Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  Lupin straightened and shook his head fastidiously.

  “Ganimard, there is blood on those pretty stones. I will not soil my hands with them.”

  “It’s true you never were a murderer,” Ganimard whispered. “Still...”

  “Think of it as poetic justice, with you in the role of Purity guiding the hand of the Blind Goddess. Or is that Innocence? The Soviets left you with nothing. Now, I shall leave them with my card in exchange for the Romanov jewels they were kind enough to bring to Paris.”

  Ganimard glanced at his surroundings. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still clouded over. The leaden light did not show the room to its best advantage, if there was such a thing. Suddenly, hatred flashed across the old man’s face.

  “I’m not saying I accept or that I can promise you that invitation, but if I call in a few favors... What name shall I put on the invitation?”

  “That’s the spirit! Later perhaps, I can help you get that little house you dreamed of...”

  The Gentleman Burglar gave Ganimard his instructions. When he left, the Sun was peeking through the clouds.

  “And so ends the first act,” muttered Lupin, going down the stairs.

  The Police were nowhere to be seen.

  The Soviet Embassy had never hosted such a throng, if only because Paris had steadfastly refused to recognize the new regime. Now, top hats and evening dresses shone in the gathering gloom as guests tarried inside the central courtyard. They pointed to each other the architectural features of the Hôtel d’Estrées. (“Built in 1713, don’t you know?” “Wait till you see the inside!” “I know, I remember how it was before the war.” “We had some grand times here, didn’t we just?”) Whether or not it was politic to display one’s acquaintance with the building before the time of the Soviets.

  Out of respect for Parisian étiquette, a decent number of footmen lined the stairs leading inside the building, holding flambeaux to show the way. Inside the ballroom, more footmen stood at attention between the windows. Electric light streamed through the broad, Regency-style casements and turned the garden’s white gravel paths into shimmering ribbons while deepening the shadows stretched out behind the trees and hedges.

  Names rang out at regular intervals.

  “The Marquis de Saint-Loup.”

  “Prince Pavel Chernin, Grand Duke of Kurland and Semigallia.”

  “The Prince of Guermantes.”

  “La Comtessa di Cagliostro.”

  Footmen also moved through the crowd, offering fluted glasses sparkling with the best champagne–Mumm’s, not Louis Roederer–and canapés daubed with the blackest caviar. Conversations didn’t pause. Both champagne and canapés were designed to be taken in small doses, without interrupting gossip or banter.

  In one corner of the room, two men watched the guests coming in.

  “I didn’t expect to see so many aristocrats at a Soviet ball.”

  “It’s not just a ball. It’s an occasion, even a double occasion: the 50th anniversary of the acquisition of the Hôtel d’Estrées and the prelude to renewed diplomatic relations between France and the Soviets.”

  “Was that enough of a reason to invite class enemies?”

  “No, but then they had another reason for inviting le gratin. Though there are fewer thrones in Europe than before the war, the aristocracy is never far from the seats of power. Gaining its goodwill is worth a few invitations.”

  “Goodwill?”

  “A measure of neutrality, then.”

  Joseph Joséphin, known to readers of L’Epoque as the intrepid Rouletabille, was one of the few journalists to have received an invitation. The Soviets professed to care little for the bourgeois press, but they were extending an olive branch to the Paris crème de la crème. They didn’t want it to go unnoticed.

  “I think you’re right,” Rouletabille admitted. “The Tout-Paris is here.”

  “Half the Gotha,” Lupin said. “Even Baron Karl and that White Russian Countess of his. I was hoping to see them.”

  “Those scoundrels? Why?”

  “The Police will need to arrest somebody. In a pinch, they’ll do.”

  “It is true, then? I’d heard the rumor about the Romanov jewels, but if you hadn’t told me I’d see you here, I would have dismissed it.”

  “In fact, you read the story I planted. So did Baron Karl, I suspect. Which is what I intended.”

  “But, wait, are you really in league with Kutepov and the White Rus...”

