813

by Maurice Leblanc

  813

  Maurice Leblanc

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  INTRODUCTION

  Maurice Leblanc

  IF MAURICE LEBLANC (1864–1941) had done nothing except create Arsène Lupin—the rogue who has been wildly popular in France for more than a century—his place in the pantheon of French literature would still have been assured.

  Born in Rouen, he was educated in France; Berlin, Germany; and Manchester, England, and studied law before becoming a hack writer and police reporter for French periodicals. His sister Georgette—a famous actress and singer—was the mistress of Maurice Maeterlinck, the noted dramatist, and it is possible that this relationship influenced Leblanc’s work; some critics claim that his plays are his most polished literary productions.

  In 1906 Leblanc’s previously undistinguished career skyrocketed when he was asked to write a short story for a new journal and produced the first Lupin adventure. His subsequent success and worldwide fame culminated in his induction into the French Legion of Honor.

  Reading his fiction today, one is generally impressed with the fast pace and diversified action, although it borders on burlesque, and the incredible situations and coincidences may be a little difficult to accept.

  Arsène Lupin

  Unlike Fantômas, the other great criminal in French literature, Arsène Lupin is not violent or evil; his unlawful acts center on theft and clever cons rather than murder or anarchy.

  A brilliant rogue, he pursues his career with carefree élan, mocking the law for the sheer joy of it rather than for purely personal gain. Young, handsome, brave, and quick-witted, he has a joie de vivre uniquely and recognizably French. His sense of humor and conceit make life difficult for the police, who attribute most of the major crimes in France to him and his gang of ruffians and urchins.

  Like most French criminals and detectives, Lupin is a master of disguise. His skill is attested to by the fact that he once became Lenormand, chief of the Sûreté, and, for four years, conducted official investigations into his own activities. He employs numerous aliases, including Jim Barnett, Prince Renine, le Duc de Charmerace, Don Luis Perenna, and Ralph de Limezy; his myriad names, combined with his brilliant costumes, make it nearly impossible for the police to identify him (the reader of his exploits sometimes encounters a similar difficulty).

  After a long criminal career of uninterrupted successes, Lupin begins to shift position and aids the police in their work—usually for his own purposes and without their knowledge. Toward the end of his career, he becomes a full-fledged detective, and although he is as successful in his endeavors as ever before, his heart does not seem to be in it.

  The first book about him is Arsène Lupin, gentleman-cambrioleur (1907; US title: The Exploits of Arsène Lupin, 1907; reissued as The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar, 1910; British title: The Seven of Hearts, 1908). One of the stories, “Holmlock Shears Arrives Too Late,” is a parody of Sherlock Holmes. The second book in the series, and the worst, is Arsène Lupin contre Herlock Sholmes (1908; British title: The Fair-haired Lady, 1909; reissued as Arsène Lupin versus Holmlock Shears, 1909; reissued again as The Arrest of Arsène Lupin, 1911; US title: The Blonde Lady, 1910; reissued as Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes, 1910). Other short story collections about Lupin are The Confessions of Arsène Lupin (1912), The Eight Strokes of the Clock (1922), and Jim Barnett Intervenes (1928; US title: Arsène Lupin Intervenes). Among the best of the novels are 813 (1910), in which Lupin, accused of murder, heads the police investigation to clear himself by finding the true killer, and The Hollow Needle (1910), in which Lupin is shot by a beautiful girl and falls in love with her, vowing to give up his life of crime. Among the other Lupin novels are The Crystal Stopper (1913), The Teeth of the Tiger (1914), The Golden Triangle (1917), and The Memoirs of Arsène Lupin (1925; British title: The Candlesticks with Seven Branches).

  Films

  There are many early screen versions of Arsène Lupin’s basic conflicts with the Paris police, both in the United States, starting in 1917, and in Europe. The Teeth of the Tiger (Paramount, with David Powell) of 1919 is an old-dark-horse murder melodrama with sliding panels, secret passageways, and serial-like thrills. Wedgewood Nowell portrays Lupin in 813 (Robertson-Cole, 1920), in which Lupin impersonates a police officer to clear himself of a murder charge. There are several later European Lupins, notably French, in films even until the 1950s. The most important American Lupin films are given below.

