The Confessions of Arsène Lupin

by Maurice Leblanc

  A few minutes passed. The sixth race was about to start, when Dugrival saw his wife and nephew looking for him. He explained to them that Inspector Delangle was arranging matters with the magistrate.

  “Have you your money still?” asked his wife.

  “Why, of course I have!” he replied. “The inspector and I took good care, I assure you, not to let the crowd jostle us.”

  He felt his jacket, gave a stifled cry, thrust his hand into his pocket and began to stammer inarticulate syllables, while Mme. Dugrival gasped, in dismay:

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Stolen!” he moaned. “The pocket-book … the fifty notes! …”

  “It’s not true!” she screamed. “It’s not true!”

  “Yes, the inspector … a common sharper … he’s the man …”

  She uttered absolute yells:

  “Thief! Thief! Stop thief! … My husband’s been robbed! … Fifty thousand francs! … We are ruined! … Thief! Thief …”

  In a moment they were surrounded by policemen and taken to the commissary’s office. Dugrival went like a lamb, absolutely bewildered. His wife continued to shriek at the top of her voice, piling up explanations, railing against the inspector:

  “Have him looked for! … Have him found! … A brown suit … A pointed beard … Oh, the villain, to think what he’s robbed us of! … Fifty thousand francs! … Why … why, Dugrival, what are you doing?”

  With one bound, she flung herself upon her husband. Too late! He had pressed the barrel of a revolver against his temple. A shot rang out. Dugrival fell. He was dead.

  The reader cannot have forgotten the commotion made by the newspapers in connection with this case, nor how they jumped at the opportunity once more to accuse the police of carelessness and blundering. Was it conceivable that a pick-pocket could play the part of an inspector like that, in broad daylight and in a public place, and rob a respectable man with impunity?

  Nicolas Dugrival’s widow kept the controversy alive, thanks to her jeremiads and to the interviews which she granted on every hand. A reporter had secured a snapshot of her in front of her husband’s body, holding up her hand and swearing to revenge his death. Her nephew Gabriel was standing beside her, with hatred pictured in his face. He, too, it appeared, in a few words uttered in a whisper, but in a tone of fierce determination, had taken an oath to pursue and catch the murderer.

  The accounts described the humble apartment which they occupied at the Batignolles; and, as they had been robbed of all their means, a sporting-paper opened a subscription on their behalf.

  As for the mysterious Delangle, he remained undiscovered. Two men were arrested, but had to be released forthwith. The police took up a number of clues, which were at once abandoned; more than one name was mentioned; and, lastly, they accused Arsène Lupin, an action which provoked the famous burglar’s celebrated cable, dispatched from New York six days after the incident:

  “Protest indignantly against calumny invented by baffled police. Send my condolences to unhappy victims. Instructing my bankers to remit them fifty thousand francs.”

  “Lupin.”

  True enough, on the day after the publication of the cable, a stranger rang at Mme. Dugrival’s door and handed her an envelope. The envelope contained fifty thousand-franc notes.

  This theatrical stroke was not at all calculated to allay the universal comment. But an event soon occurred which provided any amount of additional excitement. Two days later, the people living in the same house as Mme. Dugrival and her nephew were awakened, at four o’clock in the morning, by horrible cries and shrill calls for help. They rushed to the flat. The porter succeeded in opening the door. By the light of a lantern carried by one of the neighbours, he found Gabriel stretched at full-length in his bedroom, with his wrists and ankles bound and a gag forced into his mouth, while, in the next room, Mme. Dugrival lay with her life’s blood ebbing away through a great gash in her breast.

  She whispered:

  “The money … I’ve been robbed … All the notes gone …”

  And she fainted away.

  What had happened? Gabriel said—and, as soon as she was able to speak, Mme. Dugrival completed her nephew’s story—that he was startled from his sleep by finding himself attacked by two men, one of whom gagged him, while the other fastened him down. He was unable to see the men in the dark, but he heard the noise of the struggle between them and his aunt. It was a terrible struggle, Mme. Dugrival declared. The ruffians, who obviously knew their way about, guided by some intuition, made straight for the little cupboard containing the money and, in spite of her resistance and outcries, laid hands upon the bundle of bank-notes. As they left, one of them, whom she had bitten in the arm, stabbed her with a knife, whereupon the men had both fled.

