813

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Aha!” cried M. Formerie. “So there’s an accomplice! And you heard his name! … Marco, you say? … This is very important. When we’ve got the accomplice, we shall be a good deal further advanced …”

  “Yes, but we’ve not got him,” M. Lenormand ventured to remark.

  “We shall see … One thing at a time … And then, Mr. Chapman, this Marco went away immediately after M. Gourel had rung the bell?”

  “Yes, we heard him go.”

  “And after he went, did you hear nothing else?”

  “Yes … from time to time, but vaguel … The door was shut.”

  “And what sort of noises did you hear?”

  “Bursts of voices. The man …”

  “Call him by his name, Arsène Lupin.”

  “Arsène Lupin must have telephoned.”

  “Capital! We will examine the person of the hotel who has charge of the branch exchange communicating with the outside. And, afterward, did you hear him go out, too?”

  “He came in to see if we were still bound; and, a quarter of an hour later, he went away, closing the hall-door after him.”

  “Yes, as soon as his crime was committed. Good … Good … It all fits in … And, after that?”

  “After that, we heard nothing more … The night passed … I fell asleep from exhaustion … So did Edwards … And it was not until this morning …”

  “Yes, I know … There, it’s not going badly … it all fits in …”

  And, marking off the stages of his investigation, in a tone as though he were enumerating so many victories over the stranger, he muttered thoughtfully:

  “The accomplice … the telephone … the time of the murder … the sounds that were heard … Good … Very good … We have still to establish the motive of the crime … In this case, as we have Lupin to deal with, the motive is obvious. M. Lenormand, have you noticed the least sign of anything being broken open?”

  “No.”

  “Then the robbery must have been effected upon the person of the victim himself. Has his pocket-book been found?”

  “I left it in the pocket of his jacket,” said Gourel.

  They all went into the sitting-room, where M. Formerie discovered that the pocket-book contained nothing but visiting-cards and papers establishing the murdered man’s identity.

  “That’s odd. Mr. Chapman, can you tell us if Mr. Kesselbach had any money on him?”

  “Yes. On the previous day—that is, on Monday, the day before yesterday—we went to the Crédit Lyonnais, where Mr. Kesselbach hired a safe …”

  “A safe at the Crédit Lyonnais? Good … We must look into that.”

  “And, before we left, Mr. Kesselbach opened an account and drew out five or six thousand francs in bank-notes.”

  “Excellent … that tells us just what we want to know.”

  Chapman continued:

  “There is another point, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. Mr. Kesselbach, who for some days had been very uneasy in his mind—I have told you the reason: a scheme to which he attached the utmost importance—Mr. Kesselbach seemed particularly anxious about two things. There was, first, a little ebony box, which he put away safely at the Crédit Lyonnais; and, next, a little black morocco note-case, in which he kept a few papers.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Before Lupin’s arrival, he put it, in my presence, into that travelling-bag.”

  M. Formerie took the bag and felt about in it. The note-case was not there. He rubbed his hands:

  “Ah, everything fits in! … We know the culprit, the conditions and the motive of the crime. This case won’t take long. Are we quite agreed upon everything, M. Lenormand?”

  “Upon not one single thing.”

  There was a moment of stupefaction. The commissary of police had arrived: and, behind him, in spite of the constables keeping the door, a troop of journalists, and the hotel staff had forced their way in and were standing in the entrance-lobby.

  Notorious though the old fellow was for his bluntness—a bluntness which was not without a certain discourtesy and which had already procured him an occasional reprimand in high quarters—the abruptness of this reply took every one aback. And M. Formerie in particular appeared utterly nonplussed:

  “Still,” he said, “I can see nothing that isn’t quite simple. Lupin is the thief …”

  “Why did he commit the murder?” M. Lenormand flung at him.

  “In order to commit the theft.”

  “I beg your pardon; the witnesses’ story proves that the theft took place before the murder. Mr. Kesselbach was first bound and gagged, then robbed. Why should Lupin, who has never resorted to murder, choose this time to kill a man whom he had rendered helpless and whom he had already robbed?”

  The examining-magistrate stroked his long, fair whiskers, with the gesture customary to him when a question seemed incapable of solution. He replied in a thoughtful tone:

  “There are several answers to that …”

  “What are they?”

  “It depends … it depends upon a number of facts as yet unknown … And, moreover, the objection applies only to the nature of the motives. We are agreed as to the remainder.”

  “No.”

  This time, again, the denial was flat, blunt, almost impolite; so much so that the magistrate was absolutely nonplussed, dared not even raise a protest, and remained abashed in the presence of this strange collaborator. At last he said:

  “We all have our theories. I should like to know yours.”

  “I have none.”

  The chief detective rose and, leaning on his stick, took a few steps through the room. All the people around him were silent … And it was rather curious, in a group in which, after all, his position was only that of an auxiliary, a subordinate, to see this ailing, decrepit, elderly man dominate the others by the sheer force of an authority which they had to feel, even though they did not accept it. After a long pause he said:

  “I should like to inspect the rooms which adjoin this suite.”

