Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes (22 page)

“I will not surrender.”

“He will make you, as he has all others.”

“And you would be pleased to see it—eh, Ganimard?”

“At all events, it is true,” said Ganimard, frankly. “And since you are determined to pursue the game, I will go with you.”

Together they entered the carriage and were driven to the avenue des Ternes. Upon their order the carriage stopped on the other side of the street, at some distance from the house, in front of a little café, on the terrace of which the two men took seats amongst the shrubbery. It was commencing to grow dark.

“Waiter,” said Sholmes, “some writing material.”

He wrote a note, recalled the waiter and gave him the letter with instructions to deliver it to the concierge of the house which he pointed out.

In a few minutes the concierge stood before them. Sholmes asked him if, on the Sunday morning, he had seen a young woman dressed in black.

“In black! Yes, about nine o’clock. She went to the second floor.”

“Have you seen her often?”

“No, but for some time—well, during the last few weeks, I have seen her almost every day.”

“And since Sunday?”

“Only once … until to-day.”

“What? Did she come to-day?”

“She is here now.”

“Here now?”

“Yes, she came about ten minutes ago. Her carriage is standing in the Place Saint-Ferdinand, as usual. I met her at the door.”

“Who is the occupant of the second floor?”

“There are two: a modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais, and a gentleman who rented two furnished rooms a month ago under the name of Bresson.”

“Why do you say ‘under the name’?”

“Because I have an idea that it is an assumed name. My wife takes care of his rooms, and … well, there are not two shirts there with the same initials.”

“Is he there much of the time?”

“No; he is nearly always out. He has not been here for three days.”

“Was he here on Saturday night?”

“Saturday night? … Let me think … Yes, Saturday night, he came in and stayed all night.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Well, I can scarcely answer that. He is so changeable. He is, by turns, big, little, fat, thin … dark and light. I do not always recognize him.”

Ganimard and Sholmes exchanged looks.

“That is he, all right,” said Ganimard.

“Ah!” said the concierge, “there is the girl now.”

Mademoiselle had just emerged from the house and was walking toward her carriage in the Place Saint-Ferdinand.

“And there is Monsieur Bresson.”

“Monsieur Bresson? Which is he?”

“The man with the parcel under his arm.”

“But he is not looking after the girl. She is going to her carriage alone.”

“Yes, I have never seen them together.”

The two detectives had arisen. By the light of the street-lamps they recognized the form of Arsène Lupin, who had started off in a direction opposite to that taken by the girl.

“Which will you follow?” asked Ganimard.

“I will follow him, of course. He’s the biggest game.”

“Then I will follow the girl,” proposed Ganimard.

“No, no,” said Sholmes, quickly, who did not wish to disclose the girl’s identity to Ganimard, “I know where to find her. Come with me.”

They followed Lupin at a safe distance, taking care to conceal themselves as well as possible amongst the moving throng and behind the newspaper kiosks. They found the pursuit an easy one, as he walked steadily forward without turning to the right or left, but with a slight limp in the right leg, so slight as to require the keen eye of a professional observer to detect it. Ganimard observed it, and said:

“He is pretending to be lame. Ah! If we could only collect two or three policemen and pounce on our man! We run a chance to lose him.”

But they did not meet any policemen before they reached the Porte des Ternes, and, having passed the fortifications, there was no prospect of receiving any assistance.

“We had better separate,” said Sholmes, “as there are so few people on the street.”

They were now on the boulevard Victor-Hugo. They walked one on each side of the street, and kept well in the shadow of the trees. They continued thus for twenty minutes, when Lupin turned to the left and followed the Seine. Very soon they saw him descend to the edge of the river. He remained there only a few seconds, but they could not observe his movements. Then Lupin retraced his steps. His pursuers concealed themselves in the shadow of a gateway. Lupin passed in front of them. His parcel had disappeared. And as he walked away another man emerged from the shelter of a house and glided amongst the trees.

“He seems to be following him also,” said Sholmes, in a low voice.

The pursuit continued, but was now embarrassed by the presence of the third man. Lupin returned the same way, passed through the Porte des Ternes, and re-entered the house in the avenue des Ternes.

The concierge was closing the house for the night when Ganimard presented himself.

“Did you see him?”

“Yes,” replied the concierge, “I was putting out the gas on the landing when he closed and bolted his door.”

“Is there any person with him?”

“No; he has no servant. He never eats here.”

“Is there a servants’ stairway?”

“No.”

Ganimard said to Sholmes:

“I had better stand at the door of his room while you go for the commissary of police in the rue Demours.”

“And if he should escape during that time?” said Sholmes.

“While I am here! He can’t escape.”

“One to one, with Lupin, is not an even chance for you.”

“Well, I can’t force the door. I have no right to do that, especially at night.”

Sholmes shrugged his shoulders and said:

“When you arrest Lupin no one will question the methods by which you made the arrest. However, let us go up and ring, and see what happens then.”

They ascended to the second floor. There was a double door at the left of the landing. Ganimard rang the bell. No reply. He rang again. Still no reply.

“Let us go in,” said Sholmes.

“All right, come on,” replied Ganimard.

Yet, they stood still, irresolute. Like people who hesitate when they ought to accomplish a decisive action they feared to move, and it seemed to them impossible that Arsène Lupin was there, so close to them, on the other side of that fragile door that could be broken down by one blow of the fist. But they knew Lupin too well to suppose that he would allow himself to be trapped in that stupid manner. No, no—a thousand times, no—Lupin was no longer there. Through the adjoining houses, over the roofs, by some conveniently prepared exit, he must have already made his escape, and, once more, it would only be Lupin’s shadow that they would seize.