  “Which way?” she was asked.

  “Through the door of my bedroom and afterward, I suppose, through the hall-door.”

  “Impossible! The porter would have noticed them.”

  For the whole mystery lay in this: how had the ruffians entered the house and how did they manage to leave it? There was no outlet open to them. Was it one of the tenants? A careful inquiry proved the absurdity of such a supposition.

  What then?

  Chief-inspector Ganimard, who was placed in special charge of the case, confessed that he had never known anything more bewildering:

  “It’s very like Lupin,” he said, “and yet it’s not Lupin … No, there’s more in it than meets the eye, something very doubtful and suspicious … Besides, if it were Lupin, why should he take back the fifty thousand francs which he sent? There’s another question that puzzles me: what is the connection between the second robbery and the first, the one on the race-course? The whole thing is incomprehensible and I have a sort of feeling—which is very rare with me—that it is no use hunting. For my part, I give it up.”

  The examining-magistrate threw himself into the case with heart and soul. The reporters united their efforts with those of the police. A famous English sleuth-hound crossed the Channel. A wealthy American, whose head had been turned by detective-stories, offered a big reward to whosoever should supply the first information leading to the discovery of the truth. Six weeks later, no one was any the wiser. The public adopted Ganimard’s view; and the examining-magistrate himself grew tired of struggling in a darkness which only became denser as time went on.

  And life continued as usual with Dugrival’s widow. Nursed by her nephew, she soon recovered from her wound. In the mornings, Gabriel settled her in an easy-chair at the dining-room window, did the rooms and then went out marketing. He cooked their lunch without even accepting the proffered assistance of the porter’s wife.

  Worried by the police investigations and especially by the requests for interviews, the aunt and nephew refused to see anybody. Not even the portress, whose chatter disturbed and wearied Mme. Dugrival, was admitted. She fell back upon Gabriel, whom she accosted each time that he passed her room:

  “Take care, M. Gabriel, you’re both of you being spied upon. There are men watching you. Why, only last night, my husband caught a fellow staring up at your windows.”

  “Nonsense!” said Gabriel. “It’s all right. That’s the police, protecting us.”

  One afternoon, at about four o’clock, there was a violent altercation between two costermongers at the bottom of the street. The porter’s wife at once left her room to listen to the invectives which the adversaries were hurling at each other’s heads. Her back was no sooner turned than a man, young, of medium height and dressed in a gray suit of irreproachable cut, slipped into the house and ran up the staircase.

  When he came to the third floor, he rang the bell. Receiving no answer, he rang again. At the third summons, the door opened.

  “Mme. Dugrival?” he asked, taking off his hat.

  “Mme. Dugrival is still an invalid and unable to see any one,” said Gabriel, who stood in the hall.

  “It’s most important that I should sp
eak to her.”

  “I am her nephew and perhaps I could take her a message …”

  “Very well,” said the man. “Please tell Mme. Dugrival that an accident has supplied me with valuable information concerning the robbery from which she has suffered and that I should like to go over the flat and ascertain certain particulars for myself. I am accustomed to this sort of inquiry; and my call is sure to be of use to her.”

  Gabriel examined the visitor for a moment, reflected and said:

  “In that case, I suppose my aunt will consent … Pray come in.”

  He opened the door of the dining-room and stepped back to allow the other to pass. The stranger walked to the threshold, but, at the moment when he was crossing it, Gabriel raised his arm and, with a swift movement, struck him with a dagger over the right shoulder.

  A burst of laughter rang through the room:

  “Got him!” cried Mme. Dugrival, darting up from her chair. “Well done, Gabriel! But, I say, you haven’t killed the scoundrel, have you?”

  “I don’t think so, aunt. It’s a small blade and I didn’t strike him too hard.”

