Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-thief (Penguin Classics)

by Leblanc, Maurice

  This time, M. Dudouis did not utter a word nor make a gesture. Lupin’s audacity confounded him.

  Ganimard chuckled.

  “It’s no longer a threefold, but a fourfold incarnation. Edith Swan-neck might have blundered. The master’s presence was necessary; and he had the cheek to return. For three weeks, he has been beside me during my inquiry, calmly following the progress made.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “One doesn’t recognize him. He has a knack of making-up his face and altering the proportions of his body so as to prevent any one from knowing him. Besides, I was miles from suspecting…. But, this evening, as I was watching Sonia in the shadow of the stairs, I heard Victoire speak to the man-servant and call him, ‘Dearie.’ A light flashed in upon me. ‘Dearie!’ That was what she always used to call him. And I knew where I was.”

  M. Dudouis seemed flustered, in his turn, by the presence of the enemy, so often pursued and always so intangible:

  “We’ve got him, this time,” he said, between his teeth. “We’ve got him; and he can’t escape us.”

  “No, chief, he can’t: neither he nor the two women.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Sonia and Victoire are on the second floor; Lupin is on the third.”

  M. Dudouis suddenly became anxious:

  “Why, it was through the windows of one of those floors that the tapestries were passed when they disappeared!”

  “That’s so, chief.”

  “In that case, Lupin can get away too. The windows look out on the Rue Dufresnoy.”

  “Of course they do, chief; but I have taken my precautions. The moment you arrived, I sent four of our men to keep watch under the windows in the Rue Dufresnoy. They have strict instructions to shoot, if any one appears at the windows and looks like coming down. Blank cartridges for the first shot, ball-cartridges for the next.”

  “Good, Ganimard! You have thought of everything. We’ll wait here; and, immediately after sunrise…”

  “Wait, chief? Stand on ceremony with that rascal? Bother about rules and regulations, legal hours and all that rot? And suppose he’s not quite so polite to us and gives us the slip meanwhile? Suppose he plays us one of his Lupin tricks? No, no, we must have no nonsense! We’ve got him: let’s collar him; and that without delay!”

  And Ganimard, all a-quiver with indignant impatience, went out, walked across the garden and presently returned with half-a-dozen men:

  “It’s all right, chief. I’ve told them, in the Rue Dufresnoy, to get their revolvers out and aim at the windows. Come along.”

  These alarums and excursions had not been effected without a certain amount of noise, which was bound to be heard by the inhabitants of the house. M. Dudouis felt that his hand was forced. He made up his mind to act:

  “Come on, then,” he said.

  The thing did not take long. The eight of them, Browning pistols in hand, went up the stairs without overmuch precaution, eager to surprise Lupin before he had time to organize his defences.

  “Open the door!” roared Ganimard, rushing at the door of Mme. Sparmiento’s bedroom.

  A policeman smashed it in with his shoulder.

  There was no one in the room; and no one in Victoire’s bedroom either.

  “They’re all upstairs!” shouted Ganimard. “They’ve gone up to Lupin in his attic. Be careful now!”

  All the eight ran up the third flight of stairs. To his great astonishment, Ganimard found the door of the attic open and the attic empty. And the other rooms were empty too.

  “Blast them!” he cursed. “What’s become of them?”

  But the chief called him. M. Dudouis, who had gone down again to the second floor, noticed that one of the windows was not latched, but just pushed to:

  “There,” he said, to Ganimard, “that’s the road they took, the road of the tapestries. I told you as much: the Rue Dufres noy….“

  “But our men would have fired on them,” protested Ganimard, grinding his teeth with rage. “The street’s guarded.”

  “They must have gone before the street was guarded.”

  “They were all three of them in their rooms when I rang you up, chief!”

  “They must have gone while you were waiting for me in the garden.”

  “But why? Why? There was no reason why they should go to-day rather than to-morrow, or the next day, or next week, for that matter, when they had pocketed all the insurance-money!”

