The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Graeme Davis

  “I still had to learn, in addition to the name of the assassin, which I did later, the time of the original attack. I learned this from the examination of Mademoiselle Stangerson and her father, though the answers given by the former were well calculated to deceive the examining magistrate—Mademoiselle Stangerson had stated very minutely how she had spent the whole of her time that day. We established the fact that the murderer had introduced himself into the pavilion between five and six o’clock. At a quarter past six the professor and his daughter had resumed their work. At five the professor had been with his daughter, and since the attack took place in the professor’s absence from his daughter, I had to find out just when he left her. The professor had stated that at the time when he and his daughter were about to re-enter the laboratory he was met by the keeper and held in conversation about the cutting of some wood and the poachers. Mademoiselle Stangerson was not with him then since the professor said: ‘I left the keeper and rejoined my daughter who was at work in the laboratory.’

  “It was during that short interval of time that the tragedy took place. That is certain. In my mind’s eye I saw Mademoiselle Stangerson re-enter the pavilion, go to her room to take off her hat, and find herself faced by the murderer. He had been in the pavilion for some time waiting for her. He had arranged to pass the whole night there. He had taken off Daddy Jacques’s boots; he had removed the papers from the cabinet; and had then slipped under the bed. Finding the time long, he had risen, gone again into the laboratory, then into the vestibule, looked into the garden, and had seen, coming towards the pavilion, Mademoiselle Stangerson—alone. He would never have dared to attack her at that hour, if he had not found her alone. His mind was made up. He would be more at ease alone with Mademoiselle Stangerson in the pavilion, than he would have been in the middle of the night, with Daddy Jacques sleeping in the attic. So he shut the vestibule window. That explains why neither Monsieur Stangerson, nor the keeper, who were at some distance from the pavilion, had heard the revolver shot.

  “Then he went back to ‘The Yellow Room.’ Mademoiselle Stangerson came in. What passed must have taken place very quickly. Mademoiselle tried to call for help; but the man had seized her by the throat. Her hand had sought and grasped the revolver which she had been keeping in the drawer of her night-table, since she had come to fear the threats of her pursuer. The murderer was about to strike her on the head with the mutton-bone—a terrible weapon in the hands of a Larsan or Ballmeyer; but she fired in time, and the shot wounded the hand that held the weapon. The bone fell to the floor covered with the blood of the murderer, who staggered, clutched at the wall for support—imprinting on it the red marks—and, fearing another bullet, fled.

  “She saw him pass through the laboratory, and listened. He was long at the window. At length he jumped from it. She flew to it and shut it. The danger past, all her thoughts were of her father. Had he either seen or heard? At any cost to herself she must keep this from him. Thus when Monsieur Stangerson returned, he found the door of the Yellow Room closed, and his daughter in the laboratory, bending over her desk, at work!”

  Turning towards Monsieur Darzac, Rouletabille cried: “You know the truth! Tell us, then, if that is not how things happened.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” replied Monsieur Darzac.

  “I admire you for your silence,” said Rouletabille, “but if Mademoiselle Stangerson knew of your danger, she would release you from your oath. She would beg of you to tell all she has confided to you. She would be here to defend you!”

  Monsieur Darzac made no movement, nor uttered a word. He looked at Rouletabille sadly.

  “However,” said the young reporter, “since Mademoiselle is not here, I must do it myself. But, believe me, Monsieur Darzac, the only means to save Mademoiselle Stangerson and restore her to her reason, is to secure your acquittal.”

  “What is this secret motive that compels Mademoiselle Stangerson to hide her knowledge from her father?” asked the President.

  “That, Monsieur, I do not know,” said Rouletabille. “It is no business of mine.”

  The President, turning to Monsieur Darzac, endeavoured to induce him to tell what he knew.

  “Do you still refuse, Monsieur, to tell us how you employed your time during the attempts on the life of Mademoiselle Stangerson?”

  “I cannot tell you anything, Monsieur.”

  The President turned to Rouletabille as if appealing for an explanation.

  “We must assume, Monsieur President, that Monsieur Robert Darzac’s absences are closely connected with Mademoiselle Stangerson’s secret, and that Monsieur Darzac feels himself in honour bound to remain silent. It may be that Larsan, who, since his three attempts, has had everything in training to cast suspicion on Monsieur Darzac, had fixed on just those occasions for a meeting with Monsieur Darzac at a spot most compromising. Larsan is cunning enough to have done that.”

  The President seemed partly convinced, but still curious, he asked:

  “But what is this secret of Mademoiselle Stangerson?”

  “That I cannot tell you,” said Rouletabille. “I think, however, you know enough now to acquit Monsieur Robert Darzac! Unless Larsan should return, and I don’t think he will,” he added, with a laugh.

  “One question more,” said the President. “Admitting your explanation, we know that Larsan wished to turn suspicion on Monsieur Robert Darzac, but why should he throw suspicion on Daddy Jacques also?”

  “There came in the professional detective, Monsieur, who proves himself an unraveller of mysteries, by annihilating the very proofs he had accumulated. He’s a very cunning man, and a similar trick had often enabled him to turn suspicion from himself. He proved the innocence of one before accusing the other. You can easily believe, Monsieur, that so complicated a scheme as this must have been long and carefully thought out in advance by Larsan. I can tell you that he had long been engaged on its elaboration. If you care to learn how he had gathered information, you will find that he had, on one occasion, disguised himself as the commissionaire between the Laboratory of the Sûreté and Monsieur Stangerson, of whom ‘experiments’ were demanded. In this way he had been able before the crime, on two occasions to take stock of the pavilion. He had ‘made up’ so that Daddy Jacques had not recognised him. And yet Larsan had found the opportunity to rob the old man of a pair of old boots and a cast-off Basque cap, which the servant had tied up in a handkerchief, with the intention of carrying them to a friend, a charcoal-burner on the road to Epinay. When the crime was discovered, Daddy Jacques had immediately recognised these objects as his. They were extremely compromising, which explains his distress at the time when we spoke to him about them. Larsan confessed it all to me. He is an artist at the game. He did a similar thing in the affair of the ‘Credit Universel,’ and in that of the ‘Gold Ingots of the Mint.’ Both these cases should be revised. Since Ballmeyer or Larsan has been in the Sûreté a number of innocent persons have been sent to prison.”

