“Sir, it was Arsène Lupin, there is no doubt of it…. You can catch him if you hurry…. I think I may be of some use to you.”
The coach, which was needed for the inspection by the police, was slipped. The remainder of the train went on towards Le Havre. We were taken to the station-master’s office through a crowd of on-lookers who filled the platform.
Just then I felt a hesitation. I must make some excuse to absent myself, find my motor-car, and be off. It was dangerous to wait. If anything happened, if a telegram came from Paris, I was lost.
Yes; but what about my robber? Left to my own resources, in a district with which I was not very well acquainted, I could never hope to come up with him.
“Bah!” I said to myself. “Let us risk it, and stay. It’s a difficult hand to win, but a very amusing one to play. And the stakes are worth the trouble.”
And as we were being asked provisionally to repeat our depositions, I exclaimed:
“Mr. Commissary, Arsène Lupin is getting a start of us. My motor is waiting for me in the yard. If you will do me the pleasure to accept a seat in it, we will try…”
The commissary gave a knowing smile.
“It’s not a bad idea… such a good idea, in fact, that it’s already being carried out.”
“Oh!”
“Yes; two of my officers started on bicycles… some time ago.”
“But where to?”
“To the entrance to the tunnel. There they will pick up the clews and the evidence, and follow the track of Arsène Lupin.”
I could not help shrugging my shoulders.
“Your two officers will pick up no clews and no evidence.”
“Really!”
“Arsène Lupin will have arranged that no one should see him leave the tunnel. He will have taken the nearest road, and from there…”
“From there make for Rouen, where we shall catch him.”
“He will not go to Rouen.”
“In that case, he will remain in the neighborhood, where we shall be even more certain…”
“He will not remain in the neighborhood.”
“Oh! Then where will he hide himself?”
I took out my watch.
“At this moment Arsène Lupin is hanging about the station at Darnetal. At ten-fifty—that is to say, in twenty-two minutes from now—he will take the train which leaves Rouen from the Gare du Nord for Amiens.”
“Do you think so? And how do you know?”
“Oh, it’s very simple. In the carriage Arsène Lupin consulted my railway guide. What for? To see if there was another line near the place where he disappeared, a station on that line, and a train which stopped at that station. I have just looked at the guide myself, and learned what I wanted to know.”
“Upon my word, sir,” said the commissary, “you possess marvellous powers of deduction. What an expert you must be!”
Dragged on by my certainty, I had blundered by displaying too much cleverness. He looked at me in astonishment, and I saw that a suspicion flickered through his mind. Only just, it is true; for the photographs despatched in every direction were so unlike, represented an Arsène Lupin so different from the one that stood before him, that he could not possibly recognize the original in me. Nevertheless, he was troubled, restless, perplexed.
There was a moment of silence. A certain ambiguity and doubt seemed to interrupt our words. A shudder of anxiety passed through me. Was luck about to turn against me? Mastering myself, I began to laugh.
“Ah well, there’s nothing to sharpen one’s wits like the loss of a pocket-book and the desire to find it again. And it seems to me that, if you will give me two of your men, the three of us might, perhaps….”
“Oh, please, Mr. Commissary,” exclaimed Madame Renaud, “do what Monsieur Berlat suggests.”
My kind friend’s intervention turned the scale. Uttered by her, the wife of an influential person, the name of Berlat became mine in reality, and conferred upon me an identity which no suspicion could touch. The commissary rose.
“Believe me, Monsieur Berlat, I shall be only too pleased to see you succeed. I am as anxious as yourself to have Arsène Lupin arrested.”
He accompanied me to my car. He introduced two of his men to me: Honoré Massol and Gaston Delivet. They took their seats. I placed myself at the wheel. My chauffeur started the engine. A few seconds later we had left the station. I was saved.