  Lupin bowed without answering, half turning to greet the newcomer he’d spotted in the crowd. As he did so, he overheard Rouletabille’s whispered curse. The journalist was used to keeping others off-balance, not to be the one taken by surprise. Joséphin hailed the familiar face, peeved but hiding it well.

  “Ah! Marcel, how nice to see you here.”

  An aging dandy nodded, moving to greet Rouletabille. Lupin did not miss the chance to get away discreetly. It had not escaped him that the Baron had already slipped out. The actors were taking their assigned places. It was now up to him to make his entrance and play his part.

  He made his way unremarked through the throng with an acrobat’s agility. He left the room so quietly that his parting words hung about the doorway like ghosts rather than physical sounds.

  “And so ends the second act.”

  By this point in his career, Lupin no longer stole for gain. He had set aside enough riches to live out several consecutive lives as a gentleman of leisure, whether in the guise of a countryside correspondent of the Académie des Sciences, an eccentric artist in Balbec, a wealthy retiree in a villa on the shore of lake Léman or a peaceful philanthropist ensconced in a Paris suburb.

  He no longer stole for the challenge of it. He had solved enigmas that had defied the ages, when lives not his own depended on it. He had appropriated historic treasures and compelled the greatest men of the world to acknowledge his genius. He had conquered an empire, helped defeat another and outwitted the darkest designs of villains half-mad with greed or lust.

  He no longer stole for the sheer, physical thrill of it. The exhilaration of walking in forbidden places and eluding the traps set for the unwary remained, but it had faded, its force blunted by repetition. He no longer sought it. However, each expedition allowed him to recapture something of the original experience. A thrill that had never been edged with nervousness or fear. What he enjoyed most was the heightened clarity of his thoughts and the intense awareness of his surroundings that came with the keying of his senses to their highest pitch.

  And so he now stole for the remembrance of thrills past.

  This did not exclude planning. It never had. When Lupin made his way to the offices in the back wing of the embassy, he knew exactly where he was going.

  A door at the top of the stairs had been left open for him. On the way up, he stepped over the eleventh step, for its plush carpeting hid an alarm. He picked a small key placed atop the doorjamb and then pulled the door shut behind him. He strolled down the corridor, unhurried, and he counted under his breath the nameplates in Cyrillic, until he bent over a lock and forced it to give way.

  Inside the office, he pulled the drapes together and turned on the desk lamp. No good work could be done in the dark. This, Lupin had always believed. In any event, he would need the light to read the documents hidden away.

  The little key served him well, as did his long experience with trick desks. Soon, he was leafing through the most confidential letters and personal papers of Commissar Varishkin, and setting aside those he could read.

  Another man might not have heard the sound of the door opening, but age had only taken the slightest edge off his carefully trained senses. He flung himself in the armchair turned away from the entrance, hoping to remain unseen, but the cushion creaked. Steps crossed the floor, muffled by the Persian carpet.

  “Dear me, are we interrupting anything?”

  When he looked up, it was into the muzzle of a gun and the face of Baron Karl von Hessel. B
y his side stood Lily Bugov, Countess Idivzhopu, tall and slender and unusually ravishing.

  “Really, Lupin. You must think everyone is as thick as the French Police. It was not exactly a stretch to match Pavel Chernin with that old nom-de-guerre of yours, Paul Sernine. Check to see if he has a gun, Lily.”

  “I rarely carry any. They’re liable to fall in the wrong hands.”

  The willowy Countess came around the other side of the armchair. She patted Lupin down before turning the desk lamp on him to have a better look at their catch.

  “But he’s not the Prince!”

  “Are you sure? Look harder. Remember that Lupin is a master of disguise.”

  “I was dancing with Prince Chernin ten minutes ago, my dear Karl. I was close enough to breathe his eau de toilette. There is no resemblance. And he was still in the drawing room ten minutes ago, in a dinner jacket. This man is dressed like one of the footmen. How could Lupin have changed his clothes and his whole appearance in so little time?”

  “If he’s not Lupin, who is he?”

