Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes (7 page)

“Madame de Réal of the Château de Crozon? Certainly. I have convincing evidence of that fact. But … listen! … I hear Folenfant’s signal.”

It was a whistle. Ganimard arose quickly.

“There is no time to lose. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, will you be kind enough to go into the next room. You also, Monsieur d’Hautrec, and you, Monsieur Gerbois. The door will remain open, and when I give the signal, you will come out. Of course, Chief, you will remain here.”

“We may be disturbed by other people,” said Mon. Dudouis.

“No. This is a new establishment, and the proprietor is one of my friends. He will not let anyone disturb us—except the Blonde Lady.”

“The Blonde Lady! What do you mean?”

“Yes, the Blonde Lady herself, chief; the friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, the mysterious Blonde Lady against whom I hold convincing evidence; but, in addition to that, I wish to confront her with all the people she has robbed.”

He looked through the window.

“I see her. She is coming in the door now. She can’t escape: Folenfant and Dieuzy are guarding the door … The Blonde Lady is captured at last, Chief!”

A moment later a woman appeared at the door; she was tall and slender, with a very pale complexion and bright golden hair. Ganimard trembled with excitement; he could not move, nor utter a word. She was there, in front of him, at his mercy! What a victory over Arsène Lupin! And what a revenge! And, at the same time, the victory was such an easy one that he asked himself if the Blonde Lady would not yet slip through his fingers by one of those miracles that usually terminated the exploits of Arsène Lupin. She remained standing near the door, surprised at the silence, and looked about her without any display of suspicion or fear.

“She will get away! She will disappear!” thought Ganimard.

Then he managed to get between her and the door. She turned to go out.

“No, no!” he said. “Why are you going away?”

“Really, monsieur, I do not understand what this means. Allow me—”

“There is no reason why you should go, madame, and very good reasons why you should remain.”

“But—”

“It is useless, madame. You cannot go.”

Trembling, she sat on a chair, and stammered:

“What is it you want?”

Ganimard had won the battle and captured the Blonde Lady. He said to her:

“Allow me to present the friend I mentioned, who desires to purchase some diamonds. Have you procured the stones you promised to bring?”

“No—no—I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Come! Jog your memory! A person of your acquaintance intended to send you a tinted stone … ‘Something like the blue diamond,’ I said, laughing; and you replied: ‘Exactly, I expect to have just what you want.’ Do you remember?”

She made no reply. A small satchel fell from her hand. She picked it up quickly, and held it securely. Her hands trembled slightly.

“Come!” said Ganimard, “I see you have no confidence in us, Madame de Réal. I shall set you a good example by showing you what I have.”

He took from his pocketbook a paper which he unfolded, and disclosed a lock of hair.

“These are a few hairs torn from the head of Antoinette Bréhat by the Baron d’Hautrec, which I found clasped in his dead hand. I have shown them to Mlle. Gerbois, who declares they are of the exact color of the hair of the Blonde Lady. Besides, they are exactly the color of your hair—the identical color.”

Madame Réal looked at him in bewilderment, as if she did not understand his meaning. He continued:

“And here are two perfume bottles, without labels, it is true, and empty, but still sufficiently impregnated with their odor to enable Mlle. Gerbois to recognize in them the perfume used by that Blonde Lady who was her travelling companion for two weeks. Now, one of these bottles was found in the room that Madame de Réal occupied at the Château de Crozon, and the other in the room that you occupied at the Hôtel Beaurivage.”

“What do you say? … The Blonde Lady … the Château de Crozon … ”

The detective did not reply. He took from his pocket and placed on the table, side by side, four small sheets of paper. Then he said:

“I have, on these four pieces of paper, various specimens of handwriting; the first is the writing of Antoinette Bréhat; the second was written by the woman who sent the note to Baron Herschmann at the auction sale of the blue diamond; the third is that of Madame de Réal, written while she was stopping at the Château de Crozon; and the fourth is your handwriting, madame … it is your name and address, which you gave to the porter of the Hôtel Beaurivage at Trouville. Now, compare the four handwritings. They are identical.”

