Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  “No, mademoiselle; and I beg of you, do not raise your voice. It is better that Monsieur Destange should not hear us.”

  “For whose sake is it better?”

  “Yours, mademoiselle.”

  “I cannot agree to hold any conversation with you that my father may not hear.”

  “But you must agree to this. It is imperative.”

  Both of them arose, eye to eye. She said:

  “Speak, monsieur.”

  Still standing, he commenced:

  “You will be so good as to pardon me if I am mistaken on certain points of secondary importance. I will guarantee, however, the general accuracy of my statements.”

  “Can we not dispense with these preliminaries, monsieur? Or are they necessary?”

  Sholmes felt the young woman was on her guard, so he replied:

  “Very well; I will come to the point. Five years ago your father made the acquaintance of a certain young man called Maxime Bermond, who was introduced as a contractor or an architect, I am not sure which it was; but it was one or the other. Monsieur Destange took a liking to the young man, and as the state of his health compelled him to retire from active business, he entrusted to Monsieur Bermond the execution of certain orders he had received from some of his old customers and which seemed to come within the scope of Monsieur Bermond’s ability.”

  Herlock Sholmes stopped. It seemed to him that the girl’s pallor had increased. Yet there was not the slightest tremor in her voice when she said:

  “I know nothing about the circumstances to which you refer, monsieur, and I do not see in what way they can interest me.”

  “In this way, mademoiselle: You know, as well as I, that Maxime Bermond is also known by the name of Arsène Lupin.”

  She laughed, and said:

  “Nonsense! Arsène Lupin? Maxime Bermond is Arsène Lupin? Oh! no! It isn’t possible!”

  “I have the honor to inform you of that fact, and since you refuse to understand my meaning, I will add that Arsène Lupin has found in this house a friend — more than a friend — and accomplice, blindly and passionately devoted to him.”

  Without emotion, or at least with so little emotion that Sholmes was astonished at her self-control, she declared:

  “I do not understand your object, monsieur, and I do not care to; but I command you to say no more and leave this house.”

  “I have no intention of forcing my presence on you,” replied Sholmes, with equal sang-froid, “but I shall not leave this house alone.”

  “And who will accompany you, monsieur?”

  “You will.”

  “I?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle, we will leave this house together, and you will follow me without one word of protest.”

  The strange feature of the foregoing interview was the absolute coolness of the two adversaries. It bore no resemblance to an implacable duel between two powerful wills; but, judging solely from their attitude and the tone of their voices, an onlooker would have supposed their conversation to be nothing more serious than a courteous argument over some impersonal subject.

  Clotilde resumed her seat without deigning to reply to the last remark of Herlock Sholmes, except by a shrug of her shoulders. Sholmes looked at his watch and said:

  “It is half-past ten. We will leave here in five minutes.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If not, I shall go to Monsieur Destange, and tell him — —”

  “What?”

  “The truth. I will tell him of the vicious life of Maxime Bermond, and I will tell him of the double life of his accomplice.”

  “Of his accomplice?”

  “Yes, of the woman known as the blonde Lady, of the woman who was blonde.”

  “What proofs will you give him?”

  “I will take him to the rue Chalgrin, and show him the secret passage made by Arsène Lupin’s workmen, — while doing the work of which he had the control — between the houses numbered 40 and 42; the passage which you and he used two nights ago.”

  “Well?”

  “I will then take Monsieur Destange to the house of Monsieur Detinan; we will descend the servant’s stairway which was used by you and Arsène Lupin when you escaped from Ganimard, and we will search together the means of communication with the adjoining house, which fronts on the Boulevard des Batignolles, and not upon the rue Clapeyron.”

  “Well?”

  “I will take Monsieur Destange to the château de Crozon, and it will be easy for him, who knows the nature of the work performed by Arsène Lupin in the restoration of the Château, to discover the secret passages constructed there by his workmen. It will thus be established that those passages allowed the blonde Lady to make a nocturnal visit to the Countess’ room and take the blue diamond from the mantel; and, two weeks later, by similar means, to enter the room of Herr Bleichen and conceal the blue diamond in his tooth-powder — a strange action, I confess; a woman’s revenge, perhaps; but I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  “Well?”

