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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Your father’s collections?” said the Duke. “But they’re better guarded than the Bank of France. Your father is as careful of them as the apple of his eye.”

  “That’s exactly it — he was too careful of them. That’s why Lupin succeeded.”

  “This is very interesting,” said the Duke; and he sat down on a couch before the gap in the pictures, to go into the matter more at his ease. “I suppose he had accomplices in the house itself?”

  “Yes, one accomplice,” said Germaine.

  “Who was that?” asked the Duke.

  “Papa!” said Germaine.

  “Oh, come! what on earth do you mean?” said the Duke. “You’re getting quite incomprehensible, my dear girl.”

  “Well, I’ll make it clear to you. One morning papa received a letter — but wait. Sonia, get me the Lupin papers out of the bureau.”

  Sonia rose from the writing-table, and went to a bureau, an admirable example of the work of the great English maker, Chippendale. It stood on the other side of the hall between an Oriental cabinet and a sixteenth-century Italian cabinet — for all the world as if it were standing in a crowded curiosity shop — with the natural effect that the three pieces, by their mere incongruity, took something each from the beauty of the other. Sonia raised the flap of the bureau, and taking from one of the drawers a small portfolio, turned over the papers in it and handed a letter to the Duke.

  “This is the envelope,” she said. “It’s addressed to M. Gournay-Martin, Collector, at the Chateau de Charmerace, Ile-et-Vilaine.”

  The Duke opened the envelope and took out a letter.

  “It’s an odd handwriting,” he said.

  “Read it — carefully,” said Germaine.

  It was an uncommon handwriting. The letters of it were small, but perfectly formed. It looked the handwriting of a man who knew exactly what he wanted to say, and liked to say it with extreme precision. The letter ran:

  “DEAR SIR,”

  “Please forgive my writing to you without our having been introduced to one another; but I flatter myself that you know me, at any rate, by name.”

  “There is in the drawing-room next your hall a Gainsborough of admirable quality which affords me infinite pleasure. Your Goyas in the same drawing-room are also to my liking, as well as your Van Dyck. In the further drawing-room I note the Renaissance cabinets — a marvellous pair — the Flemish tapestry, the Fragonard, the clock signed Boulle, and various other objects of less importance. But above all I have set my heart on that coronet which you bought at the sale of the Marquise de Ferronaye, and which was formerly worn by the unfortunate Princesse de Lamballe. I take the greatest interest in this coronet: in the first place, on account of the charming and tragic memories which it calls up in the mind of a poet passionately fond of history, and in the second place — though it is hardly worth while talking about that kind of thing — on account of its intrinsic value. I reckon indeed that the stones in your coronet are, at the very lowest, worth half a million francs.”

  “I beg you, my dear sir, to have these different objects properly packed up, and to forward them, addressed to me, carriage paid, to the Batignolles Station. Failing this, I shall Proceed to remove them myself on the night of Thursday, August 7th.”

  “Please pardon the slight trouble to which I am putting you, and believe me,”

  “Yours very sincerely,”

  “ARSENE LUPIN.”

  “P.S. — It occurs to me that the pictures have not glass before them. It would be as well to repair this omission before forwarding them to me, and I am sure that you will take this extra trouble cheerfully. I am aware, of course, that some of the best judges declare that a picture loses some of its quality when seen through glass. But it preserves them, and we should always be ready and willing to sacrifice a portion of our own pleasure for the benefit of posterity. France demands it of us. — A. L.”

  The Duke laughed, and said, “Really, this is extraordinarily funny. It must have made your father laugh.”

  “Laugh?” said Germaine. “You should have seen his face. He took it seriously enough, I can tell you.”

  “Not to the point of forwarding the things to Batignolles, I hope,” said the Duke.

  “No, but to the point of being driven wild,” said Germaine. “And since the police had always been baffled by Lupin, he had the brilliant idea of trying what soldiers could do. The Commandant at Rennes is a great friend of papa’s; and papa went to him, and told him about Lupin’s letter and what he feared. The colonel laughed at him; but he offered him a corporal and six soldiers to guard his collection, on the night of the seventh. It was arranged that they should come from Rennes by the last train so that the burglars should have no warning of their coming. Well, they came, seven picked men — men who had seen service in Tonquin. We gave them supper; and then the corporal posted them in the hall and the two drawing-rooms where the pictures and things were. At eleven we all went to bed, after promising the corporal that, in the event of any fight with the burglars, we would not stir from our rooms. I can tell you I felt awfully nervous. I couldn’t get to sleep for ages and ages. Then, when I did, I did not wake till morning. The night had passed absolutely quietly. Nothing out of the common had happened. There had not been the slightest noise. I awoke Sonia and my father. We dressed as quickly as we could, and rushed down to the drawing-room.”

  She paused dramatically.

  “Well?” said the Duke.

  “Well, it was done.”

  “What was done?” said the Duke.

  “Everything,” said Germaine. “Pictures had gone, tapestries had gone, cabinets had gone, and the clock had gone.”

  “And the coronet too?” said the Duke.

  “Oh, no. That was at the Bank of France. And it was doubtless to make up for not getting it that Lupin stole your portrait. At any rate he didn’t say that he was going to steal it in his letter.”

  “But, come! this is incredible. Had he hypnotized the corporal and the six soldiers? Or had he murdered them all?” said the Duke.

  “Corporal? There wasn’t any corporal, and there weren’t any soldiers. The corporal was Lupin, and the soldiers were part of his gang,” said Germaine.

  “I don’t understand,” said the Duke. “The colonel promised your father a corporal and six men. Didn’t they come?”

  “They came to the railway station all right,” said Germaine. “But you know the little inn half-way between the railway station and the chateau? They stopped to drink there, and at eleven o’clock next morning one of the villagers found all seven of them, along with the footman who was guiding them to the chateau, sleeping like logs in the little wood half a mile from the inn. Of course the innkeeper could not explain when their wine was drugged. He could only tell us that a motorist, who had stopped at the inn to get some supper, had called the soldiers in and insisted on standing them drinks. They had seemed a little fuddled before they left the inn, and the motorist had insisted on driving them to the chateau in his car. When the drug took effect he simply carried them out of it one by one, and laid them in the wood to sleep it off.”

  “Lupin seems to have made a thorough job of it, anyhow,” said the Duke.

  “I should think so,” said Germaine. “Guerchard was sent down from Paris; but he could not find a single clue. It was not for want of trying, for he hates Lupin. It’s a regular fight between them, and so far Lupin has scored every point.”

  “He must be as clever as they make ’em,” said the Duke.

  “He is,” said Germaine. “And do you know, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s in the neighbourhood now.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” said the Duke.

  “I’m not joking,” said Germaine. “Odd things are happening. Some one has been changing the place of things. That silver statuette now — it was on the cabinet, and we found it moved to the piano. Yet nobody had touched it. And look at this window. Some one has broken a pane in it just at the height of the
fastening.”

  “The deuce they have!” said the Duke.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE DUKE INTERVENES

  THE DUKE ROSE, came to the window, and looked at the broken pane. He stepped out on to the terrace and looked at the turf; then he came back into the room.

  “This looks serious,” he said. “That pane has not been broken at all. If it had been broken, the pieces of glass would be lying on the turf. It has been cut out. We must warn your father to look to his treasures.”

  “I told you so,” said Germaine. “I said that Arsène Lupin was in the neighbourhood.”

  “Arsène Lupin is a very capable man,” said the Duke, smiling. “But there’s no reason to suppose that he’s the only burglar in France or even in Ile-et-Vilaine.”

  “I’m sure that he’s in the neighbourhood. I have a feeling that he is,” said Germaine stubbornly.

  The Duke shrugged his shoulders, and said a smile: “Far be it from me to contradict you. A woman’s intuition is always — well, it’s always a woman’s intuition.”

  He came back into the hall, and as he did so the door opened and a shock-headed man in the dress of a gamekeeper stood on the threshold.

  “There are visitors to see you, Mademoiselle Germaine,” he said, in a very deep bass voice.

  “What! Are you answering the door, Firmin?” said Germaine.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle Germaine: there’s only me to do it. All the servants have started for the station, and my wife and I are going to see after the family to-night and to-morrow morning. Shall I show these gentlemen in?”

  “Who are they?” said Germaine.

  “Two gentlemen who say they have an appointment.”

  “What are their names?” said Germaine.

  “They are two gentlemen. I don’t know what their names are. I’ve no memory for names.”

  “That’s an advantage to any one who answers doors,” said the Duke, smiling at the stolid Firmin.

  “Well, it can’t be the two Charolais again. It’s not time for them to come back. I told them papa would not be back yet,” said Germaine.

  “No, it can’t be them, Mademoiselle Germaine,” said Firmin, with decision.

  “Very well; show them in,” she said.

  Firmin went out, leaving the door open behind him; and they heard his hob-nailed boots clatter and squeak on the stone floor of the outer hall.

  “Charolais?” said the Duke idly. “I don’t know the name. Who are they?”

  “A little while ago Alfred announced two gentlemen. I thought they were Georges and Andre du Buit, for they promised to come to tea. I told Alfred to show them in, and to my surprise there appeared two horrible provincials. I never — Oh!”

  She stopped short, for there, coming through the door, were the two Charolais, father and son.

  M. Charolais pressed his motor-cap to his bosom, and bowed low. “Once more I salute you, mademoiselle,” he said.

  His son bowed, and revealed behind him another young man.

  “My second son. He has a chemist’s shop,” said M. Charolais, waving a large red hand at the young man.

  The young man, also blessed with the family eyes, set close together, entered the hall and bowed to the two girls. The Duke raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

  “I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” said Germaine, “but my father has not yet returned.”

  “Please don’t apologize. There is not the slightest need,” said M. Charolais; and he and his two sons settled themselves down on three chairs, with the air of people who had come to make a considerable stay.

  For a moment, Germaine, taken aback by their coolness, was speechless; then she said hastily: “Very likely he won’t be back for another hour. I shouldn’t like you to waste your time.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said M. Charolais, with an indulgent air; and turning to the Duke, he added, “However, while we’re waiting, if you’re a member of the family, sir, we might perhaps discuss the least you will take for the motor-car.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the Duke, “but I have nothing to do with it.”

  Before M. Charolais could reply the door opened, and Firmin’s deep voice said:

  “Will you please come in here, sir?”

  A third young man came into the hall.

  “What, you here, Bernard?” said M. Charolais. “I told you to wait at the park gates.”

  “I wanted to see the car too,” said Bernard.

  “My third son. He is destined for the Bar,” said M. Charolais, with a great air of paternal pride.

  “But how many are there?” said Germaine faintly.

  Before M. Charolais could answer, Firmin once more appeared on the threshold.

  “The master’s just come back, miss,” he said.

  “Thank goodness for that!” said Germaine; and turning to M. Charolais, she added, “If you will come with me, gentlemen, I will take you to my father, and you can discuss the price of the car at once.”

  As she spoke she moved towards the door. M. Charolais and his sons rose and made way for her. The father and the two eldest sons made haste to follow her out of the room. But Bernard lingered behind, apparently to admire the bric-a-brac on the cabinets. With infinite quickness he grabbed two objects off the nearest, and followed his brothers. The Duke sprang across the hall in three strides, caught him by the arm on the very threshold, jerked him back into the hall, and shut the door.

  “No you don’t, my young friend,” he said sharply.

  “Don’t what?” said Bernard, trying to shake off his grip.

  “You’ve taken a cigarette-case,” said the Duke.

  “No, no, I haven’t — nothing of the kind!” stammered Bernard.

  The Duke grasped the young man’s left wrist, plunged his hand into the motor-cap which he was carrying, drew out of it a silver cigarette-case, and held it before his eyes.

  Bernard turned pale to the lips. His frightened eyes seemed about to leap from their sockets.

  “It — it — was a m-m-m-mistake,” he stammered.

  The Duke shifted his grip to his collar, and thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat. Bernard, helpless in his grip, and utterly taken aback by his quickness, made no resistance.

  The Duke drew out a morocco case, and said: “Is this a mistake too?”

  “Heavens! The pendant!” cried Sonia, who was watching the scene with parted lips and amazed eyes.

  Bernard dropped on his knees and clasped his hands.

  “Forgive me!” he cried, in a choking voice. “Forgive me! Don’t tell any one! For God’s sake, don’t tell any one!”

  And the tears came streaming from his eyes.

  “You young rogue!” said the Duke quietly.

  “I’ll never do it again — never! Oh, have pity on me! If my father knew! Oh, let me off!” cried Bernard.

  The Duke hesitated, and looked down on him, frowning and pulling at his moustache. Then, more quickly than one would have expected from so careless a trifler, his mind was made up.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “Just for this once ... be off with you.” And he jerked him to his feet and almost threw him into the outer hall.

  “Thanks! ... oh, thanks!” said Bernard.

  The Duke shut the door and looked at Sonia, breathing quickly.

  “Well? Did you ever see anything like that? That young fellow will go a long way. The cheek of the thing! Right under our very eyes! And this pendant, too: it would have been a pity to lose it. Upon my word, I ought to have handed him over to the police.”

  “No, no!” cried Sonia. “You did quite right to let him off — quite right.”

  The Duke set the pendant on the ledge of the bureau, and came down the hall to Sonia.

  “What’s the matter?” he said gently. “You’re quite pale.”

  “It has upset me ... that unfortunate boy,” said Sonia; and her eyes were swimming with tears.

  “Do you pity the young rogue?” said the Duke.
<
br />   “Yes; it’s dreadful. His eyes were so terrified, and so boyish. And, to be caught like that ... stealing ... in the act. Oh, it’s hateful!”

  “Come, come, how sensitive you are!” said the Duke, in a soothing, almost caressing tone. His eyes, resting on her charming, troubled face, were glowing with a warm admiration.

  “Yes; it’s silly,” said Sonia; “but you noticed his eyes — the hunted look in them? You pitied him, didn’t you? For you are kind at bottom.”

  “Why at bottom?” said the Duke.

  “Oh, I said at bottom because you look sarcastic, and at first sight you’re so cold. But often that’s only the mask of those who have suffered the most.... They are the most indulgent,” said Sonia slowly, hesitating, picking her words.

  “Yes, I suppose they are,” said the Duke thoughtfully.

  “It’s because when one has suffered one understands.... Yes: one understands,” said Sonia.

  There was a pause. The Duke’s eyes still rested on her face. The admiration in them was mingled with compassion.

  “You’re very unhappy here, aren’t you?” he said gently.

  “Me? Why?” said Sonia quickly.

  “Your smile is so sad, and your eyes so timid,” said the Duke slowly. “You’re just like a little child one longs to protect. Are you quite alone in the world?”

  His eyes and tones were full of pity; and a faint flush mantled Sonia’s cheeks.

  “Yes, I’m alone,” she said.

  “But have you no relations — no friends?” said the Duke.

  “No,” said Sonia.

  “I don’t mean here in France, but in your own country.... Surely you have some in Russia?”

  “No, not a soul. You see, my father was a Revolutionist. He died in Siberia when I was a baby. And my mother, she died too — in Paris. She had fled from Russia. I was two years old when she died.”

  “It must be hard to be alone like that,” said the Duke.

  “No,” said Sonia, with a faint smile, “I don’t mind having no relations. I grew used to that so young ... so very young. But what is hard — but you’ll laugh at me—”