  Yes, there was a reason; and Ganimard knew it when he saw, on the table, a letter addressed to himself and opened it and read it. The letter was worded in the style of the testimonials which we hand to people in our service who have given satisfaction:

  “I, the undersigned, Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar, ex-colonel, ex-man-of-all-work, ex-corpse, hereby certify that the person of the name of Ganimard gave proof of the most remarkable qualities during his stay in this house. He was exemplary in his behaviour, thoroughly devoted and attentive; and, unaided by the least clue, he foiled a part of my plans and saved the insurance-companies four hundred and fifty thousand francs. I congratulate him; and I am quite willing to overlook his blunder in not anticipating that the downstair telephone communicates with the telephone in Sonia Kritchnoff ‘s bedroom and that, when telephoning to Mr. Chief-detective, he was at the same time telephoning to me to clear out as fast as I could. It was a pardonable slip, which must not be allowed to dim the glamour of his services nor to detract from the merits of his victory.

  “Having said this, I beg him to accept the homage of my admiration and of my sincere friendship.

  “ARSÈNE LUPIN”

  ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER1

  Hortense Daniel pushed her window ajar and whispered:

  “Are you there, Rossigny?”

  “I am here,” replied a voice from the shrubbery at the front of the house.

  Leaning forward, she saw a rather fat man looking up at her out of a gross red face with its cheeks and chin set in unpleasantly fair whiskers.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well, I had a great argument with my uncle and aunt last night. They absolutely refuse to sign the document of which my lawyer sent them the draft, or to restore the dowry squandered by my husband.”

  “But your uncle is responsible by the terms of the marriage-settlement.”

  “No matter. He refuses.”

  “Well, what do you propose to do?”

  “Are you still determined to run away with me?” she asked, with a laugh.

  “More so than ever.”

  “Your intentions are strictly honourable, remember!”

  “Just as you please. You know that I am madly in love with you.”

  “Unfortunately I am not madly in love with you!”

  “Then what made you choose me?”

  “Chance. I was bored. I was growing tired of my humdrum existence. So I’m ready to run risks…. Here’s my luggage: catch!”

  She let down from the window a couple of large leather kit-bags. Rossigny caught them in his arms.

  “The die is cast,” she whispered. “Go and wait for me with your car at the If cross-roads. I shall come on horseback.”

  “Hang it, I can’t run off with your horse!”

  “He will go home by himself.”

  “Capital!… Oh, by the way…”

  “What is it?”

  “Who is this Prince Rénine, who’s been here the last three days and whom nobody seems to know?”

  “I don’t know much about him. My uncle met him at a friend’s shoot and asked him here to stay.”

  “You seem to have made a great impression on him. You went for a long ride with him yesterday. He’s a man I don’t care for.”

  “In two hours I shall have left the house in your company. The scandal will cool him off… Well, we’ve talked long enough. We have no time to lose.”

  For a few minutes she stood watching the fat man bending under the weight of her traps as he moved away in the s
helter of an empty avenue. Then she closed the window.

  Outside, in the park, the huntsmen’s horns were sounding the reveille. The hounds burst into frantic baying. It was the opening day of the hunt that morning at the Chateau de la Marèze, where, every year, in the first week in September, the Comte d’Aigleroche, a mighty hunter before the Lord,2 and his countess were accustomed to invite a few personal friends and the neighbouring land-owners.

  Hortense slowly finished dressing, put on a riding-habit, which revealed the lines of her supple figure, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, which encircled her lovely face and auburn hair, and sat down to her writing-desk, at which she wrote to her uncle, M. d’Aigleroche, a farewell letter to be delivered to him that evening. It was a difficult letter to word; and, after beginning it several times, she ended by giving up the idea.

  “I will write to him later,” she said to herself, “when his anger has cooled down.”

  And she went downstairs to the dining-room.

  Enormous logs were blazing in the hearth of the lofty room. The walls were hung with trophies of rifles and shotguns. The guests were flocking in from every side, shaking hands with the Comte d’Aigleroche, one of those typical country squires, heavily and powerfully built, who lives only for hunting and shooting. He was standing before the fire, with a large glass of old brandy in his hand, drinking the health of each new arrival.