  “After that,” said Herlock Sholmes, in a more serious tone, “I will take Monsieur Destange to 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and we will learn how the Baron d’Hautrec — —”

  “No, no, keep quiet,” stammered the girl, struck with a sudden terror, “I forbid you!... you dare to say that it was I ... you accuse me?...”

  “I accuse you of having killed the Baron d’Hautrec.”

  “No, no, it is a lie.”

  “You killed the Baron d’Hautrec, mademoiselle. You entered his service under the name of Antoinette Bréhat, for the purpose of stealing the blue diamond and you killed him.”

  “Keep quiet, monsieur,” she implored him. “Since you know so much, you must know that I did not murder the baron.”

  “I did not say that you murdered him, mademoiselle. Baron d’Hautrec was subject to fits of insanity that only Sister Auguste could control. She told me so herself. In her absence, he must have attacked you, and in the course of the struggle you struck him in order to save your own life. Frightened at your awful situation, you rang the bell, and fled without even taking the blue diamond from the finger of your victim. A few minutes later you returned with one of Arsène Lupin’s accomplices, who was a servant in the adjoining house, you placed the baron on the bed, you put the room in order, but you were afraid to take the blue diamond. Now, I have told you what happened on that night. I repeat, you did not murder the baron, and yet it was your hand that struck the blow.”

  She had crossed them over her forehead — those long delicate white hands — and kept them thus for a long time. At last, loosening her fingers, she said, in a voice rent by anguish:

  “And do you intend to tell all that to my father?”

  “Yes; and I will tell him that I have secured as witnesses: Mademoiselle Gerbois, who will recognize the blonde Lady; Sister Auguste, who will recognize Antoinette Bréhat; and the Countess de Crozon, who will recognize Madame de Réal. That is what I shall tell him.”

  “You will not dare,” she said, recovering her self-possession in the face of an immediate peril.

  He arose, and made a step toward the library. Clotilde stopped him:

  “One moment, monsieur.”

  She paused, reflected a moment, and then, perfect mistress of herself, said:

  “You are Herlock Sholmes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “What do I want? I am fighting a duel with Arsène Lupin, and I must win. The contest is now drawing to a climax, and I have an idea that a hostage as precious as you will give me an important advantage over my adversary. Therefore, you will follow me, mademoiselle; I will entrust you to one of my friends. As soon as the duel is ended, you will be set at liberty.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That is all. I do not belong to the police service of this country, and, consequently, I do not consider that I am under any obligation ... to cause your arrest.”

  She appeared to have come t
o a decision ... yet she required a momentary respite. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate her thoughts. Sholmes looked at her in surprise; she was now so tranquil and, apparently, indifferent to the dangers which threatened her. Sholmes thought: Does she believe that she is in danger? Probably not — since Lupin protects her. She has confidence in him. She believes that Lupin is omnipotent, and infallible.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I told you that we would leave here in five minutes. That time has almost expired.”

  “Will you permit me to go to my room, monsieur, to get some necessary articles?”

  “Certainly, mademoiselle; and I will wait for you in the rue Montchanin. Jeanniot, the concierge, is a friend of mine.”

  “Ah! you know....” she said, visibly alarmed.

  “I know many things.”

  “Very well. I will ring for the maid.”

  The maid brought her hat and jacket. Then Sholmes said:

  “You must give Monsieur Destange some reason for our departure, and, if possible, let your excuse serve for an absence of several days.”

  “That shall not be necessary. I shall be back very soon.”

  “They exchanged defiant glances and an ironic smile.

  “What faith you have in him!” said Sholmes.

  “Absolute.”

  “He does everything well, doesn’t he? He succeeds in everything he undertakes. And whatever he does receives your approval and cooperation.”

  “I love him,” she said, with a touch of passion in her voice.

  “And you think that he will save you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, and, approaching her father, she said:

  “I am going to deprive you of Monsieur Stickmann. We are going to the National Library.”