They shuddered as a slight noise, coming from the other side of the door, reached their ears. Then they had the impression, amounting almost to a certainty, that he was there, separated from them by that frail wooden door, and that he was listening to them, that he could hear them.

What was to be done? The situation was a serious one. In spite of their vast experience as detectives, they were so nervous and excited that they thought they could hear the beating of their own hearts. Ganimard questioned Sholmes by a look. Then he struck the door a violent blow with his fist. Immediately they heard the sound of footsteps, concerning which there was no attempt at concealment.

Ganimard shook the door. Then he and Sholmes, uniting their efforts, rushed at the door, and burst it open with their shoulders. Then they stood still, in surprise. A shot had been fired in the adjoining room. Another shot, and the sound of a falling body.

When they entered they saw the man lying on the floor with his face toward the marble mantel. His revolver had fallen from his hand. Ganimard stooped and turned the man’s head. The face was covered with blood, which was flowing from two wounds, one in the cheek, the other in the temple.

“You can’t recognize him for blood.”

“No matter!” said Sholmes. “It is not Lupin.”

“How do you know? You haven’t even looked at him.”

“Do you think that Arsène Lupin is the kind of a man that would kill himself?” asked Sholmes, with a sneer.

“But we thought we recognized him outside.”

“We thought so, because the wish was father to the thought. That man has us bewitched.”

“Then it must be one of his accomplices.”

“The accomplices of Arsène Lupin do not kill themselves.”

“Well, then, who is it?”

They searched the corpse. In one pocket Herlock Sholmes found an empty pocketbook; in another Ganimard found several louis. There were no marks of identification on any part of his clothing. In a trunk and two valises they found nothing but wearing apparel. On the mantel there was a pile of newspapers. Ganimard opened them. All of them contained articles referring to the theft of the Jewish lamp.

An hour later, when Ganimard and Sholmes left the house, they had acquired no further knowledge of the strange individual who had been driven to suicide by their untimely visit.

Who was he? Why had he killed himself? What was his connection with the affair of the Jewish lamp? Who had followed him on his return from the river? The situation involved many complex questions—many mysteries—

Herlock Sholmes went to bed in a very bad humor. Early next morning he received the following telephonic message:

“Arsène Lupin has the honor to inform you of his tragic death in the person of Monsieur Bresson, and requests the honor of your presence at the funeral service and burial, which will be held at the public expense on Thursday, 25 June.”

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SHIPWRECK.

“THAT’S WHAT I DON’T LIKE,
Wilson,” said Herlock Sholmes, after he had read Arsène Lupin’s message; “that is what exasperates me in this affair—to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me everywhere. He sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my inmost thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. Ah! He is possessed of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive woman, yes, surpassing even that of Herlock Sholmes himself. Nothing escapes him. I resemble an actor whose every step and movement are directed by a stage-manager; who says this and does that in obedience to a superior will. That is my position. Do you understand, Wilson?”

Certainly Wilson would have understood if his faculties had not been deadened by the profound slumber of a man whose temperature varies between one hundred and one hundred and three degrees. But whether he heard or not was a matter of no consequence to Herlock Sholmes, who continued:

“I have to concentrate all my energy and bring all my resources into action in order to make the slightest progress. And, fortunately for me, those petty annoyances are like so many pricks from a needle and serve only to stimulate me. As soon as the heat of the wound is appeased and the shock to my vanity has subsided I say to myself: ‘Amuse yourself, my dear fellow, but remember that he who laughs last laughs best. Sooner or later you will betray yourself.’ For you know, Wilson, it was Lupin himself, who, by his first dispatch and the observation that it suggested to little Henriette, disclosed to me the secret of his correspondence with Alice Hemun. Have you forgotten that circumstance, dear boy?”

But Wilson was asleep; and Sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his speech:

“And, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps, but the light is creeping in. In the first place, I must learn all about Monsieur Bresson. Ganimard and I will visit the bank of the river, at the spot where Bresson threw away the package, and the particular rôle of that gentleman will be known to me. After that the game will be played between me and Alice Demun. Rather a light-weight opponent, hein, Wilson? And do you not think that I will soon know the phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and what the isolated letters—the ‘C’ and the ‘H’—mean? That is all I want to know, Wilson.”

Mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing Sholmes gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner:

“Monsieur Sholmes, I must scold you if you waken my patient. It isn’t nice of you to disturb him. The doctor has ordered absolute rest.”

He looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at her wonderful self-possession.

“Why do you look at me so, Monsieur Sholmes? … You seem to be trying to read my thoughts … No? … Then what is it?”

She questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face and in her frank blue eyes. A smile played upon her lips; and she displayed so much unaffected candor that the Englishman almost lost his temper. He approached her and said, in a low voice:

“Bresson killed himself last night.”

She affected not to understand him; so he repeated:

“Bresson killed himself yesterday. … ”

She did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did not concern or interest her in any way.

“You have been informed,” said Sholmes, displaying his annoyance. “Otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. Ah! You are stronger than I expected. But what’s the use of your trying to conceal anything from me?”

He picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said:

“Will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent to Bresson four days before the theft of the Jewish lamp?”

“The order? … Bresson? … the theft of the Jewish lamp?”

She repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. He continued:

“Yes. Here are the letters employed … on this bit of paper … What did you say to Bresson?”

“The letters employed … What did I say? … ”

Suddenly she burst into laughter:

“Ah! That is it! I understand! I am an accomplice in the crime! There is a Monsieur Bresson who stole the Jewish lamp and who has now committed suicide. And I am the friend of that gentleman. Oh! How absurd you are!”

“Whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in the avenue des Ternes?”