  Hortense kissed him absently:

  “What, uncle! You who are usually so sober!”

  “Pooh!” he said. “A man may surely indulge himself a little once a year!…”

  “Aunt will give you a scolding!”

  “Your aunt has one of her sick headaches and is not coming down. Besides,” he added, gruffly, “it is not her business… and still less is it yours, my dear child.”

  Prince Rénine came up to Hortense. He was a young man, very smartly dressed, with a narrow and rather pale face, whose eyes held by turns the gentlest and the harshest, the most friendly and the most satirical expression. He bowed to her, kissed her hand and said:

  “May I remind you of your kind promise, dear madame?”

  “My promise?”

  “Yes, we agreed that we should repeat our delightful excursion of yesterday and try to go over that old boarded-up place the look of which made us so curious. It seems to be known as the Domaine de Halingre.”

  She answered a little curtly:

  “I’m extremely sorry, monsieur, but it would be rather far and I’m feeling a little done up. I shall go for a canter in the park and come indoors again.”

  There was a pause. Then Serge Rénine said, smiling, with his eyes fixed on hers and in a voice which she alone could hear:

  “I am sure that you’ll keep your promise and that you’ll let me come with you. It would be better.”

  “For whom? For you, you mean?”

  “For you, too, I assure you.”

  She coloured slightly, but did not reply, shook hands with a few people around her and left the room.

  A groom was holding the horse at the foot of the steps. She mounted and set off towards the woods beyond the park.

  It was a cool, still morning. Through the leaves, which barely quivered, the sky showed crystalline blue. Hortense rode at a walk down winding avenues which in half an hour brought her to a country-side of ravines and bluffs intersected by the highroad.

  She stopped. There was not a sound. Rossigny must have stopped his engine and concealed the car in the thickets around the If cross-roads.

  She was five hundred yards at most from that circular space. After hesitating for a few seconds, she dismounted, tied her horse carelessly, so that he could release himself by the least effort and return to the house, shrouded her face in the long brown veil that hung over her shoulders and walked on.

  As she expected, she saw Rossigny directly she reached the first turn in the road. He ran up to her and drew her into the coppice!

  “Quick, quick! Oh, I was so afraid that you would be late… or even change your mind! And here you are! It seems too good to be true!”

  She smiled:

  “You appear to be quite happy to do an idiotic thing!”

  “I should think I am happy! And so will you be. I swear you will! Your life will be one long fairy-tale. You shall have every luxury, and all the money you can wish for.”

  “I want neither money nor luxuries.”

  “What then?”

  “Happiness.”

  “You can safely leave your happiness to me.”

  She replied, jestingly:

  “I rather doubt the quality of the happiness which you would give me.”

  “Wait! You’ll see! You’ll see!”

  They had reached the motor. Rossigny, still stammering expressions of delight, started the engine. Hortense stepped in and wrapped herself in a wide cloak. The car followed the narrow, grassy path which led back to the cross-roads and Rossigny was accelerating the speed, when he was suddenly forced to pull up. A shot had rung out from the neighbouring wood, on the right. The car was swerving from side to side.

  “A front tire burst,” shouted Rossigny, leaping to the ground.

  “Not a bit of it!” cried Hortense. “Somebody fired!”

  “Impossible, my dear! Don’t be so absurd!”

  At that moment, two slight shocks were felt and two more reports were heard, one after the other, some way off and still in the wood.

  Rossigny snarled:

  “The back tires burst now… both of them…. But who, in the devil’s name, can the ruffian be?… Just let me get hold of him, that’s all!…”

  He clambered up the road-side slope. There was no one there. Moreover, the leaves of the coppice blocked the view.

  “Damn it! Damn it!” he swore. “You were right: somebody was firing at the car! Oh, this is a bit thick! We shall be held up for hours! Three tires to mend!… But what are you doing, dear girl?”

  Hortense herself had alighted from the car. She ran to him, greatly excited:

  “I’m going.”

  “But why?”

  “I want to know. Some one fired. I want to know who it was.”

  “Don’t let us separate, please!”