  “You will return for luncheon?”

  “Perhaps ... no, I think not ... but don’t be uneasy.”

  Then she said to Sholmes, in a firm voice:

  “I am at your service, monsieur.”

  “Absolutely?”

  “Quite so.”

  “I warn you that if you attempt to escape, I shall call the police and have you arrested. Do not forget that the blonde Lady is on parole.”

  “I give you my word of honor that I shall not attempt to escape.”

  “I believe you. Now, let us go.”

  They left the house together, as he had predicted.

  The automobile was standing where Sholmes had left it. As they approached it, Sholmes could hear the rumbling of the motor. He opened the door, asked Clotilde to enter, and took a seat beside her. The machine started at once, gained the exterior boulevards, the avenue Hoche and the avenue de la Grande-Armée. Sholmes was considering his plans. He thought:

  “Ganimard is at home. I will leave the girl in his care. Shall I tell him who she is? No, he would take her to prison at once, and that would spoil everything. When I am alone, I can consult my list of addresses taken from the ‘account M.B.,’ and run them down. To-night, or to-morrow morning at the latest, I shall go to Ganimard, as I agreed, and deliver into his hands Arsène Lupin and all his band.”

  He rubbed his hand, gleefully, at the thought that his duel with Lupin was drawing to a close, and he could not see any serious obstacle in the way of his success. And, yielding to an irrepressible desire to give vent to his feelings — an unusual desire on his part — he exclaimed:

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I am unable to conceal my satisfaction and delight. The battle has been a difficult one, and my success is, therefore, more enjoyable.”

  “A legitimate success, monsieur, of which you have a just right to be proud.”

  “Thank you. But where are we going? The chauffeur must have misunderstood my directions.”

  At that moment they were leaving Paris by the gate de Neuilly. That was strange, as the rue Pergolese is not outside the fortifications. Sholmes lowered the glass, and said:

  “Chauffeur, you have made a mistake.... Rue Pergolese!”

  The man made no reply. Sholmes repeated, in a louder voice:

  “I told you to go to the rue Pergolese.”

  Still the man did not reply.

  “Ah! but you are deaf, my friend. Or is he doing it on purpose? We are very much out of our way.... Rue Pergolese!... Turn back at once!... Rue Pergolese!”

  The chauffeur made no sign of having heard the order. The Englishman fretted with impatience. He looked at Clotilde; a mysterious smile played upon her lips.

  “Why do you laugh?” he said. “It is an awkward mistake, but it won’t help you.”

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  Then an idea occurred to him. He rose and made a careful scrutiny of the chauffeur. His shoulders were not so broad; his bearing was not so stiff and mechanical. A cold perspiration covered his forehead and his hands clenched with sudden fear, as his mind was seized with the conviction that the chauffeur was Arsène Lupin.

  “Well, Monsieur Sholmes, what do you think of our little ride?”

  “Delightful, monsieur, really delightful,” replied Sholmes.

  Never in his life had he experienced so much difficulty in uttering a few simple words without a tremor, or without betraying his feelings in his voice. But quickly, by a sort of reaction, a flood of hatred and rage burst its bounds, overcame his self-control, and, brusquely drawing his revolver, he pointed it at Mademoiselle Destange.

  “Lupin, stop, this minute, this second, or I fire at mademoiselle.”

  “I advise you to aim at the cheek if you wish to hit the temple,” replied Lupin, without turning his head.

  “Maxime, don’t go so fast,” said Clotilde, “the pavement is slippery and I am very timid.”

  She was smiling; her eyes were fixed on the pavement, over which the carriage was traveling at enormous speed.

  “Let him stop! Let him stop!” said Sholmes to her, wild with rage, “I warn you that I am desperate.”

  The barrel of the revolver brushed the waving locks of her hair. She replied, calmly:

  “Maxime is so imprudent. He is going so fast, I am really afraid of some accident.”

  Sholmes returned the weapon to his pocket and seized the handle of the door, as if to alight, despite the absurdity of such an act. Clotilde said to him:

  “Be careful, monsieur, there is an automobile behind us.”