I confess that as we dashed in my powerful 35-h.p. Moreau-Lepton4 along the boulevards that skirt the old Norman city I was not without a certain sense of pride. The engine hummed harmoniously. The trees sped behind us to right and left. And now, free and out of danger, I had nothing to do but to settle my own little private affairs with the co-operation of two worthy representatives of the law. Arsène Lupin was going in search of Arsène Lupin!
Ye humble mainstays of the social order of things, Gaston Delivet and Honore Massol, how precious was your assistance to me! Where should I have been without you? But for you, at how many cross-roads should I have taken the wrong turning! But for you, Arsène Lupin would have gone astray and the other escaped!
But all was not over yet. Far from it. I had first to capture the fellow and next to take possession, myself, of the papers of which he had robbed me. At no cost must my two satellites be allowed to catch a sight of those documents, much less lay hands upon them. To make use of them and yet act independently of them was what I wanted to do; and it was no easy matter.
We reached Darnetal three minutes after the train had left. I had the consolation of learning that a man in a gray frock-overcoat with a black velvet collar had got into a second-class carriage with a ticket for Amiens. There was no doubt about it: my first appearance as a detective was a promising one.
Delivet said:
“The train is an express, and does not stop before Montérolier-Buchy, in nineteen minutes from now. If we are not there before Arsène Lupin, he can go on towards Amiens, branch off to Cleres, and, from there, make for Dieppe or Paris.”
“How far is Monterolier?”
“Fourteen miles and a half.”
“Fourteen miles and a half in nineteen minutes… We shall be there before he is.”
It was a stirring race. Never had my trusty Moreau-Lepton responded to my impatience with greater ardor and regularity. It seemed to me as though I communicated my wishes to her directly, without the intermediary of levers or handles. She shared my desires. She approved of my determination. She understood my animosity against that blackguard Arsène Lupin. The scoundrel! The sneak! Should I get the best of him? Or would he once more baffle authority, that authority of which I was the incarnation?
“Right!” cried Delivet“Left! … Straight ahead!…”
We skimmed the ground. The mile-stones looked like little timid animals that fled at our approach.
And suddenly at the turn of a road a cloud of smoke—the north express!
For half a mile it was a struggle side by side—an unequal struggle, of which the issue was certain—we beat the train by twenty lengths.
In three seconds we were on the platform in front of the second class. The doors were flung open. A few people stepped out. My thief was not among them. We examined the carriages. No Arsène Lupin.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed, “he must have recognized me in the motor while we were going alongside of him, and jumped!”
The guard of the train confirmed my supposition. He had seen a man scrambling down the embankment at two hundred yards from the station.
“There he is!… Look!… At the level crossing!”
I darted in pursuit, followed by my two satellites, or, rather, by one of them; for the other, Massol, turned out to be an uncommonly fast sprinter, gifted with both speed and staying power. In a few seconds the distance between him and the fugitive was greatly diminished. The man saw him, jumped a hedge, and scampered off towards a slope, which he climbed. We saw him, farther still, entering a little wood.
When we reache
d the wood we found Massol waiting for us. He had thought it no use to go on, lest he should lose us.
“You were quite right, my dear fellow,” I said. “After a run like this our friend must be exhausted. We’ve got him.”
I examined the skirts of the wood while thinking how I could best proceed alone to arrest the fugitive, in order myself to effect certain recoveries which the law, no doubt, would only have allowed after a number of disagreeable inquiries. Then I returned to my companions.
“Look here, it’s very easy. You, Massol, take up your position on the left. You, Delivet, on the right. From there you can watch the whole rear of the wood, and he can’t leave it unseen by you except by this hollow, where I shall stand. If he does not come out, I’ll go in and force him back towards one or the other of you. You have nothing to do, therefore, but wait. Oh, I was forgetting: in case of alarm, I’ll fire a shot.”
Massol and Delivet moved off, each to his own side. As soon as they were out of sight I made my way into the wood with infinite precautions, so as to be neither seen nor heard. It consisted of close thickets, contrived for the shooting, and intersected by very narrow paths, in which it was only possible to walk by stooping, as though in a leafy tunnel.