  Arsène Lupin. MGM, 1932. John Barrymore, Lionel Barrymore, Karen Morley, John Miljan. Directed by Jack Conway. Based on the play by Leblanc and Francis de Croisset. When the silk-hatted Lupin announces that he will steal a famous painting from the Louvre under the nose of the police, and does so, the chief of detectives uses a pretty lady crook to lure him into a trap.

  Arsène Lupin Returns. MGM, 1938. Melvyn Douglas, Warren William, Virginia Bruce, Monty Woolley, E. E. Clive. Directed by George Fitzmaurice. The signature of Arsène Lupin, long thought dead, is scrawled across a safe from which a necklace has been stolen; the real Lupin, innocent and now living as a country gentleman, is as perplexed as the police are.

  Enter Arsène Lupin. Universal, 1944. Charles Korvin, Ella Raines, J. Carrol Naish, Gale Sondergaard, Miles Mander. Directed by Ford Beebe. International thief Lupin, on a train from Istanbul to Paris, steals an emerald from a young heiress but returns it when he begins to suspect that the girl’s aunt and uncle plan to murder her.

  “You are the visitor I was expecting”

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  A zealous reader, collating the translation of this book with the original, would hit upon certain differences. These are due to alterations made, in most case, by the author himself, and, in all cases, with his full approval.

  A. T. de M.

  Chelsea, England, August, 1910.

  CHAPTER I

  THE TRAGEDY AT THE PALACE HOTEL

  MR. KESSELBACH STOPPED SHORT ON the threshold of the sitting-room, took his secretary’s arm and, in an anxious voice, whispered:

  “Chapman, some one has been here again.”

  “Surely not, sir,” protested the secretary. “You have just opened the hall-door yourself; and the key never left your pocket while we were lunching in the restaurant.”

  “Chapman, some one has been here again,” Mr. Kesselbach repeated. He pointed to a traveling-bag on the mantelpiece. “Look, I can prove it. That bag was shut. It is now open.”

  Chapman protested.

  “Are you quite sure that you shut it, sir? Besides, the bag contains nothing but odds and ends of no value, articles of dress …”

  “It contains nothing else, because I took my pocket-book out before we went down, by way of precaution … But for that … No, Chapman, I tell you, some one has been here while we were at lunch.”

  There was a telephone on the wall. He took down the receiver:

  “Hallo! … I’m Mr. Kesselbach … Suite 415 … That’s right … Mademoiselle, would you please put me on to the Prefecture of Police … the detective department … I know the number … one second … Ah, here it is! Number 822.48 … I’ll hold the line.”

  A moment later he continued:

  “Are you 822.48? I should like a word with M. Lenormand, the chief of the detective-service. My name’s Kesselbach … Hullo! … Yes, the chief detective knows what it’s about. He has given me leave to ring him up … Oh, he’s not there? … To whom am I speaking? … Detective-sergeant Gourel? … You were there yesterday, were you not, when I called on M. Lenormand? Well, the same thing that I told M. Lenormand yesterday has occurred again to-day … Some one has entered the suite which I am occupying. And, if you come at once, you may be able to discover some clues … In an hour or two? All right; thanks �
�� You have only to ask for suite 415 … Thank you again.”

  Rudolf Kesselbach, nicknamed alternatively the King of Diamonds and the Lord of the Cape, possessed a fortune estimated at nearly twenty millions sterling. For the past week, he had occupied suite 415, on the fourth floor of the Palace Hotel, consisting of three rooms, of which the two larger, on the right, the sitting-room and the principal bedroom, faced the avenue; while the other, on the left, in which Chapman, the secretary, slept, looked out on the Rue de Judée.

  Adjoining this bedroom, a suite of five rooms had been reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach, who was to leave Monte Carlo, where she was at present staying, and join her husband the moment she heard from him.