  The manager showed him the plan of the hotel. The only way out of the right-hand bedroom, which was Mr. Kesselbach’s, was through the little entrance-hall of the suite. But the bedroom on the left, the room occupied by the secretary, communicated with another apartment.

  “Let us inspect it,” said M. Lenormand.

  M. Formerie could not help shrugging his shoulders and growling:

  “But the communicating door is bolted and the window locked.”

  “Let us inspect it,” repeated M. Lenormand.

  He was taken into the apartment, which was the first of the five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach. Then, at his request, he was taken to the rooms leading out of it. All the communicating doors were bolted on both sides.

  “Are not any of these rooms occupied?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Where are the keys?”

  “The keys are always kept in the office.”

  “Then no one can have got in? …”

  “No one, except the floor-waiter who airs and dusts the rooms.”

  “Send for him, please.”

  The man, whose name was Gustave Beudot, replied that he had closed the windows of five rooms on the previous day in accordance with his general instructions.

  “At what time?”

  “At six o’clock in the evening.”

  “And you noticed nothing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And, this morning …?”

  “This morning, I opened the windows at eight o’clock exactly.”

  “And you found nothing?”

  He hesitated. He was pressed with questions and ended by admitting:

  “Well, I picked up a cigarette-case near the fireplace in 420 … I intended to take it to the office this evening.”

  “Have you it on you?”

  “No, it is in my room. It is a gun-metal case. It has a space for to
bacco and cigarette-papers on one side and for matches on the other. There are two initials in gold: an L and an M …”

  “What’s that?”

  Chapman had stepped forward. He seemed greatly surprised and, questioning the servant:

  “A gun-metal cigarette-case, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “With three compartments—for tobacco, cigarette-papers, and matches … Russian tobacco, wasn’t it, very fine and light?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go and fetch it … I should like to see it for myself … to make sure …”

  At a sign from the chief detective, Gustave Beudot left the room.

  M. Lenormand sat down and his keen eyes examined the carpet, the furniture and the curtains. He asked:

  “This is room 420, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  The magistrate grinned:

  “I should very much like to know what connection you establish between this incident and the tragedy. Five locked doors separate us from the room in which Mr. Kesselbach was murdered.”

  M. Lenormand did not condescend to reply.

  Time passed. Gustave did not return.

  “Where does he sleep?” asked the chief detective.

  “On the sixth floor,” answered the manager. “The room is on the Rue de Judée side: above this, therefore. It’s curious that he’s not back yet.”

  “Would you have the kindness to send some one to see?”

  The manager went himself, accompanied by Chapman. A few minutes after, he returned alone, running, with every mark of consternation on his face.

  “Well?”

  “Dead!”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, by thunder, how clever these scoundrels are!” roared M. Lenormand, “Off with you, Gourel, and have the doors of the hotel locked … Watch every outlet … And you, Mr. Manager, please take us to Gustave Beudot’s room.”

  The manager led the way. But as they left the room, M. Lenormand stooped and picked up a tiny little round piece of paper, on which his eyes had already fixed themselves.

  It was a label surrounded with a blue border and marked with the number 813. He put it in his pocket, on chance, and joined the others …

  A small wound in the back, between the shoulder-blades …

  “Exactly the same wound as Mr. Kesselbach’s,” declared the doctor.

  “Yes,” said M. Lenormand, “it was the same hand that struck the blow and the same weapon was used.”

  Judging by the position of the body, the man had been surprised when on his knees before the bed, feeling under the mattress for the cigarette-case which he had hidden there. His arm was still caught between the mattress and the bed, but the cigarette-case was not to be found.

  “That cigarette-case must have been devilish compromising!” timidly suggested M. Formerie, who no longer dared put forward any definite opinion.

  “Well, of course!” said the chief detective.

  “At any rate, we know the initials: an L and an M. And with that, together with what Mr. Chapman appears to know, we shall easily learn …”

  M. Lenormand gave a start:

  “Chapman! But where is he?”

  They looked in the passage among the groups of people crowded together. Chapman was not there.

  “Mr. Chapman came with me,” said the manager.

  “Yes, yes, I know, but he did not come back with you.”

  “No, I left him with the corpse.”

  “You left him! … Alone?”

  “I said to him, ‘Stay here … don’t move.’”

  “And was there no one about? Did you see no one?”

  “In the passage? No.”

  “But in the other attics? … Or else, look here, round that corner: was there no one hiding there?”

  M. Lenormand seemed greatly excited. He walked up and down, he opened the doors of the rooms. And, suddenly, he set off at a run, with an agility of which no one would have thought him capable. He rattled down the six storeys, followed at a distance by the manager and the examining-magistrate. At the bottom, he found Gourel in front of the main door.

  “Has no one gone out?”

  “No, chief.”

  “What about the other door, in the Rue Orvieto?”

  “I have posted Dieuzy there.”

  “With firm orders?”

  “Yes, chief.”