  He leaned over. There was an automobile close behind; a large machine of formidable aspect with its sharp prow and blood-red body, and holding four men clad in fur coats.

  “Ah! I am well guarded,” thought Sholmes. “I may as well be patient.”

  He folded his arms across his chest with that proud air of submission so frequently assumed by heroes when fate has turned against them. And while they crossed the river Seine and rushed through Suresnes, Rueil and Chatou, motionless and resigned, controlling his actions and his passions, he tried to explain to his own satisfaction by what miracle Arsène Lupin had substituted himself for the chauffeur. It was quite improbable that the honest-looking fellow he had selected on the boulevard that morning was an accomplice placed there in advance. And yet Arsène Lupin had received a warning in some way, and it must have been after he, Sholmes, had approached Clotilde in the house, because no one could have suspected his project prior to that time. Since then, Sholmes had not allowed Clotilde out of his sight.

  Then an idea struck him: the telephone communication desired by Clotilde and her conversation with the dressmaker. Now, it was all quite clear to him. Even before he had spoken to her, simply upon his request to speak to her as the new secretary of Monsieur Destange, she had scented the danger, surmised the name and purpose of the visitor, and, calmly, naturally, as if she were performing a commonplace action of her every-day life, she had called Arsène Lupin to her assistance by some preconcerted signal.

  How Arsène Lupin had come and caused himself to be substituted for the chauffeur were matters of trifling importance. That which affected Sholmes, even to the point of appeasing his fury, was the recol
lection of that incident whereby an ordinary woman, a sweetheart it is true, mastering her nerves, controlling her features, and subjugating the expression of her eyes, had completely deceived the astute detective Herlock Sholmes. How difficult to overcome an adversary who is aided by such confederates, and who, by the mere force of his authority, inspires in a woman so much courage and strength!

  They crossed the Seine and climbed the hill at Saint-Germain; but, some five hundred metres beyond that town, the automobile slackened its speed. The other automobile advanced, and the two stopped, side by side. There was no one else in the neighborhood.

  “Monsieur Sholmes,” said Lupin, “kindly exchange to the other machine. Ours is really a very slow one.”

  “Indeed!” said Sholmes, calmly, convinced that he had no choice.

  “Also, permit me to loan you a fur coat, as we will travel quite fast and the air is cool. And accept a couple of sandwiches, as we cannot tell when we will dine.”

  The four men alighted from the other automobile. One of them approached, and, as he raised his goggles, Sholmes recognized in him the gentleman in the frock coat that he had seen at the Hungarian restaurant. Lupin said to him:

  “You will return this machine to the chauffeur from whom I hired it. He is waiting in the first wine-shop to the right as you go up the rue Legendre. You will give him the balance of the thousand francs I promised him.... Ah! yes, kindly give your goggles to Monsieur Sholmes.”

  He talked to Mlle. Destange for a moment, then took his place at the wheel and started, with Sholmes at his side and one of his men behind him. Lupin had not exaggerated when he said “we will travel quite fast.” From the beginning he set a breakneck pace. The horizon rushed to meet them, as if attracted by some mysterious force, and disappeared instantly as though swallowed up in an abyss, into which many other things, such as trees, houses, fields and forests, were hurled with the tumultuous fury and haste of a torrent as it approached the cataract.

  Sholmes and Lupin did not exchange a word. Above their heads the leaves of the poplars made a great noise like the waves of the sea, rhythmically arranged by the regular spacing of the trees. And the towns swept by like spectres: Manteo, Vernon, Gaillon. From one hill to the other, from Bon-Secours to Canteleu, Rouen, its suburbs, its harbor, its miles of wharves, Rouen seemed like the straggling street of a country village. And this was Duclair, Caudebec, the country of Caux which they skimmed over in their terrific flight, and Lillebonne, and Quillebeuf. Then, suddenly, they found themselves on the banks of the Seine, at the extremity of a little wharf, beside which lay a staunch sea-going yacht that emitted great volumes of black smoke from its funnel.