Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-thief (Penguin Classics)

by Leblanc, Maurice

  “Then he’s not a respectable man?”

  “The man, to put it plainly, is a murderer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The count had risen from his chair. Hortense, greatly excited, said:

  “Are you really sure that there has been a murder and that the murder was done by some one belonging to the house ?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “But why are you so certain?”

  “Because I know who the two victims were and what caused them to be killed.”

  Prince Rénine was making none but positive statements and his method suggested the belief that he was supported by the strongest proofs.

  M. d’Aigleroche strode up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. He ended by saying:

  “I always had an instinctive feeling that something had happened, but I never tried to find out…. Now, as a matter of fact, twenty years ago, a relation of mine, a distant cousin, used to live at the Domaine de Halingre. I hoped, because of the name I bear, that this story, which, as I say, I never knew but suspected, would remain hidden for ever.”

  “So this cousin killed somebody?”

  “Yes, he was obliged to.”

  Rénine shook his head:

  “I am sorry to have to amend that phrase, my dear sir. The truth, on the contrary, is that your cousin took his victims’ lives in cold blood and in a cowardly manner. I never heard of a crime more deliberately and craftily planned.”

  “What is it that you know?”

  The moment had come for Rénine to explain himself, a solemn and anguish-stricken moment, the full gravity of which Hortense understood, though she had not yet divined any part of the tragedy which the prince unfolded step by step.

  “It’s a very simple story,” he said. “There is every reason to believe that M. d’Aigleroche was married and that there was another couple living in the neighbourhoood with whom the owner of the Domaine de Halingre were on friendly terms. What happened one day, which of these four persons first disturbed the relations between the two house-holds, I am unable to say. But a likely version, which at once occurs to the mind, is that your cousin’s wife, Madame d’Aigleroche, was in the habit of meeting the other husband in the ivy-covered tower, which had a door opening outside the estate. On discovering the intrigue, your cousin d’Aigleroche resolved to be revenged, but in such a manner that there should be no scandal and that no one even should ever know that the guilty pair had been killed. Now he had ascertained—as I did just now—that there was a part of the house, the belvedere, from which you can see, over the trees and the undulations of the park, the tower standing eight hundred yards away, and that this was the only place that overlooked the top of the tower. He therefore pierced a hole in the parapet, through one of the former loopholes, and from there, by using a telescope which fitted exactly in the grove which he had hollowed out, he watched the meetings of the two lovers. And it was from there, also, that, after carefully taking all his measurements, and calculating all his distances, on a Sunday, the 5 th of September, when the house was empty, he killed them with two shots.”

  The truth was becoming apparent. The light of day was breaking. The count muttered:

  “Yes, that’s what must have happened. I expect that my cousin d’Aigleroche…”

  “The murderer,” Rénine continued, “stopped up the loophole neatly with a clod of earth. No one would ever know that two dead bodies were decaying on the top of that tower which was never visited and of which he took the precaution to demolish the wooden stairs. Nothing therefore remained for him to do but to explain the disappearance of his wife and his friend. This presented no difficulty. He accused them of having eloped together.”

  Hortense gave a start. Suddenly, as though the last sentence were a complete and to her an absolutely unexpected revelation, she understood what Rénine was trying to convey:

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I mean that M. d’Aigleroche accused his wife and his friend of eloping together.”

  “No, no!” she cried. “I can’t allow that!… You are speaking of a cousin of my uncle’s? Why mix up the two stories?”

  “Why mix up this story with another which took place at that time?” said the prince. “But I am not mixing them up, my dear madame; there is only one story and I am telling it as it happened.”

  Hortense turned to her uncle. He sat silent, with his arms folded; and his head remained in the shadow cast by the lampshade. Why had he not protested?

  Rénine repeated in a firm tone:

  “There is only one story. On the evening of that very day, the 5th of September at eight o’clock, M. d’Aigleroche, doubtless alleging as his reason that he was going in pursuit of the runaway couple, left his house after boarding up the entrance. He went away, leaving all the rooms as they were and removing only the firearms from their glass case. At the last minute, he had a presentiment, which has been justified to-day, that the discovery of the telescope which had played so great a part in the preparation of his crime might serve as a clue to an enquiry; and he threw it into the clock-case, where, as luck would have it, it interrupted the swing of the pendulum. This unreflecting action, one of those which every criminal inevitably commits, was to betray him twenty years later. Just now, the blows which I struck to force the door of the drawing-room released the pendulum. The clock was set going, struck eight o’clock… and I possessed the clue of thread which was to lead me through the labyrinth.”

  “Proofs!” stammered Hortense. “Proofs!”

