Nor even to handcuff me? That being so, young fellows, behave!”

  The prison governor was standing in the hall.

  “I’ve had a capital night, my dear gov
ernor,” said Don “Your C.T.C. rooms are the very acme of comfort. I’ll see that the Lockup Arms receives a star in the ‘Baedeker.’ Would you like me to write you a testimonial in your jail book? You wouldn’t? Perhaps you hope to see me again? Sorry, my dear governor, but it’s impossible. I have other things to do.”

  A motor car was waiting in the yard. Don Luis stepped in with the four detectives:

  “Place Beauveau,” he said to the driver.

  “No, Rue Vineuse,” said one of the detectives, correcting him.

  “Oho!” said Don Luis. “His Excellency’s private residence! His Excellency prefers that my visit should be kept secret. That’s a good sign. By the way, dear friends, what’s the time?”

  His question remained unanswered. And as the detectives had drawn the blinds, he was unable to consult the clocks in the street.

  * * * * *

  It was not until he was at Valenglay’s, in the Prime Minister’s little ground-floor flat near the Trocadero, that he saw a clock on the mantelpiece:

  “A quarter to seven!” he exclaimed. “Good! There’s not been much time lost.”

  Valenglay’s study opened on a flight of steps that ran down to a garden filled with aviaries. The room itself was crammed with books and pictures.

  A bell rang, and the detectives went out, following the old maidservant who had shown them in. Don Luis was left alone.

  He was still calm, but nevertheless felt a certain uneasiness, a longing to be up and doing, to throw himself into the fray; and his eyes kept on involuntarily returning to the face of the clock. The minute hand seemed endowed with extraordinary speed.

  At last some one entered, ushering in a second person. Don Luis recognized Valenglay and the Prefect of Police.

  “That’s it,” he thought. “I’ve got him.”

  He saw this by the sort of vague sympathy perceptible on the old Premier’s lean and bony face. There was not a sign of arrogance, nothing to raise a barrier between the Minister and the suspicious individual whom he was receiving: just a manifest, playful curiosity and sympathy, It was a sympathy which Valenglay had never concealed, and of which he even boasted when, after Arsène Lupin’s sham death, he spoke of the adventurer and the strange relations between them.