  The man was staggering, with his hands stretched in front of him and his face deathly pale.

  “You fool!” sneered the widow. “So you’ve fallen into the trap … and a good job too! We’ve been looking out for you a long time. Come, my fine fellow, down with you! You don’t care about it, do you? But you can’t help yourself, you see. That’s right: one knee on the ground, before the missus … now the other knee … How well we’ve been brought up! … Crash, there we go on the floor! Lord, if my poor Dugrival could only see him like that! … And now, Gabriel, to work!”

  She went to her bedroom and opened one of the doors of a hanging wardrobe filled with dresses. Pulling these aside, she pushed open another door which formed the back of the wardrobe and led to a room in the next house:

  “Help me carry him, Gabriel. And you’ll nurse him as well as you can, won’t you? For the present, he’s worth his weight in gold to us, the artist! …”

  The hours succeeded one another. Days passed.

  One morning, the wounded man regained a moment’s consciousness. He raised his eyelids and looked around him.

  He was lying in a room larger than that in which he had been stabbed, a room sparsely furnished, with thick curtains hanging before the windows from top to bottom. There was light enough, however, to enable him to see young Gabriel Dugrival seated on a chair beside him and watching him.

  “Ah, it’s you, youngster!” he murmured. “I congratulate you, my lad. You have a sure and pretty touch with the dagger.”

  And he fell asleep again.

  That day and the following days, he woke up several times and, each time, he saw the stripling’s pale face, his thin lips and his dark eyes, with the hard look in them:

  “You frighten me,” he said. “If you have sworn to do for me, don’t stand on ceremony. But cheer up, for goodness’ sake. The thought of death has always struck me as the most humorous thing in the world. Whereas, with you, old chap, it simply becomes lugubrious. I prefer to go to sleep. Good-night!”

  Still, Gabriel, in obedience to Mme. Dugrival’s orders, continued to nurse him with the utmost care and attention. The patient was almost free from fever and was beginning to take beef-tea and milk. He gained a little strength and jested:

  “When will the convalescent be allowed his first drive? Is the bath-chair there? Why, cheer up, stupid! You look like a weeping-willow contemplating a crime. Come, just one little smile for daddy!”

  One day, on waking, he had a very unpleasant feeling of constraint. After a few efforts, he perceived that, during his sleep, his legs, chest and arms had been fastened to the bedstead with thin wire strands that cut into his flesh at the least movements.

  “Ah,” he said to his keeper, “this time it’s the great performance! The chicken’s going to be bled. Are you operating, Angel Gabriel? If so, see that your razor’s nice and clean, old chap! The antiseptic treatment, if you please!”

  But he was interrupted by the sound of a key grating in the lock. The door opposite opened and Mme. Dugrival appeared.

  She approached slowly, took a chair and, producing a revolver from her pocket, cocked it and laid it on the table by the bedside.

  “Brrrrr!” said the prisoner. “We might be at the Ambigu! … Fourth act: the Traitor’s Doom. And the fair sex to do the deed … The hand of the Graces … What an honour! … Mme. Dugrival, I rely on you not to disfigure me.”

  “Hold your tongue, Lupin.”

  “Ah, so you know? … By Jove, how clever we are!”

  “Hold your tongue, Lupin.”

  There was a solemn note in her voice that impressed the captive and compelled him to silence. He watched his two gaolers in turns. The bloated features and red complexion of Mme. Dugrival formed a striking contrast with her nephew’s refined face; but they both wore the same air of implacable resolve.

  The widow leant forward and said:

  “Are you prepared to answer my questions?”

  “Why not?”

  “Then listen to me. How did you know that Dugrival carried all his money in his pocket?”

  “Servants’ gossip …”

  “A young man-servant whom we had in our employ: was that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you steal Dugrival’s watch in order to give it back to him and inspire him with confidence?”

  “Yes.”

  She suppressed a movement of fury:

  “You fool! You fool! … What! You rob my man, you drive him to kill himself and, instead of making tracks to the uttermost ends of the earth and hiding yourself, you go on playing Lupin in the heart of Paris! … Did you forget that I swore, on my dead husband’s head, to find his murderer?”

