“In what way?”
“The robbery took place last night.”
“If you had not announced my intended visit, it is probable the robbery would not have been committed last night.”
“When, then?”
“Tomorrow, or some other day.”
“And in that case?”
“Lupin would have been trapped,” said the detective.
“And my furniture?”
“Would not have been carried away.”
“Ah! but my goods are here. They were brought back at three o’clock.”
“By Lupin.”
“By two army-wagons.”
Sherlock Holmes put on his cap and adjusted his satchel. Devanne exclaimed, anxiously:
“But, monsieur, what are you going to do?”
“I am going home.”
“Why?”
“Your goods have been returned; Arsène Lupin is far away—there is nothing for me to do.”
“Yes, there is. I need your assistance. What happened yesterday, may happen again tomorrow, as we do not know how he entered, or how he escaped, or why, a few hours later, he returned the goods.”
“Ah! you don’t know—”
The idea of a problem to be solved quickened the interest of Sherlock Holmes.
“Very well, let us make a search—at once—and alone, if possible.”
Devanne understood, and conducted the Englishman to the salon. In a dry, crisp voice, in sentences that seemed to have been prepared in advance, Holmes asked a number of questions about the events of the preceding evening, and enquired also concerning the guests and the members of the household. Then he examined the two volumes of the “Chronique,” compared the plans of the subterranean passage, requested a repetition of the sentences discovered by Father Gélis, and then asked:
“Was yesterday the first time you have spoken hose two sentences to any one?”
“Yes.”
“You had never communicated then to Horace Velmont?”
“No.”
“Well, order the automobile. I must leave in an hour.”
“In an hour?”
“Yes; within that time, Arsène Lupin solved the problem that you placed before him.”
“I…placed before him—”
“Yes, Arsène Lupin or Horace Velmont—same thing.”
“I thought so. Ah! the scoundrel!”
“Now, let us see,” said Holmes, “last night at ten o’clock, you furnished Lupin with the information that he lacked, and that he had been seeking for many weeks. During the night, he found time to solve the problem, collect his men, and rob the castle. I shall be quite as expeditious.”
He walked from end to end of the room, in deep thought, then sat down, crossed his long legs and closed his eyes.
Devanne waited, quite embarrassed. Thought he: “Is the man asleep? Or is he only meditating?” However, he left the room to give some orders, and when he returned he found the detective on his knees scrutinizing the carpet at the foot of the stairs in the gallery.
“What is it?” he enquired.
“Look…there…spots from a candle.”
“You are right—and quite fresh.”
“And you will also find them at the top of the stairs, and around the cabinet that Arsène Lupin broke into, and from which he took the bibelots that he afterward placed in this armchair.”
“What do you conclude from that?”
“Nothing. These facts would doubtless explain the cause for the restitution, but that is a side issue that I cannot wait to investigate. The main question is the secret passage. First, tell me, is there a chapel some two or three hundred metres from the castle?”
“Yes, a ruined chapel, containing the tomb of Duke Rollo.”
“Tell your chauffer to wait for us near that chapel.”
“My chauffer hasn’t returned. If he had, they would have informed me. Do you think the secret passage runs to the chapel? What reason have—”
“I would ask you, monsieur,” interrupted the detective, “to furnish me with a ladder and a lantern.”
“What! do you require a ladder and a lantern?”
“Certainly, or I shouldn’t have asked for them.”
Devanne, somewhat disconcerted by this crude logic, rang the bell. The two articles were given with the sternness and precision of military commands.
“Place the ladder against the bookcase, to the left of the word Thibermesnil.”
Devanne placed the ladder as directed, and the Englishman continued:
“More to the left…to the right.… There!… Now, climb up.… All the letters are in relief, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“First, turn the letter I one way or the other.”
“Which one? There are two of them.”
“The first one.”
Devanne took hold of the letter, and exclaimed:
“Ah! yes, it turns toward the right. Who told you that?”
Sherlock Holmes did not reply to the question, but continued his directions:
“Now, take the letter B. Move it back and forth as you would a bolt.”
Devanne did so, and, to his great surprise, it produced a clicking sound.
“Quite right,” said Holmes. “Now, we will go to the other end of the word Thibermesnil, try the letter I, and see if it will open like a wicket.”
With a certain degree of solemnity, Devanne seized the letter. It opened, but Devanne fell from the ladder, for the entire section of the bookcase, lying between the first and last letters of the words, turned on a picot and disclosed the subterranean passage.
Sherlock Holmes said, coolly:
“You are not hurt?”
“No, no,” said Devanne, as he rose to his feet, “not hurt, only bewildered. I can’t understand now…those letters turn…the secret passage opens.…”
“Certainly. Doesn’t that agree exactly with the formula given by Sully? Turn one eye on the bee that shakes, the other eye will lead to God.”
“But Louis the sixteenth?” asked Devanne.