  The Countess did not offer an answer. The Baron pondered the mystery, his brow creasing like a cheap pair of pants. His gaze took in his captive’s attire, flickered to the champagne bucket left by Lupin on the chimney mantle, and pondered the open desk. Lupin watched him intently.

  “Unless...”

  “What?”

  “Unless Chernin was a decoy. Whether they believe he’s a White Russian émigré or Lupin himself, he’s got the attention of all the NKVD and GPU agents downstairs.”

  Lupin applauded.

  “Very good!”

  “You see, Lupin, you’re getting too old for this.”

  “Artistry never ages. You may yet get the chance to observe how I outthink my enemies. But then, Policemen are equally dim the world over... As for you, I’m willing to watch you at work. Tell me, do you know where the diamonds are?”

  “Not in the basement room they’ve set half their men to guard, I’m certain of that.”

  “Indeed. I asked Ganimard for an invitation to make sure of that. I knew his sense of duty would win out over any personal feelings about the Bolsheviks. Let me take a bow: I killed two birds with that one stone. Because the Soviets expected me to use the invitation, all their attention would be on the guests downstairs. Just like that of any Sûreté agents called to the rescue. And I also knew that once the Soviets heard I was coming, they’d move the jewels.”

  “But where to?”

  “Really, Baron, do you expect me to tell you?”

  “Then don’t tell him,” the Countess said, “tell it to the gun that will kill you if you don’t speak. Trust it to be a good listener. It’s used to hearing last-minute confessions.”

  “Ah, it is so hard to resist the sweet entreaties of a beautiful lady...”

  “I promise you I’ll be impressed. It’s not like the Baron has any leads.”

  “Countess!”

  “I shall put it to you as a riddle, then, so the Baron too has a chance to shine. Among the Romanov jewels, there is a trove of diamonds. In the parlance of the professional fence, diamonds are known as ‘ice.’ Where would you look for ice on a night like this?”

  “In the kitchens.”

  “Bravo! Take a bow, Countess. The meat locker is protected by a door that would stop a tank. It’s as good as a bank vault. The Soviets have assigned their best men to guard it, along with enough fur coats to make it through a Siberian winter night.”

  “What about the rest of jewels?”

  “You’ve got the brains of a pumpkin, Lily!” said the Baron. “The Soviets are smart enough to have kept them all together. But I do have one question, Lupin. If the jewels are downstairs, what are you doing upstairs?”

  “If it is improper for a butler to steal from his employers, it is doubly so for a footman. I am here to make sure things happen, that is all. You could say I’m supervising.”

  “From up here?” The Baron pushed the gun’s end into Lupin’s cheek. “I don’t believe that!”

  “I don’t like guns, especially in the hands of people like you. And I don’t like tainted jewels. Every day, the Bolsheviks kill more people in the name of the Revolution and the Romanov jewels sink deeper in a mire of blood. I promised the jewels to a friend, so I thought I’d see what else I could find up here.”

  “He might be telling the truth, Ka...”

  Lupin heard the sound of the door opening behind them, before it registered with Baron Karl and the Countess, their attention focused on him. When a primly enunciated “What is this?” sang out, Lupin took advantage of the Baron’s momentary distraction.

  A quick elbow to the solar plexus was followed by a chop to the Baron’s forearm. Lupin grabbed the gun from the man’s nerveless fingers and shoved back the aristocrat into his companion’s arms.

  He got up from the armchair, his gun trained on the Baron. It was time for him to take his leave.

  “You fool, he’s Arsène Lupin!” exclaimed the Baron, gasping as he caught his breath.

  His appeal to the newcomer did not go unheeded.

  “Don’t move or I’ll ring.”

  Lupin’s gaze assessed coldly the young woman clutching the bell-cord used to call servants. If the English inflection of her French hadn’t told him so already, Lupin would have identified her instantly as one of the guests from downstairs.