  “Do you think I’m going to wait here for you for hours?”

  “What about your running away?… All our plans…?”

  “We’ll discuss that to-morrow. Go back to the house. Take back my things with you…. And good-bye for the present.”

  She hurried, left him, had the good luck to find her horse and set off at a gallop in a direction leading away from La Marèze.

  There was not the least doubt in her mind that the three shots had been fired by Prince Rénine.

  “It was he,” she muttered, angrily, “it was he. No one else would be capable of such behaviour.”

  Besides, he had warned her, in his smiling, masterful way, that he would expect her.

  She was weeping with rage and humiliation. At that moment, had she found herself face to face with Prince Rénine, she could have struck him with her riding-whip.

  Before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies between the Orne and the Sarthe, above Alenc,on, and which is known as Little Switzerland.3 Steep hills compelled her frequently to moderate her pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her destination. But, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong, though her physical effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted in her indignation against Prince Rénine. She bore him a grudge not only for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his behaviour to her during the last three days, his persistent attentions, his assurance, his air of excessive politeness.

  She was nearly there. In the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret of a chateau and a few windows with closed shutters. This was the Domaine de Halingre.

  She followed the wall and turned a corner. In the middle of the c
rescent-shaped space before which lay the entrance-gates, Serge Rénine stood waiting beside his horse.

  She sprang to the ground, and, as he stepped forward, hat in hand, thanking her for coming, she cried:

  “One word, monsieur, to begin with. Something quite inexplicable happened just now. Three shots were fired at a motorcar in which I was sitting. Did you fire those shots?”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed dumbfounded:

  “Then you confess it?”

  “You have asked a question, madame, and I have answered it.”

  “But how dared you? What gave you the right?”

  “I was not exercising a right, madame; I was performing a duty!”

  “Indeed! And what duty, pray?”

  “The duty of protecting you against a man who is trying to profit by your troubles.”

  “I forbid you to speak like that. I am responsible for my own actions, and I decided upon them in perfect liberty.”

  “Madame, I overheard your conversation with M. Rossigny this morning and it did not appear to me that you were accompanying him with a light heart. I admit the ruthlessness and bad taste of my interference and I apologise for it humbly; but I risked being taken for a ruffian in order to give you a few hours for reflection.”

  “I have reflected fully, monsieur. When I have once made up my mind to a thing, I do not change it.”

  “Yes, madame, you do, sometimes. If not, why are you here instead of there?”

  Hortense was confused for a moment. All her anger had subsided. She looked at Rénine with the surprise which one experiences when confronted with certain persons who are unlike their fellows, more capable of performing unusual actions, more generous and disinterested. She realised perfectly that he was acting without any ulterior motive or calculation, that he was, as he had said, merely fulfilling his duty as a gentleman to a woman who has taken the wrong turning.

  Speaking very gently, he said:

  “I know very little about you, madame, but enough to make me wish to be of use to you. You are twenty-six years old and have lost both your parents. Seven years ago, you became the wife of the Comte d’Aigleroche’s nephew by marriage, who proved to be of unsound mind, half insane indeed, and had to be confined. This made it impossible for you to obtain a divorce and compelled you, since your dowry had been squandered, to live with your uncle and at his expense. It’s a depressing environment. The count and countess do not agree. Years ago, the count was deserted by his first wife, who ran away with the countess’ first husband. The abandoned husband and wife decided out of spite to unite their fortunes, but found nothing but disappointment and ill-will in this second marriage. And you suffer the consequences. They lead a monotonous, narrow, lonely life for eleven months or more out of the year. One day, you met M. Rossigny, who fell in love with you and suggested an elopement. You did not care for him. But you were bored, your youth was being wasted, you longed for the unexpected, for adventure… in a word, you accepted with the very definite intention of keeping your admirer at arm’s length, but also with the rather ingenuous hope that the scandal would force your uncle’s hand and make him account for his trusteeship and assure you of an independent existence. That is how you stand. At present you have to choose between placing yourself in M. Rossigny’s hands… or trusting yourself to me.”