  “That’s what staggers me,” said Lupin. “How did you come to suspect me?”

  “How? Why, you gave yourself away!”

  “I did? …”

  “Of course … The fifty thousand francs …”

  “Well, what about it? A present …”

  “Yes, a present which you gave cabled instructions to have sent to me, so as to make believe that you were in America on the day of the races. A present, indeed! What humbug! The fact is, you didn’t like to think of the poor fellow whom you had murdered. So you restored the money to the widow, publicly, of course, because you love playing to the gallery and ranting and posing, like the mountebank that you are. That was all very nicely thought out. Only, my fine fellow, you ought not to have sent me the selfsame notes that were stolen from Dugrival! Yes, you silly fool, the selfsame notes and no others! We knew the numbers, Dugrival and I did. And you were stupid enough to send the bundle to me. Now do you understand your folly?”

  Lupin began to laugh:

  “It was a pretty blunder, I confess. I’m not responsible; I gave different orders. But, all the same I can’t blame any one except myself.”

  “Ah, so you admit it! You signed your theft and you signed your ruin at the same time. There was nothing left to be done but to find you. Find you? No, better than that. Sensible people don’t find Lupin: they make him come to them! That was a masterly notion. It belongs to my young nephew, who loathes you as much as I do, if possible, and who knows you thoroughly, through reading all the books that have been written about you. He knows your prying nature, your need to be always plotting, your mania for hunting in the dark and unravelling what others have failed to unravel. He also knows that sort of sham kindness of yours, the drivelling sentimentality that makes you shed crocodile tears over the people you victimize; And he planned the whole farce! He invented the story of the two burglars, the second theft of fifty thousand francs! Oh, I swear to you, before Heaven, that the stab which I gave myself with my own hands never hurt me! And I swear to you, before Heaven, that we spent a glorious time waiting for you, the boy and I, peeping out at your confederates who prowled under our windows, taking their bearings! And there wa
s no mistake about it: you were bound to come! Seeing that you had restored the Widow Dugrival’s fifty thousand francs, it was out of the question that you should allow the Widow Dugrival to be robbed of her fifty thousand francs! You were bound to come, attracted by the scent of the mystery. You were bound to come, for swagger, out of vanity! And you come!”

  The widow gave a strident laugh:

  “Well played, wasn’t it? The Lupin of Lupins, the master of masters, inaccessible and invisible, caught in a trap by a woman and a boy! … Here he is in flesh and bone … here he is with hands and feet tied, no more dangerous than a sparrow … here is he … here he is! …”

  She shook with joy and began to pace the room, throwing sidelong glances at the bed, like a wild beast that does not for a moment take its eyes from its victim. And never had Lupin beheld greater hatred and savagery in any human being.

  “Enough of this prattle,” she said.

  Suddenly restraining herself, she stalked back to him and, in a quite different tone, in a hollow voice, laying stress on every syllable:

  “Thanks to the papers in your pocket, Lupin, I have made good use of the last twelve days. I know all your affairs, all your schemes, all your assumed names, all the organization of your band, all the lodgings which you possess in Paris and elsewhere. I have even visited one of them, the most secret, the one where you hide your papers, your ledgers and the whole story of your financial operations. The result of my investigations is very satisfactory. Here are four cheques, taken from four cheque-books and corresponding with four accounts which you keep at four different banks under four different names. I have filled in each of them for ten thousand francs. A larger figure would have been too risky. And, now, sign.”

  “By Jove!” said Lupin, sarcastically. “This is blackmail, my worthy Mme. Dugrival.”

  “That takes your breath away, what?”

  “It takes my breath away, as you say.”

  “And you find an adversary who is a match for you?”

  “The adversary is far beyond me. So the trap—let us call it infernal—the infernal trap into which I have fallen was laid not merely by a widow thirsting for revenge, but also by a first-rate business woman anxious to increase her capital?”