“What absurdity is this? Really, monsieur, I do not understand. What does it mean?”

“It means, madame,” exclaimed Ganimard, “that the Blonde Lady, the friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, is none other than you, Madame Réal.”

Ganimard went to the adjoining room and returned with Mon. Gerbois, whom he placed in front of Madame Réal, as he said:

“Monsieur Gerbois, is this the person who abducted your daughter, the woman you saw at the house of Monsieur Detinan?”

“No.”

Ganimard was so surprised that he could not speak for a moment; finally, he said: “No? … You must be mistaken. … ”

“I am not mistaken. Madame is blonde, it is true, and in that respect resembles the Blonde Lady; but, in all other respects, she is totally different.”

“I can’t believe it. You must be mistaken.”

Ganimard called in his other witnesses.

“Monsieur d’Hautrec,” he said, “do you recognize Antoinette Bréhat?”

“No, this is not the person I saw at my uncle’s house.”

“This woman is not Madame de Réal,” declared the Count de Crozon.

That was the finishing touch. Ganimard was crushed. He was buried beneath the ruins of the structure he had erected with so much care and assurance. His pride was humbled, his spirit was broken, by the force of this unexpected blow.

Mon. Dudouis arose, and said:

“We owe you an apology, madame, for this unfortunate mistake. But, since your arrival here, I have noticed your nervous agitation. Something troubles you; may I ask what it is?”

“Mon Dieu, monsieur, I was afraid. My satchel contains diamonds to the value of a hundred thousand francs, and the conduct of your friend was rather suspicious.”

“But you were frequently absent from Paris. How do you explain that?”

“I make frequent journeys to other cities in the course of my business. That is all.”

Mon. Dudouis had nothing more to ask. He turned to his subordinate, and said:

“Your investigation has been very superficial, Ganimard, and your conduct toward this lady is really deplorable. You will come to my office to-morrow and explain it.”

The interview was at an end, and Mon. Dudouis was about to leave the room when a most annoying incident occurred. Madame Réal turned to Ganimard, and said:

“I understand that you are Monsieur Ganimard. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Then, this letter must be for you. I received it this morning. It was addressed to ‘Mon. Justin Ganimard, care of Madame Réal.’ I thought it was a joke, because I did not know you under that name, but it appears that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous.”

Ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone:

“Once upon a time, there were a Blonde Lady, a Lupin, and a Ganimard. Now, the wicked Ganimard had evil designs on the pretty Blonde Lady, and the good Lupin was her friend and protector. When the good Lupin wished the Blonde Lady to become the friend of the Countess de Crozon, he caused her to assume the name of Madame de Réal, which is a close resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a pale complexion and golden hair. And the good Lupin said to himself: If ever the wicked Ganimard gets upon the track of the Blonde Lady, how useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the honest diamond broker. A wise precaution that has borne good fruit. A little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked Ganimard, a perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine Blonde Lady at the Hôtel Beaurivage, the name and address of Madame Réal written on the hotel register by the genuine Blonde Lady, and the trick is played. What do you think of it, Ganimard! I wished to tell you the true story of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it. Really, it is quite amusing, and I have enjoyed it very much.

“Accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to the worthy Mon. Dudouis.

“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

“He knows everything,” muttered Ganimard, but he did not see the humor of the situation as Lupin had predicted. “He knows some things I have never mentioned to anyone. How could he find out that I was going to invite you here, chief? How could he know that I had found the first perfume bottle? How could he find out those things?”

He stamped his feet and tore his hair—a prey to the most tragic despair. Mon. Dudouis felt sorry for him, and said:

“Come, Ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time.”

And Mon. Dudouis left the room, accompanied by Madame Réal.

During the next ten minutes, Ganimard read and re-read the letter of Arsène Lupin. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, Monsieur d’Hautrec and Monsieur Gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the room. At last, the count approached the detective, and said:

“My dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth than we were before.”

“Pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the Blonde Lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that Arsène Lupin directed them.”

“Those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more obscure. The Blonde Lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue diamond, and yet she does not steal it. Afterward she steals it and gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. How do you explain her strange conduct?”

“I cannot explain it.”

“Of course; but, perhaps, someone else can.”

“Who?”

The Count hesitated, so the Countess replied, frankly:

“There is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the arena with Arsène Lupin and overcome him. Have you any objection to our engaging the services of Herlock Sholmes in this case?”

Ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply:

“No … but … I do not understand what—”

“Let me explain. All this mystery annoy me. I wish to have it cleared up. Monsieur Gerbois and Monsieur d’Hautrec have the same desire, and we have agreed to send for the celebrated English detective.”

“You are right, madame,” replied the detective, with a loyalty that did him credit, “you are right. Old Ganimard is not able to overcome Arsène Lupin. But will Herlock Sholmes succeed? I hope so, as I have the greatest admiration for him. But … it is improbable.”

“Do you mean to say that he will not succeed?”

“That is my opinion. I can foresee the result of a duel between Herlock Sholmes and Arsène Lupin. The Englishman will be defeated.”

“But, in any event, can we count on your assistance?”

“Quite so, madame. I shall be pleased to render Monsieur Sholmes all possible assistance.”

“Do you know his address?”

“Yes; 219 Parker street.”

That evening Monsieur and Madame de Crozon withdrew the charge they had made against Herr Bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to Herlock Sholmes.

CHAPTER III.

HERLOCK SHOLMES OPENS HOSTILITIES.

“WHAT DOES MONSIEUR WISH?”
“Anything,” replied Arsène Lupin, like a man who never worries over the details of a meal; “anything you like, but no meat or alcohol.”

The waiter walked away, disdainfully.

“What? Still a vegetarian?” I exclaimed.

“More so than ever,” replied Lupin.

“Through taste, faith, or habit?”

“Hygiene.”

“And do you never fall from grace?”

“Oh! Yes … when I am dining out … and wish to avoid being considered eccentric.”

We were dining near the Northern Railway station, in a little restaurant to which Arsène Lupin had invited me. Frequently he would send me a telegram asking me to meet him in some obscure restaurant, where we could enjoy a quiet dinner, well served, and which was always made interesting to me by his recital of some startling adventure theretofore unknown to me.

On that particular evening he appeared to be in a more lively mood than usual. He laughed and joked with careless animation, and with that delicate sarcasm that was habitual with him—a light and spontaneous sarcasm that was quite free from any tinge of malice. It was a pleasure to find him in that jovial mood, and I could not resist the desire to tell him so.

“Ah! Yes,” he exclaimed, “there are days in which I find life as bright and gay as a spring morning; then life seems to be an infinite treasure which I can never exhaust. And yet God knows I lead a careless existence!”

“Too much so, perhaps.”

“Ah! But I tell you, the treasure is infinite. I can spend it with a lavish hand. I can cast my youth and strength to the four winds of Heaven, and it is replaced by a still younger and greater force. Besides, my life is so pleasant! … If I wished to do so, I might become—what shall I say? … An orator, a manufacturer, a politician … But, I assure you, I shall never have such a desire. Arsène Lupin, I am; Arsène Lupin, I shall remain. I have made a vain search in history to find a career comparable to mine; a life better filled or more intense … Napoleon? Yes, perhaps … But Napoleon, toward the close of his career, when all Europe was trying to crush him, asked himself on the eve of each battle if it would not be his last.”

Was he serious? Or was he joking? He became more animated as he proceeded:

“That is everything, do you understand, the danger! The continuous feeling of danger! To breathe it as you breathe the air, to scent it in every breath of wind, to detect it in every unusual sound … And, in the midst of the tempest, to remain calm … and not to stumble! Otherwise, you are lost. There is only one sensation equal to it: that of the chauffeur in an automobile race. But that race lasts only a few hours; my race continues until death!”