  The huge hall of the hotel was crowded with anxious visitors, all commenting on the more or less accurate versions that had reached them of the crime. All the servants had been summoned by telephone and were arriving, one by one. M. Lenormand questioned them without delay. None of them was able to supply the least information. But a fifth-floor chambermaid appeared. Ten minutes earlier, or thereabouts, she had passed two gentlemen who were coming down the servants’ staircase between the fifth and the fourth floors.

  “They came down very fast. The one in front was holding the other by the hand. I was surprised to see those two gentlemen on the servants’ staircase.”

  “Would you know them again?”

  “Not the first one. He had his head turned the other way. He was a thin, fair man. He wore a soft black hat … and black clothes.”

  “And the other?”

  “Oh, the other was an Englishman, with a big, clean-shaven face and a check suit. He had no hat on.”

  The description obviously referred to Chapman.

  The woman added:

  “He looked … he looked quite funny … as if he was mad.”

  Gourel’s word was not enough for M. Lenormand. One after the other, he questioned the under-porters standing at the two doors:

  “Did you know Mr. Chapman?”

  “Yes, sir, he always spoke to us.”

  “And you have not seen him go out?”

  “No, sir. He has not been out this morning.”

  M. Lenormand turned to the commissary of police: “How many men have you with you, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  “Four.”

  “That’s not sufficient. Telephone to your secretary to send you all the men available. And please be so good as yourself to organize the closest watch at every outlet. The state of siege, Monsieur le Commissaire …”

  “But I say,” protested the manager, “my customers?”

  “I don’t care a hang, sir, for your customers! My duty comes before everything; and my duty is at all costs to arrest …”

  “So you believe …” the examining-magistrate ventured to interpolate.

  “I don’t believe, monsieur … I am sure that the perpetrator of both the murders is still in the hotel.”

  “But then Chapman …”

  “At this moment, I cannot guarantee that Chapman is still alive. In any case, it is only a question of minutes, of seconds … Gourel, take two men and search all the rooms on the fourth floor … Mr. Manager, send one of your clerks with them … As for the other floors, I shall proceed as soon as we are reënforced. Come, Gourel, off with you, and keep your eyes open … It’s big game you’re hunting!”

  Gourel and his men hurried away. M. Lenormand himself remained in the hall, near the office. This time, he did not think of sitting down, as his custom was. He walked from the main entrance to the door in the Rue Orvieto and returned to the point from which he had started. At intervals he gave instructions:

  “Mr. Manager, see that the kitchens are watched. They may try to escape that way … Mr. Manager, instruct your young lady at the telephone not to put any of the people in the hotel into communication with outside subscribers. If a call comes from the outside, she can connect the caller with the person asked for, but she must take a note of that person’s name … Mr. Manager, have a list made out of all your visitors whose name begins with an L or an M.”

  The tension caught the spectators by the throat, as they stood clustered in the middle of the hall, silent and gasping for breath, shaking with f
ear at the least sound, obsessed by the infernal image of the murderer. Where was he hiding? Would he show himself? Was he not one of themselves: this one, perhaps … or that one? …

  And all eyes were turned on the gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, an olive-green frock-coat and a maroon-colored neckerchief, who was walking about, with his bent back, on a pair of shaky legs.

  At times, one of the waiters accompanying Sergeant Gourel on his search would come running up.

  “Any news?” asked M. Lenormand.

  “No, sir, we’ve found nothing.”

  The manager made two attempts to induce him to relax his orders regarding the doors. The situation was becoming intolerable. The office was filled with loudly-protesting visitors, who had business outside, or who had arranged to leave Paris.

  “I don’t care a hang!” said M. Lenormand again.

  “But I know them all.”

  “I congratulate you.”

  “You are exceeding your powers.”

  “I know.”

  “The law will decide against you.”

  “I’m convinced of that.”

  “Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction himself …”

  “M. Formerie had better not interfere. He can mind his own business, which is to examine the servants, as he is doing now. Besides, it has nothing to do with the examining-magistrate, it has to do with the police. It’s my affair.”

  Just then a squad of police burst into the hotel. The chief detective divided them into several sections which he sent up to the third floor. Then, addressing the commissary of police:

  “My dear commissary, I leave the task of watching the doors to you. No weakness, I entreat you. I will take the responsibility for anything that happens.”

  And, turning to the lift, he had himself conveyed to the second floor.

  It was a difficult business and a long one, for they had to open the doors of the sixty bedrooms, to inspect all the bathrooms, all the recesses, all the cupboards, every nook and corner.

  And it was also fruitless. An hour later, on the stroke of twelve, M. Lenormand had just done the second floor; the other parties had not yet finished the upper floors; and no discovery had been made.

  M. Lenormand hesitated: had the murderer retreated to the attics?

  He was deciding, however, to go downstairs, when he was told that Mrs. Kesselbach had just arrived with her lady-companion. Edwards, the old confidential man-servant, had accepted the task of informing her of Mr. Kesselbach’s death.