Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes

by Maurice Leblanc

  “I was in bed.”

  “You ought to be asleep.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “Well, what brought you here?” asked Sholmes.

  “Your letter.”

  “My letter? I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, a messenger brought it to me at the hotel.”

  “From me? Are you crazy?”

  “It is true—I swear it.”

  “Where is the letter?”

  Wilson handed him a sheet of paper, which he read by the light of his lantern. It was as follows:

  “Wilson, come at once to avenue Henri-Martin. The house is empty. Inspect the whole place and make an exact plan. Then return to hotel.—Herlock Sholmes.”

  “I was measuring the rooms,” said Wilson, “when I saw a shadow in the garden. I had only one idea—”

  “That was to seize the shadow … The idea was excellent … But remember this, Wilson, whenever you receive a letter from me, be sure it is my handwriting and not a forgery.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Wilson, as the truth dawned on him, “then the letter wasn’t from you?”

  “No.”

  “Who sent it, then?”

  “Arsène Lupin.”

  “Why? For what purpose?” asked Wilson.

  “I don’t know, and that’s what worries me. I don’t understand why he took the trouble to disturb you. Of course, if he had sent me on such a foolish errand I wouldn’t be surprised; but what was his object in disturbing you?”

  “I must hurry back to the hotel.”

  “So must I, Wilson.”

  They arrived at the gate. Wilson, who was ahead, took hold of it and pulled.

  “Ah! You closed it?” he said.

  “No, I left it partly open.”

  Sholmes tried the gate; then, alarmed, he examined the lock. An oath escaped him:

  “Good God! It is locked! Locked with a key!”

  He shook the gate with all his strength; then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he dropped his arms, discouraged, and muttered, in a jerky manner:

  “I can see it all now—it is Lupin. He foresaw that I would leave the train at Creil, and he prepared this neat little trap for me in case I should commence my investigation this evening. Moreover, he was kind enough to send me a companion to share my captivity. All done to make me lose a day, and, perhaps, also, to teach me to mind my own business.”

  “Do you mean to say we are prisoners?”

  “Exactly. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson are the prisoners of Arsène Lupin. It’s a bad beginning; but he laughs best who laughs last.”

  Wilson seized Sholmes’ arm, and exclaimed:

  “Look! … Look up there! … A light … .”

  A light shone through one of the windows of the first floor. Both of them ran to the house, and each ascended by the stairs he had used on coming out a short time before, and they met again at the entrance to the lighted chamber. A small piece of a candle was burning in the centre of the room. Beside it there was a basket containing a bottle, a roasted chicken, and a loaf of bread.

  Sholmes was greatly amused, and laughed heartily.

  “Wonderful! We are invited to supper. It is really an enchanted place, a genuine fairy-land. Come, Wilson, cheer up! This is not a funeral. It’s all very funny.”

  “Are you quite sure it is so very funny?” asked Wilson, in a lugubrious tone.

  “Am I sure?” exclaimed Sholmes, with a gaiety that was too boisterous to be natural, “why, to tell the truth, it’s the funniest thing I ever saw. It’s a jolly good comedy! What a master of sarcasm this Arsène Lupin is! He makes a fool of you with the utmost grace and delicacy. I wouldn’t miss this feast for all the money in the Bank of England. Come, Wilson, you grieve me. You should display that nobility of character which rises superior to misfortune. I don’t see that you have any cause for complaint, really, I don’t.”

  After a time, by dint of good humor and sarcasm, he managed to restore Wilson to his normal mood, and make him swallow a morsel of chicken and a glass of wine. But when the candle went out and they prepared to spend the night there, with the bare floor for a mattress and the hard wall for a pillow, the harsh and ridiculous side of the situation was impressed upon them. That particular incident will not form a pleasant page in the memoirs of the famous detective.

  Next morning Wilson awoke, stiff and cold. A slight noise attracted his attention: Herlock Sholmes was kneeling on the floor, critically examining some grains of sand and studying some chalk-marks, now almost effaced, which formed certain figures and numbers, which figures he entered in his notebook.

  Accompanied by Wilson, who was deeply interested in the work, he examined each room, and found similar chalk-marks in two other apartments. He noticed, also, two circles on the oaken panels, an arrow on a wainscot, and four figures on four steps of the stairs. At the end of an hour Wilson said:

  “The figures are correct, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know; but, at all events, they mean something,” replied Sholmes, who had forgotten the discomforts of the night in the joy created by his new discoveries.

  “It is quite obvious,” said Wilson, “they represent the number of pieces in the floor.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes. And the two circles indicate that the panels are false, as you can readily ascertain, and the arrow points in the direction in which the panels move.”

  Herlock Sholmes looked at Wilson, in astonishment.

  “Ah! My dear friend, how do you know all that? Your clairvoyance makes my poor ability in that direction look quite insignificant.”