One of these ended in a glade, where the damp grass showed the marks of footsteps. I followed them, taking care to steal through the underwood. They led me to the bottom of a little mound, crowned by a tumble-down lath-and-plaster hovel.
“He must be there,” I thought. “He has selected a good post of observation.”
I crawled close up to the building. A slight sound warned me of his presence, and, in fact, I caught sight of him through an opening with his back turned towards me.
Two bounds brought me upon him. He tried to point the revolver which he held in his hand. I did not give him time, but pulled him to the ground in such a way that his two arms were twisted and caught under him, while I held him pinned down with my knee upon his chest.
“Listen to me, old chap,” I whispered in his ear. “I am Arsène Lupin. You’ve got to give me back, this minute and without any fuss, my pocket-book and the lady’s wrist-bag… in return for which I’ll save you from the clutches of the police and enroll you among my friends. Which is it to be: yes or no?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
“That’s right. Your plan of this morning was cleverly thought out. We shall be good friends.”
I got up. He fumbled in his pocket, fetched out a great knife, and tried to strike me with it.
“You ass!” I cried.
With one hand I parried the attack. With the other I caught him a violent blow on the carotid artery, the blow which is known as “the carotid hook.” He fell back stunned.
In my pocket-book I found my papers and bank-notes. I took his own out of curiosity. On an envelope addressed to him I read his name: Pierre Onfrey.
I gave a start. Pierre Onfrey, the perpetrator of the murder in the Rue Lafontaine at Auteuil! Pierre Onfrey, the man who had cut the throats of Madame Delbois and her two daughters. I bent over him. Yes, that was the face which, in the railway-carriage, had aroused in me the memory of features which I had seen before.
But time was passing. I placed two hundred-franc notes in an envelope, with a visiting-card bearing these words:
“Arsène Lupin to his worthy assistants, Honore Massol and Gas-ton Delivet, with his best thanks.”
I laid this where it could be seen, in the middle of the room. Beside it I placed Madame Renaud’s wrist-bag. Why should it not be restored to the kind friend who had rescued me? I confess, however, that I took from it everything that seemed in any way interesting, leaving only a tortoise-shell comb, a stick of lip-salve, and an empty purse. Business is business, when all is said and done! And, besides, her husband followed such a disreputable occupation!…
There remained the man. He was beginning to move. What was I to do? I was not qualified either to save or to condemn him.
I took away his weapons, and fired my revolver in the air.
“That will bring the two others,” I thought. “He must find a way out of his own difficulties. Let fate take its course.”
And I went down the hollow road at a run.
Twenty minutes later a cross-road which I had noticed during our pursuit brought me back to my car.
At four o’clock I telegraphed to my friends from Rouen that an unexpected incident compelled me to put off my visit. Between ourselves, I greatly fear that, in view of what they must now have learned, I shall be obliged to postpone it indefinitely. It will be a cruel disappointment for them!
At six o’clock I returned to Paris by LTsle-Adam, Enghien, and the Porte Bineau.
I gathered from the evening papers that the police had at last succeeded in capturing Pierre Onfrey.
The next morning—why should we despise the advantages of intelligent advertisement?—the Écho de France contained the following sensational paragraph:
“Yesterday, near Buchy, after a number of incidents, Arsène Lupin effected the arrest of Pierre Onfrey. The Auteuil murderer had robbed a lady of the name of Renaud, the wife of the deputy prison-governor, in the train between Paris and Le Havre. Arsène Lupin has restored to Madame Renaud the wrist-bag which contained her jewels, and has generously rewarded the two detectives who assisted him in the matter of this dramatic arrest.”
THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE
Two or three times a year, on the occasion of important functions, such as the balls at the Austrian Embassy or Lady Billing-stone’s receptions, the Comtesse de Dreux-Soubise would wear the Queen’s Necklace.