“Louis the sixteenth was a clever locksmith. I have read a book he wrote about combination locks. It was a good idea on the part of the owner of Thibermesnil to show His Majesty a clever bit of mechanism. As an aid to his memory, the king wrote: 3-4-11, that is to say, the third, fourth and eleventh letters of the word.”
“Exactly. I understand that. It explains how Lupin got out of the room, but it does not explain how he entered. And it is certain he came from the outside.”
Sherlock Holmes lighted his lantern, and stepped into the passage.
“Look! All the mechanism is exposed here, like the works of a clock, and the reverse side of the letters can be reached. Lupin worked the combination from this side—that is all.”
“What proof is there of that?”
“Proof? Why, look at that puddle of oil. Lupin foresaw that the wheels would require oiling.”
“Did he know about the other entrance?”
“As well as I know it,” said Holmes. “Follow me.”
“Into that dark passage?”
“Are you afraid?”
“No, but are you sure you can find the way out?”
“With my eyes closed.”
At first, they descended twelve steps, then twelve more, and, farther on, two other flights of twelve steps each. Then they walked through a long passageway, the brick walls of which showed the marks of successive restorations, and, in spots, were dripping with water. The earth, also, was very damp.
“We are passing under the pond,” said Devanne, somewhat nervously.
At last, they came to a stairway of twelve steps, follow
ed by three others of twelve steps each, which they mounted with difficulty, and then found themselves in a small cavity cut in the rock. They could go no further.
“The deuce!” muttered Holmes, “nothing but bare walls. This is provoking.”
“Let us go back,” said Devanne. “I have seen enough to satisfy me.”
But the Englishman raised his eye and uttered a sigh of relief. There, he saw the same mechanism and the same word as before. He had merely to work the three letters. He did so, and a block of granite swung out of place. On the other side, this granite block formed the tombstone of Duke Rollo, and the word “Thibermesnil” was engraved on it in relief. Now, they were in the little ruined chapel, and the detective said:
“The other eye leads to God; that means, to the chapel.”
“It is marvelous!” exclaimed Devanne, amazed at the clairvoyance and vivacity of the Englishman. “Can it be possible that those few words were sufficient for you?”
“Bah!” declared Holmes, “they weren’t even necessary. In the chart in the book of the National Library, the drawing terminates at the left, as you know, in a circle, and at the right, as you do not know, in a cross. Now, that cross must refer to the chapel in which we now stand.”
Poor Devanne could not believe his ears. It was all so new, so novel to him. He exclaimed:
“It is incredible, miraculous, and yet of a childish simplicity! How is it that no one has ever solved the mystery?”
“Because no one has ever united the essential elements, that is to say, the two books and the two sentences. No one, but Arsène Lupin and myself.”
“But, Father Gélis and I knew all about those things, and, likewise—”
Holmes smiled, and said:
“Monsieur Devanne, everybody cannot solve riddles.”
“I have been trying for ten years to accomplish what you did in ten minutes.”
“Bah! I am used to it.”
They emerged from the chapel, and found an automobile.
“Ah! there’s an auto waiting for us.”
“Yes, it is mine,” said Devanne.
“Yours? You said your chauffeur hadn’t returned.”
They approached the machine, and Mon. Devanne questioned the chauffer:
“Edouard, who gave you orders to come here?”
“Why, it was Monsieur Velmont.”
“Mon. Velmont? Did you meet him?”
“Near the railway station, and he told me to come to the chapel.”
“To come to the chapel! What for?”
“To wait for you, monsieur, and your friend.”
Devanne and Holmes exchanged looks, and Mon. Devanne said:
“He knew the mystery would be a simple one for you. It is a delicate compliment.”
A smile of satisfaction lighted up the detective’s serious features for a moment. The compliment pleased him. He shook his head, as he said:
“A clever man! I knew that when I saw him.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I met him a short time ago—on my way from the station.”
“And you knew it was Horace Velmont—I mean, Arsène Lupin?”
“That is right. I wonder how it came—”
“No, but I supposed it was—from a certain ironical speech he made.”
“And you allowed him to escape?”
“Of course I did. And yet I had everything on my side, such as five gendarmes who passed us.”
“Sacrableu!” cried Devanne. “You should have taken advantage of the opportunity.”
“Really, monsieur,” said the Englishman, haughtily, “when I encounter an adversary like Arsène Lupin, I do not take advantage of chance opportunities, I create them.”
But time pressed, and since Lupin had been so kind as to send the automobile, they resolved to profit by it. They seated themselves in the comfortable limousine; Edouard took his place at the wheel, and away they went toward the railway station. Suddenly, Devanne’s eyes fell upon a small package in one of the pockets of the carriage.
“Ah! what is that? A package! Whose is it? Why, it is for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, it is addressed: Sherlock Holmes, from Arsène Lupin.”
The Englishman took the package, opened it, and found that it contained a watch.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, with an angry gesture.
“A watch,” said Devanne. “How did it come there?”
The detective did not reply.