  Rudolf Kesselbach walked up and down for a few minutes with a thoughtful air. He was a tall man, with a ruddy complexion, and still young; and his dreamy eyes, which showed pale blue through his gold-rimmed spectacles, gave him an expression of gentleness and shyness that contrasted curiously with the strength of the square forehead and the powerfully-developed jaws.

  He went to the window: it was fastened. Besides, how could any one have entered that way? The private balcony that ran round the flat broke off on the right and was separated on the left by a stone channel from the balconies in the Rue de Judée.

  He went to his bedroom: it had no communication with the neighboring rooms. He went to his secretary’s bedroom: the door that led into the five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach was locked and bolted.

  “I can’t understand it at all, Chapman. Time after time I have noticed things here … funny things, as you must admit. Yesterday, my walking-stick was moved … The day before that, my papers had certainly been touched … And yet how was it possible? …

  “It is not possible, sir!” cried Chapman, whose honest, placid features displayed no anxiety. “You’re imagining things, that’s all … You have no proof, nothing but impressions, to go upon … Besides, look here: there is no way into this suite except through the entrance-lobby. Very well. You had a special key made on the day of our arrival: and your own man, Edwards, has the only duplicate. Do you trust him?”

  “Of course I do! … He’s been with me for ten years! … But Edwards goes to lunch at the same time that we do; and that’s a mistake. He must not go down, in future, until we come back.”

  Chapman gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. There was no doubt about it, the Lord of the Cape was becoming a trifle eccentric, with those incomprehensible fears of his. What risk can you run in an hotel, especially when you carry no valuables, no important sum of money on you or with you?

  They heard the hall-door opening. It was Edwards. Mr. Kesselbach called him:

  “Are you dressed, Edwards? Ah, that’s right! … I am expecting no visitors to-day, Edwards … or, rather, one visitor only, M. Gourel. Meantime, remain in the lobby and keep an eye on the door. Mr. Chapman and I have some serious work to do.”

  The serious work lasted for a few minutes, during which Mr. Kesselbach went through his correspondence, read three or four letters and gave instructions how they were to be answered. But, suddenly, Chapman, waiting with pen poised, saw that Mr. Kesselbach was thinking of something quite different from his correspondence. He was holding between his fingers and attentively examining a pin, a black pin bent like a fish-hook:

  “Chapman,” he said, “look what I’ve found on the table. This bent pin obviously means something. It’s a proof, a material piece of evidence. You can’t pretend now that no one has been in the room. For, after all, this pin did not come here of itself.”

  Certainly not,” replied the secretary. “It came here through me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, it’s a pin which I used to fasten my tie to my collar. I took it out last night, while you were reading, and I twisted it mechanically.”

  Mr. Kesselbach rose from his chair, with a great air of vexation, took a few steps and stopped.

  “You’re laughing at me, Chapman, I feel you are … and you’re quite right … I won’t deny it, I have been rather … odd, since my last journey to the Cape. It’s because … well … you don’t know the new factor in my life … a tremendous plan … a huge thing … I can only see it, as yet, in the haze of the future … but it’s taking shape for all that … and it will be something colossal … Ah, Chapman, you can’t imagine … Money I don’t care a fig for: I have money, I have too much money … But this, this means a great deal more; it means power, might, authority. If the reality comes up to my expectations, I shall be not only Lord of the Cape, but lord of other realms as well … Rudolf Kesselbach, the son of the Augsburg ironmonger, will be on a par with many people who till now have looked down upon him … He will even take precedence of them, Chapman; he will, take precedence of them, mark my words … and, if ever I …”

  He interrupted himself, looked at Chapman as though he regretted having said too much and, nevertheless, carried away by his excitement, concluded:

  “You now understand the reasons of my anxiety, Chapman … Here, in this brain, is an idea that is worth a great deal … and this idea is suspected perhaps … and I am being spied upon … I’m convinced of it …”

  A bell sounded.

  “The telephone,” said Chapman.