  “Oh! It is very simple,” said Wilson, inflated with pride; “I examined those marks last night, according to your instructions, or, rather, according to the instructions of Arsène Lupin, since he wrote the letter you sent to me.”

  At that moment Wilson faced a greater danger than he had during his struggle in the garden with Herlock Sholmes. The latter now felt a furious desire to strangle him. But, dominating his feelings, Sholmes made a grimace which was intended for a smile, and said:

  “Quite so, Wilson, you have done well, and your work shows commendable progress. But, tell me, have you exercised your powers of observation and analysis on any other points? I might profit by your deductions.”

  “Oh! No, I went no farther.”

  “That’s a pity. Your début was such a promising one. But, since that is all, we may as well go.”

  “Go! But how can we get out?”

  “The way all honest people go out: through the gate.”

  “But it is locked.”

  “It will be opened.”

  “By whom?”

  “Please call the two policemen who are strolling down the avenue.”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  “It is very humiliating. What will be said when it becomes known that Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were the prisoners of Arsène Lupin?”

  “Of course, I understand they will roar with laughter,” replied Herlock Sholmes, in a dry voice and with frowning features, “but we can’t set up housekeeping in this place.”

  “And you will not try to find another way out?”

  “No.”

  “But the man who brought us the basket of provisions did not cross the garden, coming or going. There is some other way out. Let us look for it, and not bother with the police.”

  “Your argument is sound, but you forget that all the detectives in Paris have been trying to find it for the last six months, and that I searched the house from top to bottom while you were asleep. Ah! My dear Wilson, we have not been accustomed to pursue such game as Arsène Lupin. He leaves no trail behind him.”

  At eleven o’clock, Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were liberated, and conducted to the nearest police station, where the commissary, after subjecting them to a severe examination, released them with an affectation of good-will that was quite exasperating.

  “I am very sorry, messieurs, that this unfortu
nate incident has occurred. You will have a very poor opinion of French hospitality. Mon Dieu! What a night you must have passed! Ah! That rascally Lupin is no respecter of persons.”

  They took a carriage to their hotel. At the office Wilson asked for the key of his room.

  After some search the clerk replied, much astonished:

  “But, monsieur, you have given up the room.”

  “I gave it up? When?”

  “This morning, by the letter your friend brought here.”

  “What friend?”

  “The gentleman who brought your letter … Ah! Your card is still attached to the letter. Here they are.”

  Wilson looked at them. Certainly, it was one of his cards, and the letter was in his handwriting.

  “Good Lord!” he muttered, “this is another of his tricks,” and he added, aloud: “Where is my luggage?”

  “Your friend took it.”

  “Ah! … And you gave it to him?”

  “Certainly; on the strength of your letter and card.”

  “Of course … of course.”

  They left the hotel and walked, slowly and thoughtfully, through the Champs-Élysées. The avenue was bright and cheerful beneath a clear autumn sun; the air was mild and pleasant.

  At Rond-Point, Herlock Sholmes lighted his pipe. Then Wilson spoke:

  “I can’t understand you, Sholmes. You are so calm and unruffled. They play with you as a cat plays with a mouse, and yet you do not say a word.”

  Sholmes stopped, as he replied:

  “Wilson, I was thinking of your card.”

  “Well!”

  “The point is this: here is a man who, in view of a possible struggle with us, procures specimens of our handwriting, and who holds, in his possession, one or more of your cards. Now, have you considered how much precaution and skill those facts represent?”

  “Well!”

  “Well, Wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of … of a Herlock Sholmes. And yet, as you have seen, Wilson, I have lost the first round.”

  At six o’clock the Echo de France published the following article in its evening edition:

  “This morning Mon. Thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth district, released Herlock Sholmes and his friend Wilson, both of whom had been locked in the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec, where they spent a very pleasant night—thanks to the thoughtful care and attention of Arsène Lupin.

  “In addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a formal complaint against Arsène Lupin.

  “Arsène Lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent measures.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Herlock Sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands, “that is only child’s play! And that is the only criticism I have to make of Arsène Lupin: he plays to the gallery. There is that much of the fakir in him.”

  “Ah! Sholmes, you are a wonderful man! You have such a command over your temper. Nothing ever disturbs you.”

  “No, nothing disturbs me,” replied Sholmes, in a voice that trembled from rage; “besides, what’s the use of losing my temper? … I am quite confident of the final result; I shall have the last word.”

  CHAPTER IV.

  LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.

  HOWEVER WELL-TEMPERED A MAN’S CHARACTER may be—and Herlock Sholmes is one of those men over whom ill-fortune has little or no hold—there are circumstances wherein the most courageous combatant feels the necessity of marshaling his forces before risking the chances of a battle.

  “I shall take a vacation to-day,” said Sholmes.