  Her hair was bobbed in the latest flapper fashion and her frock was a scandalously short tunic that clung to every perfect curve of her lanky body. A heavy brass wristlet did not so much weigh down her left arm as point out its aristocratic shapeliness. And she wore the three rows of her pearl choker with the natural grace of a peeress of the realm, not the vulgar pride of a demi-mondaine.

  “Lady Diana Wyndham,” breathed Lupin. “How kind of you to drop by.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” interjected the Baron.

  Karl von Hessel had taken advantage of Lupin’s look away to leap for the door, pushing the Countess ahead of him. There was no point in shooting, and Lady Diana was still clutching the bell-cord.

  Lupin sighed and pocketed the gun.

  “So ends the third act.”

  The peeress stared at him.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “That I’m having fun. The play is proving to have unexpected pleasures.”

  “Is it true you’re Arsène Lupin?”

  “Indeed, it is the name I’m famous for.” He left it at that, the shorter the better to play on her curiosity. “So, may I ask why you strayed from the ballroom?”

  “I was looking for my future husband.”

  “Here? All the eligible bachelors are downstairs, surely.”

  “I’m talking about my fiancé, Leonid Vladimirovich Varishkin.”

  It was Lupin’s turn to stare.

  “What is an English peeress doing with a Soviet Commissar, in the name of Lenin?”

  “I am ruined, Monsieur Lupin. More than that, I am a hunted woman.”

  Lupin bowed.

  “I can well believe you are sought by all.”

  “You don’t understand. Whether in Bathgate or Brighton, Dover or London, creditors hound me. My fiancé has promised me clear title to the Georgian oil wells bought by my late husband, Lord Wyndham. They may or may not make me wealthy again, but they will allow me to pay off my creditors.”

  “Do you care so much for your creditors and so little for yourself, Lady Wyndham?”

  “Marriage is never dishonorable for a woman, Monsieur Lupin, and a Wyndham pays her debts, come what may.”

  He stared at her for several seconds, as if unwilling to accept what he had just heard.

  “You are the best judge of your family’s honor,” Lupin said slowly, appearing to struggle with himself. “But are you so sure it is your family?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You believe yourself to be Lady Diana Mary Dorothea Wyndham, born in Glenloy Castle, Scotland, on the 24th of April, 1897, do you
not? The only daughter of the Duke of Inverness? Married in 1916 to Lord Wyndham, former ambassador of His Majesty to the court of the Tsar in St. Petersburg?”

  “I am!”

  “Your mother, Guinevere, loved Tennyson and Rossetti and Burne-Jones. She was a tireless horsewoman, able to ride all day through the heather of Scotland and be home in time for tea. She often visited the poor, leaving small, tactful gifts that could not be refused.”

  She blinked.

  “How is it that you know so much about me?”

  He had her attention now. The bell-cord was forgotten. Lady Wyndham came closer, feeling a dread she could not have named. Lupin did not answer, gazing off into the distance as if he could peer into the past.

  “It’s funny that you should ask, Lady Wyndham. I spent most of the summer of ’96 in Scotland. I wrote my beloved that a broken ankle was keeping me from making the trip back to France. In the beginning, that was true enough, but your mother soon nursed me back to perfect health.”

  “What are you saying, Monsieur Lupin?”

  His smile had turned tender, almost protective.

  “Didn’t you think it strange that I recognized you as soon as I saw you?”

  “I am not unknown in society circles. If what they say is true, we may have met before...”

  Her voice was uncertain and trailed off.

  “It’s true we have been introduced before. You might recall Señor Avista, the son of Peruvian shipping magnate, at the charity ball of Great Ormond Street Hospital, for instance. But I’ve been keeping track of you for a much longer period of time. Though rarely from so close... You do not take much after your mother, as you surely know. But you do remind me of my own mother.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “On the contrary, Lady Diana, it was marvelous,” he said gravely. “I will remember that summer with Guinevere till the day that I die. Even riding in the rain had its charms when it was with her... But I won’t insist. Most of those who knew the truth are dead. I know that it is true, and it is surely known to your heart, if only you dare look into it.”