  “Could it,” muttered Kesselbach, “by any chance be …?” He took down the instrument. “Hullo! … Who? The Colonel? Ah, good! Yes, it’s I … Any news? … Good! … Then I shall expect you … You will come with one of your men? Very well … What? No, we shan’t be disturbed … I will give the necessary orders … It’s as serious as that, is it? … I tell you, my instructions will be positive … my secretary and my man shall keep the door; and no one shall be allowed in … You know the way, don’t you? … Then don’t lose a minute.”

  He hung up the receiver and said:

  “Chapman, there are two gentlemen coming. Edwards will show them in …”

  “But M. Gourel … the detective-sergeant …?”

  “He will come later … in an hour … And, even then, there’s no harm in their meeting. So send Edwards down to the office at once, to tell them. I am at home to nobody … except two gentlemen, the Colonel and his friend, and M. Gourel. He must make them take down the names.”

  Chapman did as he was asked. When he returned to the room, he found Mr. Kesselbach holding in his hand an envelope, or, rather, a little pocket-case, in black morocco leather, apparently empty. He seemed to hesitate, as though he did not know what to do with it. Should he put it in his pocket or lay it down elsewhere? At last he went to the mantelpiece and threw the leather envelope into his traveling-bag:

  “Let us finish the mail, Chapman. We have ten minutes left. Ah, a letter from Mrs. Kesselbach! Why didn’t you tell me of it, Chapman? Didn’t you recognize the handwriting?”

  He made no attempt to conceal the emotion which he felt in touching and contemplating that paper which his wife had held in her fingers and to which she had added a look of her eyes, an atom of her scent, a suggestion of her secret thoughts. He inhaled its perfume and, unsealing it, read the letter slowly in an undertone, in fragments that reached Chapman’s ears:

  “Feeling a little tired … Shall keep my room to-day … I feel so bored … When can I come to you? I am longing for your wire …”

  “You telegraphed this morning, Chapman? Then Mrs. Kesselbach will be here to-morrow, Wednesday.”

  He seemed quite gay, as though the weight of his business had been suddenly relieved and he freed from all anxiety. He rubbed his hands and heaved a deep breath, like a strong man certain of success, like a lucky man who possessed happiness and who was big enough to defend himself.

  “There’s some one ringing, Chapman, some one ringing at the hall door. Go and see who it is.”

  But Edwards entered and said:

  “Two gentlemen asking for you, sir. They are the ones …”

  “I know. Are they there, in the lobby?”

  “Yes, sir.”
>
  “Close the hall-door and don’t open it again except to M. Gourel, the detective-sergeant. You go and bring the gentlemen in, Chapman, and tell them that I would like to speak to the Colonel first, to the Colonel alone.”

  Edwards and Chapman left the room, shutting the door after them. Rudolf Kesselbach went to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass.

  Outside, just below his eyes, the carriages and motor-cars rolled along in parallel furrows, marked by the double line of refuges. A bright spring sun made the brass-work and the varnish gleam again. The trees were putting forth their first green shoots; and the buds of the tall chestnuts were beginning to unfold their new-born leaves.

  “What on earth is Chapman doing?” muttered Kesselbach. “The time he wastes in palavering! …”

  He took a cigarette from the table, lit it and drew a few puffs. A faint exclamation escaped him. Close before him stood a man whom he did not know.

  He started back:

  “Who are you?”

  The man—he was a well-dressed individual, rather smart-looking, with dark hair, a dark moustache and hard eyes—the man gave a grin:

  “Who am I? Why, the Colonel!”

  “No, no … The one I call the Colonel, the one who writes to me under that … adopted … signature … is not you!”

  “Yes, yes … the other was only … But, my dear sir, all this, you know, is not of the smallest importance. The essential thing is that I … am myself. And that, I assure you, I am!”

  “But your name, sir? …”

  “The Colonel … until further orders.”

  Mr. Kesselbach was seized with a growing fear. Who was this man? What did he want with him?

  He called out:

  “Chapman!”

  “What a funny idea, to call out! Isn’t my company enough for you?”