This was really the famous necklace, the historic necklace, which Böhmer and Bassenge, the crown jewellers, had designed for the Du Barry, which the Cardinal de Rohan-Soubise believed himself to be presenting to Queen Marie-Antoinette, and which Jeanne de Valois, Comtesse de La Motte, the adventuress, took to pieces, one evening in February, 1785, with the assistance of her husband and their accomplice, Rétaux de Villette.
As a matter of fact, the setting alone was genuine. Rétaux de Villette had preserved it, while Sieur de La Motte and his wife dispersed to the four winds of heaven the stones so brutally unmounted, the admirable stones once so carefully chosen by Böhmer. Later, Rétaux sold it, in Italy, to Gaston de Dreux-Soubise, the cardinal’s nephew and heir, who had been saved by his uncle at the time of the notorious bankruptcy of the Rohan-Guéménée family, and who, in grateful memory of this kindness, bought up the few diamonds that remained in the possession of Jeffreys, the English jeweller, completed them with others of much smaller value, but of identical dimensions, and thus succeeded in reconstructing the wonderful necklace in the form in which it had left Böhmer and Bassenge’s hands.1
The Dreux-Soubises had plumed themselves upon the possession of this ornament for nearly a century. Although their fortune had been considerably diminished by various circumstances, they preferred to reduce their establishment rather than part with the precious royal relic. The reigning count in particular clung to it as a man clings to the home of his fathers. For prudence’ sake, he hired a safe at the Crédit Lyonnais in which to keep it. He always fetched it there himself on the afternoon of any day on which his wife proposed to wear it; and he as regularly took it back the next morning.
That evening, at the Palais de Castille, then occupied by Isabella II. of Spain, the Countess had a great success, and King Christian of Denmark, in whose honor the reception was given, remarked upon her magnificent beauty. The gems streamed round her slender neck. The thousand facets of the diamonds shone and sparkled like flames in the light of the brilliantly illuminated rooms. None but she could have carried with such ease and dignity the burden of that marvellous jewel.
It was a twofold triumph which the Comte de Dreux enjoyed most thoroughly, and upon which he congratulated himself when they returned to their bedroom in the old house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He was proud of his wife, and quite as proud, perhaps, of the ornament which had shed its lustre
upon his family for four generations. And the countess, too, derived from it a vanity which was a little childish, and yet quite in keeping with her haughty nature.
She took the necklace from her shoulders, not without regret, and handed it to her husband, who examined it with admiring eyes, as though he had never seen it before. Then, after replacing it in its red morocco case, stamped with the cardinal’s arms, he went into an adjoining linen-closet, originally a sort of alcove, which had been cut off from the room, and which had only one entrance—a door at the foot of the bed. He hid it, according to his custom, among the bandboxes and stacks of linen on one of the upper shelves. He returned, closed the door behind him, and undressed himself.
In the morning he rose at nine o’clock, with the intention of going to the Crédit Lyonnais before lunch. He dressed, drank his coffee, and went down to the stables, where he gave his orders for the day. One of the horses seemed out of condition. He made the groom walk and trot it up and down before him in the yard. Then he went back to his wife.
She had not left the room, and was having her hair dressed by her maid. She said:
“Are you going out?”
“Yes, to take it back…”
“Oh, of course, yes, that will be safest…”
He entered the linen-closet. But in a few seconds he asked, without, however, displaying the least astonishment:
“Have you taken it out, dear?”
She replied:
“What do you mean? No, I’ve taken nothing.”
“But you’ve moved it?”
“Not at all…. I haven’t even opened the door.”
He appeared in the doorway with a bewildered air, and stammered, in hardly intelligible accents:
“You haven’t… you didn’t… but then…”
She ran to join him, and they made a feverish search, throwing the bandboxes to the floor, and demolishing the stacks of linen. And the count kept on saying:
Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-thief (Penguin Classics) Page 10