  “And what shall I do?” asked Wilson.

  “You, Wilson—let me see! You can buy some underwear and linen to replenish our wardrobe, while I take a rest.”

  “Very well, Sholmes, I will watch while you sleep.”

  Wilson uttered these words with all the importance of a sentinel on guard at the outpost, and therefore exposed to the greatest danger. His chest was expanded; his muscles were tense. Assuming a shrewd look, he scrutinized, officially, the little room in which they had fixed their abode.

  “Very well, Wilson, you can watch. I shall occupy myself in the preparation of a line of attack more appropriate to the methods of the enemy we are called upon to meet. Do you see, Wilson, we have been deceived in this fellow Lupin. My opinion is that we must commence at the very beginning of this affair.”

  “And even before that, if possible. But have we sufficient time?”

  “Nine days, dear boy. That is five too many.”

  The Englishman spent the entire afternoon in smoking and sleeping. He did not enter upon his new plan of attack until the following day. Then he said:

  “Wilson, I am ready. Let us attack the enemy.”

  “Lead on, Macduff!” exclaimed Wilson, full of martial ardor. “I wish to fight in the front rank. Oh! Have no fear. I shall do credit to my King and country, for I am an Englishman.”

  In the first place, Sholmes had three long and important interviews: With Monsieur Detinan, whose rooms he examined with the greatest care and precision; with Suzanne Gerbois, whom he questioned in regard to the Blonde Lady; and with Sister Auguste, who had retired to the convent of the Visitandines since the murder of Baron d’Hautrec.

  At each of these interviews Wilson had remained outside; and each time he asked:

  “Satisfactory?”

  “Quite so.”

  “I was sure we were on the right track.”

  They paid a visit to the two houses adjoining that of the late Baron d’Hautrec in the avenue Henri-Martin; then they visited the rue Clapeyron, and, while he was examining the front of number 25, Sholmes said:

  “All these houses must be connected by secret passages, but I can’t find them.”

  For the first time in his life, Wilson doubted the omnipotence of his famous associate. Why did he now talk so much and accomplish so little?

  “Why?” exclaimed Sholmes, in answer to Wilson’s secret thought, “because, with this fellow Lupin, a person has to work in the dark, and, instead of deducting the truth from established facts, a man must extract it from his own brain, and afterward learn if it is supported by the facts in the case.”

  “But what about the secret passages?”

  “They must exist. But even though I should discover them, and thus learn how Arsène Lupin made his entrance to the lawyer’s house and how the Blonde Lady escaped from the house of Baron d’Hautrec after the murder, what good would it do? How would it help me? Would it furnish me with a weapon of attack?”

  “Let us attack him just the same,” exclaimed Wilson, who had scarcely uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. Something had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might have caused them serious injury if it had struck them.

  Sholmes looked up. Some men were working on a scaffolding attached to the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. He said:

  “We were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on our heads. I wonder if—”

  Moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and made his way to the balcony in front of the house. But there was no one there.

  “Where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?” he asked the servant.

  “They have just gone.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “By the servants’ stairs.”

  Sholmes leaned out of the window. He saw two men leaving the house, carrying bicycles. They mounted them and quickly disappeared around the corner.

  “How long have they been working on this scaffolding?”

  “Those men? … Only since this morning. It’s their first day.”

  Shol
mes returned to the street, and joined Wilson. Together they returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful silence.

  On the following day their programme was almost similar. They sat together on a bench in the avenue Henri-Martin, much to Wilson’s disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the house in which the tragedy had occurred.

  “What do you expect, Sholmes? That Arsène Lupin will walk out of the house?”

  “No.”

  “That the Blonde Lady will make her appearance?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will furnish me with a clue to work on.”

  “And if it does not occur?”

  “Then I must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the powder.”

  A solitary incident—and that of a disagreeable nature—broke the monotony of the forenoon.

  A gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were sitting, and struck Sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Sholmes, “a little more and I would have had a broken shoulder.”

  The gentleman struggled with his horse. The Englishman drew his revolver and pointed it; but Wilson seized his arm, and said:

  “Don’t be foolish! What are you going to do? Kill the man?”

  “Leave me alone, Wilson! Let go!”

  During the brief struggle between Sholmes and Wilson the stranger rode away.

  “Now, you can shoot,” said Wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was at some distance.

  “Wilson, you’re an idiot! Don’t you understand that the man is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin?”

  Sholmes was trembling from rage. Wilson stammered pitifully:

  “What? … That man … an accomplice?”

  “Yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us yesterday.”

  “It can’t be possible!”

  “Possible or not, there was only one way to prove it.”

  “By killing the man?”

  “No—by killing the horse. If you hadn’t grabbed my arm, I should have captured one of Lupin’s accomplices. Now, do you understand the folly of your act?”