“Oh! it is your watch! Arsène Lupin returns your watch! But, in order to return it, he must have taken it. Ah! I see! He took your watch! That is a good one! Sherlock Holmes’ watch stolen by Arsène Lupin! Mon Dieu! that is funny! Really…you must excuse me.… I can’t help it.”
He roared with laughter, unable to control himself. After which, he said, in a tone of earnest conviction:
“A clever man, indeed!”
The Englishman never moved a muscle. On the way to Dieppe, he never spoke a word, but fixed his gaze on the flying landscape. His silence was terrible, unfathomable, more violent than the wildest rage. At the railway station, he spoke calmly, but in a voice that impressed one with the vast energy and will power of that famous man. He said:
“Yes, he is a clever man, but some day I shall have the pleasure of placing on his shoulder the hand I now offer to you, Monsieur Devanne. And I believe that Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes will meet again some day. Yes, the world is too small—we will meet—we must meet—and then—”
ABOUT THE LONE WOLF
The character of The Lone Wold was created by Louis Joseph Vance (September 19, 1879–December 16, 1933), an American novelist, born in Washington, D. C., and educated in the preparatory department of the Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute. He wrote short stories and verse after 1901, then composed many popular novels. His character “Michael Lanyard”, also known as “The Lone Wolf”, was featured in eight books and 24 films between 1914 and 1949, and also appeared in radio and television series.
Vance was separated from his wife (whom he married in 1898 and by whom he had a son the next year) when he was found dead in a burnt armchair inside his New York apartment. A cigarette had ignited some benzene (used for cleaning his clothes or for his broken jaw) that he had on his person. He was intoxicated at the time. The death was ruled accidental.
THE LONE WOLF, by Louis Joseph Vance
CHAPTER I
TROYON’S
It must have been Bourke who first said that even if you knew your way about Paris you had to lose it in order to find it to Troyon’s. But then Bourke was proud to be Irish.
Troyon’s occupied a corner in a jungle of side-streets, well withdrawn from the bustle of the adjacent boulevards of St. Germain and St. Michel, and in its day was a restaurant famous with a fame jealously guarded by a select circle of patrons. Its cooking was the best in Paris, its cellar second to none, its rates ridiculously reasonable; yet Baedeker knew it not. And in the wisdom of the cognoscenti this was well: it had been a pity to loose upon so excellent an establishment the swarms of tourists that profaned every temple of gastronomy on the Rive Droit.
The building was of three storeys, painted a dingy drab and trimmed with dull green shutters. The restaurant occupied almost all of the street front of the ground floor, a blank, non-committal double doorway at one extreme of its plate-glass windows was seldom open and even more seldom noticed.
This doorway was squat and broad and closed the mouth of a wide, stone-walled passageway. In one of its two substantial wings of oak a smaller door had been cut for the convenience of Troyon’s guests, who by this route gained the courtyard, a semi-roofed and shadowy place, cool on the hottest day. From the court a staircase, with an air of leading nowhere in particular, climbed lazily to the second
storey and thereby justified its modest pretensions; for the two upper floors of Troyon’s might have been plotted by a nightmare-ridden architect after witnessing one of the first of the Palais Royal farces.
Above stairs, a mediaeval maze of corridors long and short, complicated by many unexpected steps and staircases and turns and enigmatic doors, ran every-which-way and as a rule landed one in the wrong room, linking together, in all, some two-score bed-chambers. There were no salons or reception-rooms, there was never a bath-room, there wasn’t even running water aside from two hallway taps, one to each storey. The honoured guest and the exacting went to bed by lamplight: others put up with candlesticks: gas burned only in the corridors and the restaurant—asthmatic jets that, spluttering blue within globes obese, semi-opaque, and yellowish, went well with furnishings and decorations of the Second Empire to which years had lent a mellow and somehow rakish dinginess; since nothing was ever refurbished.
With such accommodations the guests of Troyon’s were well content. They were not many, to begin with, and they were almost all middle-aged bourgeois, a caste that resents innovations. They took Troyon’s as they found it: the rooms suited them admirably, and the tariff was modest. Why do anything to disturb the perennial peace of so discreet and confidential an establishment? One did much as one pleased there, providing one’s bill was paid with tolerable regularity and the hand kept supple that operated the cordon in the small hours of the night. Papa Troyon came from a tribe of inn-keepers and was liberal-minded; while as for Madame his wife, she cared for nothing but pieces of gold….
To Troyon’s on a wet winter night in the year 1893 came the child who as a man was to call himself Michael Lanyard.
He must have been four or five years old at that time: an age at which consciousness is just beginning to recognize its individuality and memory registers with capricious irregularity. He arrived at the hotel in a state of excitement involving an almost abnormal sensitiveness to impressions; but that was soon drowned deep in dreamless slumbers of healthy exhaustion; and when he came to look back through a haze of days, of which each had made its separate and imperative demand upon his budding emotions, he found his store of memories strangely dulled and disarticulate.
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 87