  “Proofs?” replied Rénine, in a loud voice. “Why, there are any number of proofs; and you know them as well as I do. Who could have killed at that distance of eight hundred yards, except an expert shot, an ardent sportsman? You agree, M. d’Aigleroche, do you not?… Proofs? Why was nothing removed from the house, nothing except the guns, those guns which an ardent sportsman cannot afford to leave behind—you agree, M. d’Aigleroche—those guns which we find here, hanging in trophies on the walls!… Proofs? What about that date, the 5th of September, which was the date of the crime and which has left such a horrible memory in the criminal’s mind that every year at this time—at this time alone—he surrounds himself with distractions and that every year, on this same 5 th of September, he forgets his habits of temperance? Well, to-day, is the 5th of September…. Proofs? Why, if there weren’t any others, would that not be enough for you?”

  And Rénine, flinging out his arm, pointed to the Comte d’Aigleroche, who, terrified by this evocation of the past, had sunk huddled into a chair and was hiding his head in his hands.

  Hortense did not attempt to argue with him. She had never liked her uncle, or rather her husband’s uncle. She now accepted the accusation laid against him.

  Sixty seconds passed. Then M. d’Aigleroche walked up to them and said:

  “Whether the story be true or not, you can’t call a husband a criminal for avenging his honour and killing his faithless wife.”

  “No,” replied Rénine, “but I have told only the first version of the story. There is another which is infinitely more serious… and more probable, one to which a more thorough investigation would be sure to lead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this. It may not be a matter of a husband taking the law into his own hands, as I charitably supposed. It may be a matter of a ruined man who covets his friend’s money and his friend’s wife and who, with this object in view, to secure his freedom, to get rid of his friend and of his own wife, draws them into a trap, suggests to them that they should visit that lonely tower and kills them by shooting them from a distance safely under cover.”

  “No, no,” the count protested. “No, all that is untrue.”

  “I don’t say it isn’t. I am basing my accusation on proofs, but also on intuitions and arguments which up to now have been extremely accurate. All the same, I admit that the second version may be incorrect. But, if so, why feel any remorse? One does not feel remorse for pun
ishing guilty people.”

  “One does for taking life. It is a crushing burden to bear.”

  “Was it to give himself greater strength to bear this burden that M. d’Aigleroche afterwards married his victim’s widow? For that, sir, is the crux of the question. What was the motive of that marriage? Was M. d’Aigleroche penniless? Was the woman he was taking as his second wife rich? Or were they both in love with each other and did M. d’Aigleroche plan with her to kill his first wife and the husband of his second wife? These are problems to which I do not know the answer. They have no interest for the moment; but the police, with all the means at their disposal, would have no great difficulty in elucidating them.”

  M. d’Aigleroche staggered and had to steady himself against the back of a chair. Livid in the face, he spluttered:

  “Are you going to inform the police?”

  “No, no,” said Rénine. “To begin with, there is the statute of limitations. Then there are twenty years of remorse and dread, a memory which will pursue the criminal to his dying hour, accompanied no doubt by domestic discord, hatred, a daily hell… and, in the end, the necessity of returning to the tower and removing the traces of the two murders, the frightful punishment of climbing that tower, of touching those skeletons, of undressing them and burying them. That will be enough. We will not ask for more. We will not give it to the public to batten on and create a scandal which would recoil upon M. d’Aigleroche’s niece. No, let us leave this disgraceful business alone.”

  The count resumed his seat at the table, with his hands clutching his forehead, and asked:

  “Then why…?”

  “Why do I interfere?” said Rénine. “What you mean is that I must have had some object in speaking. That is so. There must indeed be a penalty, however slight, and our interview must lead to some practical result. But have no fear: M. d’Aigleroche will be let off lightly.”

  The contest was ended. The count felt that he had only a small formality to fulfil, a sacrifice to accept; and, recovering some of his self-assurance, he said, in an almost sarcastic tone:

  “What’s your price?”

  Rénine burst out laughing:

  “Splendid! You see the position. Only, you make a mistake in drawing me into the business. I’m working for the glory of the thing.”

  “In that case?”

  “You will be called upon at most to make restitution.”

  “Restitution?”

  Rénine leant over the table and said:

  “In one of those drawers is a deed awaiting your signature. It is a draft agreement between you and your niece Hortense Daniel, relating to her private fortune, which fortune was squandered and for which you are responsible. Sign the deed.”

  M. d’Aigleroche gave a start:

  “Do you know the amount?”

  “I don’t wish to know it.”

  “And if I refuse?…”

  “I shall ask to see the Comtesse d’Aigleroche.”

  Without further hesitation, the count opened a drawer, produced a document on stamped paper and quickly signed it:

  “Here you are,” he said, “and I hope…”

  “You hope, as I do, that you and I may never have any future dealings? I’m convinced of it. I shall leave this evening; your niece, no doubt, to-morrow. Good-bye.”

  In the drawing-room, which was still empty, while the guests at the house were dressing for dinner, Rénine handed the deed to Hortense. She seemed dazed by all that she had heard; and the thing that bewildered her even more than the relentless light shed upon her uncle’s past was the miraculous insight and amazing lucidity displayed by this man: the man who for some hours had controlled events and conjured up before her eyes the actual scenes of a tragedy which no one had beheld.