  * An old French word for a castle keep.

  † The suspected murder weapon, and from references elsewhere in the story, a fairly common type of club used by Parisian criminals at the time.

  ‡ An earlier incident in which the murderer, surrounded by Rouletabille and others, had apparently vanished.

  § A Paris department store.

  ¶ A type of small handbag.

  THE JEWISH LAMP

  (EXTRACT)

  by Maurice Leblanc

  1908

  Born in Normandy, Maurice Leblanc studied in several countries before dropping out of law school to become a writer. His novels, influenced by great French writers like Gustav Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant, were critical successes but sold poorly; his crime fiction proved to be much more commercial.

  Leblanc’s anti-hero Arsène Lupin is often cited as the prototype of the gentleman thief character, although E. W. Hornung had created A. J. Raffles several years before the publication of the first Lupin story. Lupin
was not even the first gentleman thief character to appear in French: the novelist and playwright Octave Mirabeau created Arthur Lebeau in his 1901 novel Les 21 jours d’un neurasthénique (Twenty-one Days of a Neurasthenic), and the following year his play Scrupules featured a similar character.

  Leblanc wasted no time in throwing down the gauntlet to Doyle and Holmes. In June 1906, the French Magazine Je sais tout (“I know all”) published a Lupin story titled “Sherlock Holmes Arrives Too Late,” prompting legal objections from Doyle. Leblanc responded by changing a few key names when the story was collected in book form: Herlock Sholmes and his faithful sidekick Wilson appeared in two further stories, “The Blonde Lady” and “The Jewish Lamp,” which were collected in book form as Arsène Lupin contre Herlock Sholmes. “Herlock Sholmes” seems to have been too much for the publishers of the first English translations, who came up with Arsène Lupin versus Holmlock Shears instead. One wonders why they bothered, and so, apparently, did they: subsequent U.S. printings changed the book’s title to The Blonde Lady.

  “The Jewish Lamp” consists of two chapters, the first of which is presented here. In the second part, “The Shipwreck,” Sholmes confronts Lupin on a boat on the Seine; Lupin appears to drown, but reappears later, after Sholmes has solved the mystery, and the two exchange some rather unconvincing words of mutual admiration.

  Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire.

  Sholmes’ pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings.

  Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak:

  “Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments.”

  Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact—an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window.

  The lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows!

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, “the postman.”

  The man entered, shown in by the servant.

  “Two registered letters, sir . . . if you will sign, please?”

  Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned.

  “It seems to please you,” remarked Wilson, after a moment’s silence.

  “This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case—here’s one. Read—”

  Wilson read:

  “Monsieur,

  “I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses.

  “Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige,

  “Your humble servant,

  “Baron Victor d’Imblevalle,

  “18 Rue Murillo, Paris.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that sounds good . . . a little trip to Paris . . . and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Arsène Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions.”

  He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength,* uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor.

  “Well! What’s the matter?” asked Wilson, anxiously.

  He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement:

  “My Dear Monsieur:

  “You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat.

  “Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside.

  “My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

  “Arsène Lupin!” repeated Wilson, astounded.

  Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed:

  “Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn’t I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?”

  “I tell you—he’s afraid,” suggested Wilson.

  “Nonsense! Arsène Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it.”

  “But how did he know that the Baron d’Imblevalle had written to you?”

  “What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy.”

  “I thought . . . I supposed—”

  “What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?”

  “No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things.”

  “No person can perform marvellous things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude—that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine.”

  Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness:

  “Sholmes, you are going to Paris.”

  “Possibly.”

  “And Lupin’s affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d’Imblevalle.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Sholmes, I shall go with you.”

  “Ah; ah! my old friend,” exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, “you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?”

  “What can happen to me? You will be there.”

  “That’s the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train.”

  “Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?”

  “What good are they?”

  “I will send a telegram.”

  “No; if you do that, Arsène Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover.”

  That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three hours’ sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment.

  Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He
was delighted at the idea of another duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation.

  “At last!” exclaimed Wilson, “we are getting to work again.”

  And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air.

  At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly.

  “Fine weather, Wilson. . . . Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a royal reception.”

  “Yes, but what a crowd!”

  “So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will recognize us in such a crowd.”

  “Is this Monsieur Sholmes?”

  He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. She repeated her enquiry:

  “You are Monsieur Sholmes?”

  As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time:

  “Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?”

  “What do you want?” he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one.

  “You must listen to me, Monsieur Sholmes, as it is a serious matter. I know that you are going to the Rue Murillo.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I know . . . I know . . . Rue Murillo . . . number 18. Well, you must not go . . . no, you must not. I assure you that you will regret it. Do not think that I have any interest in the matter. I do it because it is right . . . because my conscience tells me to do it.”

  Sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted:

  “Oh! I beg of you, don’t neglect my advice. . . . Ah! if I only knew how to convince you! Look at me! Look into my eyes! They are sincere . . . they speak the truth.”

  She gazed at Sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected.