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

by Maurice Leblanc

  He felt life return to him with the sunlight, with the balmy air that announced the approach of spring. He recovered the concatenation of his ideas; and facts once more took their place in his brain in their logical sequence and in accordance with their relations one to the other.

  In the evening he received a telegram from Clarisse to say that things were going badly and that she, the Growler and the Masher were all staying in Paris. He was much disturbed by this wire and had a less quiet night. What could the news be that had given rise to Clarisse’s telegram?

  But, the next day, she arrived in his room looking very pale, her eyes red with weeping, and, utterly worn out, dropped into a chair:

  “The appeal has been rejected,” she stammered.

  He mastered his emotion and asked, in a voice of surprise:

  “Were you relying on that?”

  “No, no,” she said, “but, all the same... one hopes in spite of one’s self.”

  “Was it rejected yesterday?”

  “A week ago. The Masher kept it from me; and I have not dared to read the papers lately.”

  “There is always the commutation of sentence,” he suggested.

  “The commutation? Do you imagine that they will commute the sentence of Arsène Lupin’s accomplices?”

  She ejaculated the words with a violence and a bitterness which he pretended not to notice; and he said:

  “Vaucheray perhaps not... But they will take pity on Gilbert, on his youth...”

  “They will do nothing of the sort.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have seen his counsel.”

  “You have seen his counsel! And you told him...”

  “I told him that I was Gilbert’s mother and I asked him whether, by proclaiming my son’s identity, we could not influence the result... or at least delay it.”

  “You would do that?” he whispered. “You would admit...”

  “Gilbert’s life comes before everything. What do I care about my name! What do I care about my husband’s name!”

  “And your little Jacques?” he objected. “Have you the right to ruin Jacques, to make him the brother of a man condemned to death?”

  She hung her head. And he resumed:

  “What did the counsel say?”

  “He said that an act of that sort would not help Gilbert in the remotest degree. And, in spite of all his protests, I could see that, as far as he was concerned, he had no illusions left and that the pardoning commission are bound to find in favour of the execution.”

  “The commission, I grant you; but what of the president of the Republic?”

  “The president always goes by the advice of the commission.”

  “He will not do so this time.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because we shall bring influence to bear upon him.”

  “How?”

  “By the conditional surrender of the list of the Twenty-seven!”

  “Have you it?”

  “No, but I shall have it.”

  His certainty had not wavered. He made the statement with equal calmness and faith in the infinite power of his will.

  She had lost some part of her confidence in him and she shrugged her shoulders lightly:

  “If d’Albufex has not purloined the list, one man alone can exercise any influence; one man alone: Daubrecq.”

  She spoke these words in a low and absent voice that made him shudder. Was she still thinking, as he had often seemed to feel, of going back to Daubrecq and paying him for Gilbert’s life?

  “You have sworn an oath to me,” he said. “I’m reminding you of it. It was agreed that the struggle with Daubrecq should be directed by me and that there would never be a possibility of any arrangement between you and him.”

  She retorted:

  “I don’t even know where he is. If I knew, wouldn’t you know?”

  It was an evasive answer. But he did not insist, resolving to watch her at the opportune time; and he asked her, for he had not yet been told all the details:

  “Then it’s not known what became of Daubrecq?”

  “No. Of course, one of the Growler’s bullets struck him. For, next day, we picked up, in a coppice, a handkerchief covered with blood. Also, it seems that a man was seen at Aumale Station, looking very tired and walking with great difficulty. He took a ticket for Paris, stepped into the first train and that is all...”

  “He must be seriously wounded,” said Lupin, “and he is nursing himself in some safe retreat. Perhaps, also, he considers it wise to lie low for a few weeks and avoid any traps on the part of the police, d’Albufex, you, myself and all his other enemies.”

  He stopped to think and continued:

  “What has happened at Mortepierre since Daubrecq’s escape? Has there been no talk in the neighbourhood?”

  “No, the rope was removed before daybreak, which proves that Sebastiani or his sons discovered Daubrecq’s flight on the same night. Sebastiani was away the whole of the next day.”

  “Yes, he will have informed the marquis. And where is the marquis himself?”

  “At home. And, from what the Growler has heard, there is nothing suspicious there either.”

  “Are they certain that he has not been inside Daubrecq’s house?”

  “As certain as they can be.”

  “Nor Daubrecq?”

  “Nor Daubrecq.”

  “Have you seen Prasville?”

  “Prasville is away on leave. But Chief-inspector Blanchon, who has charge of the case, and the detectives who are guarding the house declare that, in accordance with Prasville’s instructions, their watch is not relaxed for a moment, even at night; that one of them, turn and turn about, is always on duty in the study; and that no one, therefore, can have gone in.”

  “So, on principle,” Arsène Lupin concluded, “the crystal stopper must still be in Daubrecq’s study?”

  “If it was there before Daubrecq’s disappearance, it should be there now.”

  “And on the study-table.”

  “On the study-table? Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know,” said Lupin, who had not forgotten Sebastiani’s words.

  “But you don’t know the article in which the stopper is hidden?”

  “No. But a study-table, a writing-desk, is a limited space. One can explore it in twenty minutes. One can demolish it, if necessary, in ten.”

  The conversation had tired Arsène Lupin a little. As he did not wish to commit the least imprudence, he said to Clarisse:

  “Listen. I will ask you to give me two or three days more. This is Monday, the 4th of March. On Wednesday or Thursday, at latest, I shall be up and about. And you can be sure that we shall succeed.”

  “And, in the meantime...”

  “In the meantime, go back to Paris. Take rooms, with the Growler and the Masher, in the Hotel Franklin, near the Trocadero, and keep a watch on Daubrecq’s house. You are free to go in and out as you please. Stimulate the zeal of the detectives on duty.”

  “Suppose Daubrecq returns?”

  “If he returns, that will be so much the better: we shall have him.”

  “And, if he only passes?”

  “In that case, the Growler and the Masher must follow him.”

  “And if they lose sight of him?”

  Lupin did not reply. No one felt more than he how fatal it was to remain inactive in a hotel bedroom and how useful his presence would have been on the battlefield! Perhaps even this vague idea had already prolonged his illness beyond the ordinary limits.

  He murmured:

  “Go now, please.”

  There was a constraint between them which increased as the awful day drew nigh. In her injustice, forgetting or wishing to forget that it was she who had forced her son into the Enghien enterprise, Mme. Mergy did not forget that the law was pursuing Gilbert with such rigour not so much because he was a criminal as because he was an accomplice of Arsène Lupin’s. And then, notwithstanding all his
efforts, notwithstanding his prodigious expenditure of energy, what result had Lupin achieved, when all was said? How far had his intervention benefited Gilbert?

  After a pause, she rose and left him alone.

  The next day he was feeling rather low. But on the day after, the Wednesday, when his doctor wanted him to keep quiet until the end of the week, he said:

  “If not, what have I to fear?”

  “A return of the fever.”

  “Nothing worse?”

  “No. The wound is pretty well healed.”

  “Then I don’t care. I’ll go back with you in your car. We shall be in Paris by mid-day.”

  What decided Lupin to start at once was, first, a letter in which Clarisse told him that she had found Daubrecq’s traces, and, also, a telegram, published in the Amiens papers, which stated that the Marquis d’Albufex had been arrested for his complicity in the affair of the canal.

  Daubrecq was taking his revenge.

  Now the fact that Daubrecq was taking his revenge proved that the marquis had not been able to prevent that revenge by seizing the document which was on the writing-desk in the study. It proved that Chief-inspector Blanchon and the detectives had kept a good watch. It proved that the crystal stopper was still in the Square Lamartine.

  It was still there; and this showed either that Daubrecq had not ventured to go home, or else that his state of health hindered him from doing so, or else again that he had sufficient confidence in the hiding-place not to trouble to put himself out.

  In any case, there was no doubt as to the course to be pursued: Lupin must act and he must act smartly. He must forestall Daubrecq and get hold of the crystal stopper.

  When they had crossed the Bois de Boulogne and were nearing the Square Lamartine, Lupin took leave of the doctor and stopped the car. The Growler and the Masher, to whom he had wired, met him.

  “Where’s Mme. Mergy?” he asked.

  “She has not been back since yesterday; she sent us an express message to say that she saw Daubrecq leaving his cousins’ place and getting into a cab. She knows the number of the cab and will keep us informed.”

  “Nothing further?”

  “Nothing further.”

  “No other news?”

  “Yes, the Paris-Midi says that d’Albufex opened his veins last night, with a piece of broken glass, in his cell at the Sante. He seems to have left a long letter behind him, confessing his fault, but accusing Daubrecq of his death and exposing the part played by Daubrecq in the canal affair.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. The same paper stated that it has reason to believe that the pardoning commission, after examining the record, has rejected Vaucheray and Gilbert’s petition and that their counsel will probably be received in audience by the president on Friday.”

  Lupin gave a shudder.

  “They’re losing no time,” he said. “I can see that Daubrecq, on the very first day, put the screw on the old judicial machine. One short week more... and the knife falls. My poor Gilbert! If, on Friday next, the papers which your counsel submits to the president of the Republic do not contain the conditional offer of the list of the Twenty-seven, then, my poor Gilbert, you are done for!”

  “Come, come, governor, are you losing courage?”

  “I? Rot! I shall have the crystal stopper in an hour. In two hours, I shall see Gilbert’s counsel. And the nightmare will be over.”

  “Well done, governor! That’s like your old self. Shall we wait for you here?”

  “No, go back to your hotel. I’ll join you later.”

  They parted. Lupin walked straight to the house and rang the bell.

  A detective opened the door and recognized him:

  “M. Nicole, I believe?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Is Chief-inspector Blanchon here?”

  “He is.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  The man took him to the study, where Chief-inspector Blanchon welcomed him with obvious pleasure.

  “Well, chief-inspector, one would say there was something new?”

  “M. Nicole, my orders are to place myself entirely at your disposal; and I may say that I am very glad to see you to-day.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because there is something new.”

  “Something serious?”

  “Something very serious.”

  “Quick, speak.”

  “Daubrecq has returned.”

  “Eh, what!” exclaimed Lupin, with a start. “Daubrecq returned? Is he here?”

  “No, he has gone.”

  “And did he come in here, in the study?”

  “Yes.”

  “This morning.”

  “And you did not prevent him?”

  “What right had I?”

  “And you left him alone?”

  “By his positive orders, yes, we left him alone.”

  Lupin felt himself turn pale. Daubrecq had come back to fetch the crystal stopper!

  He was silent for some time and repeated to himself:

  “He came back to fetch it... He was afraid that it would be found and he has taken it... Of course, it was inevitable... with d’Albufex arrested, with d’Albufex accused and accusing him, Daubrecq was bound to defend himself. It’s a difficult game for him. After months and months of mystery, the public is at last learning that the infernal being who contrived the whole tragedy of the Twenty-Seven and who ruins and kills his adversaries is he, Daubrecq. What would become of him if, by a miracle, his talisman did not protect him? He has taken it back.”

  And, trying to make his voice sound firm, he asked:

  “Did he stay long?”

  “Twenty seconds, perhaps.”

  “What! Twenty seconds? No longer?”

  “No longer.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “Could he have known of the Marquis d’Albufex’ suicide by then?”

  “Yes. I saw the special edition of the Paris-Midi in his pocket.”

  “That’s it, that’s it,” said Lupin. And he asked, “Did M. Prasville give you no special instructions in case Daubrecq should return?”

  “No. So, in M. Prasville’s absence, I telephoned to the police-office and I am waiting. The disappearance of Daubrecq the deputy caused a great stir, as you know, and our presence here has a reason, in the eyes of the public, as long as that disappearance continues. But, now that Daubrecq has returned, now that we have proofs that he is neither under restraint nor dead, how can we stay in the house?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Lupin, absently. “It doesn’t matter whether the house is guarded or not. Daubrecq has been; therefore the crystal stopper is no longer here.”

  He had not finished the sentence, when a question quite naturally forced itself upon his mind. If the crystal stopper was no longer there, would this not be obvious from some material sign? Had the removal of that object, doubtless contained within another object, left no trace, no void?

  It was easy to ascertain. Lupin had simply to examine the writing-desk, for he knew, from Sebastiani’s chaff, that this was the spot of the hiding-place. And the hiding-place could not be a complicated one, seeing that Daubrecq had not remained in the study for more than twenty seconds, just long enough, so to speak, to walk in and walk out again.

  Lupin looked. And the result was immediate. His memory had so faithfully recorded the picture of the desk, with all the articles lying on it, that the absence of one of them struck him instantaneously, as though that article and that alone were the characteristic sign which distinguished this particular writing-table from every other table in the world.

  “Oh,” he thought, quivering with delight, “everything fits in! Everything! ... Down to that half-word which the torture drew from Daubrecq in the tower at Mortepierre! The riddle is solved. There need be no more hesitation, no more groping in the dark. The end is in sight.”

  And, without answering the inspector’s questions, he though
t of the simplicity of the hiding-place and remembered Edgar Allan Poe’s wonderful story in which the stolen letter, so eagerly sought for, is, in a manner of speaking, displayed to all eyes. People do not suspect what does not appear to be hidden.

  “Well, well,” said Lupin, as he went out, greatly excited by his discovery, “I seem doomed, in this confounded adventure, to knock up against disappointments to the finish. Everything that I build crumbles to pieces at once. Every victory ends in disaster.”

  Nevertheless, he did not allow himself to be cast down. On the one hand, he now knew where Daubrecq the deputy hid the crystal stopper. On the other hand, he would soon learn from Clarisse Mergy where Daubrecq himself was lurking. The rest, to him, would be child’s play.

  The Growler and the Masher were waiting for him in the drawing-room of the Hotel Franklin, a small family-hotel near the Trocadero. Mme. Mergy had not yet written to him.

  “Oh,” he said, “I can trust her! She will hang on to Daubrecq until she is certain.”

  However, toward the end of the afternoon, he began to grow impatient and anxious. He was fighting one of those battles — the last, he hoped — in which the least delay might jeopardize everything. If Daubrecq threw Mme. Mergy off the scent, how was he to be caught again? They no longer had weeks or days, but only a few hours, a terribly limited number of hours, in which to repair any mistakes that they might commit.

  He saw the proprietor of the hotel and asked him:

  “Are you sure that there is no express letter for my two friends?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  “Nor for me, M. Nicole?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s curious,” said Lupin. “We were certain that we should hear from Mme. Audran.”

  Audran was the name under which Clarisse was staying at the hotel.

  “But the lady has been,” said the proprietor.

  “What’s that?”

  “She came some time ago and, as the gentlemen were not there, left a letter in her room. Didn’t the porter tell you?”

  Lupin and his friends hurried upstairs. There was a letter on the table.

  “Hullo!” said Lupin. “It’s been opened! How is that? And why has it been cut about with scissors?”