  “Are you satisfied with me?” he asked.

  She gave him both her hands:

  “You have saved me from Rossigny. You have given me back my freedom and my independence. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I am asking you to say!” he answered. “My first and main object was to amuse you. Your life seemed so humdrum and lacking in the unexpected. Has it been so to-day?”

  “How can you ask such a question? I have had the strangest and most stirring experiences.”

  “That is life,” he said. “When one knows how to use one’s eyes. Adventure exists everywhere, in the meanest hovel, under the mask of the wisest of men. Everywhere, if you are only willing, you will find an excuse for excitement, for doing good, for saving a victim, for ending an injustice.”

  Impressed by his power and authority, she murmured:

  “Who are you exactly?”

  “An adventurer. Nothing more. A lover of adventures. Life is not worth living except in moments of adventure, the adventures of others or personal adventures. To-day’s has upset you because it affected the innermost depths of your being. But those of others are no less stimulating. Would you like to make the experiment?”

  “How?”

  “Become the companion of my adventures. If any one calls on me for help, help him with me. If chance or instinct puts me on the track of a crime or the trace of a sorrow, let us both set out together. Do you consent?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but…”

  She hesitated, as though trying to guess Rénine’s secret intentions.

  “But,” he said, expressing her thoughts for her, with a smile, “you are a trifle sceptical. What you are saying to yourself is, ‘How far does that lover of adventures want to make me go? It is quite obvious that I attract him; and sooner or later he would not be sorry to receive payment for his services.’ You are quite right. We must have a formal contract.”

  “Very formal,” said Hortense, preferring to give a jesting tone to the conversation. “Let me hear your proposals.”

  He reflected for a moment and continued:

  “Well, we’ll say this. The clock at Halingre gave eight strokes this afternoon, the day of the first adventure. Will you accept its decree and agree to carry out seven more of these delightful enterprises with me, during a period, for instance, of three months? And shall we say that, at the eighth, you will be pledged to grant me…”

  “What?”

  He deferred his answer:

  “Observe that you will always be at liberty to leave me on the road if I do not succeed in interesting you. But, if you accompany me to the end, if you allow me to begin and complete the eighth enterprise with you, in three months, on the 5th of December, at the very moment when the eighth stroke of that clock sounds—and it will sound, you may be sure of that, for the old brass pendulum will not stop swinging again—you will be pledged to grant me…”

  “What?” she repeated, a little unnerved by waiting.

  He was silent. He looked at the beautiful lips which he had meant to claim as his reward. He felt perfectly certain that Hortense had understood and he thought it unnecessary to speak more plainly:

  “The mere delight of seeing you will be enough to satisfy me. It is not for me but for you to impose conditions. Name them: what do you demand?”

  She was grateful for his respect and said, laughingly:

  “What do I demand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I demand anything I like, however difficult and impossible?”

  “Everything is easy and everything is possible to the man who is bent on winning you.”

  Then she said:

  “I demand that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a silver mount. It came to me from my mother and everyone knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. Since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, I have had nothing but unhappiness. Restore it to me, my good genius.”

  “When was the clasp stolen?”

  She answered gaily:

  “Seven years ago… or eight… or nine; I don’t know exactly… I don’t know where… I don’t know how… I know nothing about it….”

  “I
will find it,” Rénine declared, “and you shall be happy.”

  THÉRÈSE AND GERMAINE

  The weather was so mild that autumn that, on the 12th of October, in the morning, several families still lingering in their villas at Étretat1 had gone down to the beach. The sea, lying between the cliffs and the clouds on the horizon, might have suggested a mountain-lake slumbering in the hollow of the enclosing rocks, were it not for that crispness in the air and those pale, soft and indefinite colours in the sky which give a special charm to certain days in Normandy.

  “It’s delicious,” murmured Hortense. But the next moment she added: “All the same, we did not come here to enjoy the spectacle of nature or to wonder whether that huge stone Needle on our left was really at one time the home of Arsène Lupin.”2

  “We came here,” said Prince Rénine, “because of the conversation which I overheard, a fortnight ago, in a dining-car, between a man and a woman.”

  “A conversation of which I was unable to catch a single word.”

  “If those two people could have guessed for an instant that it was possible to hear a single word of what they were saying, they would not have spoken, for their conversation was one of extraordinary gravity and importance. But I have very sharp ears; and though I could not follow every sentence, I insist that we may be certain of two things. First, that man and woman, who are brother and sister, have an appointment at a quarter to twelve this morning, the 12th of October, at the spot known as the Trois Mathildes, with a third person, who is married and who wishes at all costs to recover his or her liberty. Secondly, this appointment, at which they will come to a final agreement, is to be followed this evening by a walk along the cliffs, when the third person will bring with him or her the man or woman, I can’t definitely say which, whom they want to get rid of. That is the gist of the whole thing. Now, as I know a spot called the Trois Mathildes some way above Étretat and as this is not an everyday name, we came down yesterday to thwart the plan of these objectionable persons.”