by Otto Penzler
“Very likely.”
“And if he happens to read in a country newspaper that a celebrated detective is spending his vacation in a neighboring town——”
“He will seek that detective.”
“Of course. But, on the other hand, let us presume that, having foreseen that state of affairs, the said Arsène Lupin has requested one of his friends to visit Caudebec, make the acquaintance of the editor of the Réveil, a newspaper to which the baron is a subscriber, and let said editor understand that such person is the celebrated detective—then, what will happen?”
“The editor will announce in the Réveil the presence in Caudebec of said detective.”
“Exactly; and one of two things will happen: either the fish—I mean Cahorn—will not bite, and nothing will happen; or, what is more likely, he will run and greedily swallow the bait. Thus, behold my Baron Cahorn imploring the assistance of one of my friends against me.”
“Original, indeed!”
“Of course, the pseudo-detective at first refuses to give any assistance. On top of that comes the telegram from Arsène Lupin. The frightened baron rushes once more to my friend and offers him a definite sum of money for his services. My friend accepts, summons two members of our band, who, during the night, whilst Cahorn is under the watchful eye of his protector, remove certain articles by way of the window and lower them with ropes into a nice little launch chartered for the occasion. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Marvelous! Marvelous!” exclaimed Ganimard. “The boldness of the scheme and the ingenuity of all its details are beyond criticism. But who is the detective whose name and fame served as a magnet to attract the baron and draw him into your net?”
“There is only one name could do it—only one.”
“And that is?”
“Arsène Lupin’s personal enemy—the most illustrious Ganimard.”
“I?”
“Yourself, Ganimard. And, really, it is very funny. If you go there, and the baron decides to talk, you will find that it will be your duty to arrest yourself, just as you arrested me in America. Hein! the revenge is really amusing: I cause Ganimard to arrest Ganimard.”
Arsène Lupin laughed heartily. The detective, greatly vexed, bit his lips; to him the joke was quite devoid of humor. The arrival of a prison-guard gave Ganimard an opportunity to recover himself. The man brought Arsène Lupin’s luncheon, furnished by a neighboring restaurant. After depositing the tray upon the table, the guard retired. Lupin broke his bread, ate a few morsels, and continued:
“But, rest easy, my dear Ganimard, you will not go to Malaquis. I can tell you something that will astonish you: the Cahorn affair is on the point of being settled.”
“Excuse me; I have just seen the Chief of the Sureté.”
“What of that? Does Mon. Dudouis know my business better than I do myself? You will learn that Ganimard—excuse me—that the pseudo-Ganimard still remains on very good terms with the baron. The latter has authorized him to negotiate a very delicate transaction with me, and, at the present moment, in consideration of a certain sum, it is probable that the baron has recovered possession of his pictures and other treasures. And on their return, he will withdraw his complaint. Thus, there is no longer any theft, and the law must abandon the case.”
Ganimard regarded the prisoner with a bewildered air.
“And how do you know all that?”
“I have just received the telegram I was expecting.”
“You have just received a telegram?”
“This very moment, my dear friend. Out of politeness, I did not wish to read it in your presence. But if you will permit me——”
“You are joking, Lupin.”
“My dear friend, if you will be so kind as to break that egg, you will learn for yourself that I am not joking.”
Mechanically, Ganimard obeyed, and cracked the egg-shell with the blade of a knife. He uttered a cry of surprise. The shell contained nothing but a small piece of blue paper. At the request of Arsène he unfolded it. It was a telegram, or rather a portion of a telegram from which the post-marks had been removed. It read as follows:
“Contract closed. Hundred thousand balls delivered. All well.”
“One hundred thousand balls?” said Ganimard.
“Yes, one hundred thousand francs. Very little, but then, you know, these are hard times.… And I have some heavy bills to meet. If you only knew my budget … living in the city comes very high.”
Ganimard arose. His ill humor had disappeared. He reflected for a moment, glancing over the whole affair in an effort to discover a weak point; then, in a tone and manner that betrayed his admiration of the prisoner, he said:
“Fortunately, we do not have a dozen such as you to deal with; if we did, we would have to close up shop.”
Arsène Lupin assumed a modest air, as he replied:
“Bah! a person must have some diversion to occupy his leisure hours, especially when he is in prison.”
“What!” exclaimed Ganimard, “your trial, your defense, the examination—isn’t that sufficient to occupy your mind?”
“No, because I have decided not to be present at my trial.”
“Oh! oh!”
Arsène Lupin repeated, positively:
“I shall not be present at my trial.”
“Really!”
“Ah! my dear monsieur, do you suppose I am going to rot upon the wet straw? You insult me. Arsène Lupin remains in prison just as long as it pleases him, and not one minute more.”
“Perhaps it would have been more prudent if you had avoided getting there,” said the detective, ironically.
“Ah! monsieur jests? Monsieur must remember that he had the honor to effect my arrest. Know then, my worthy friend, that no one, not even you, could have placed a hand upon me if a much more important event had not occupied my attention at that critical moment.”
“You astonish me.”
“A woman was looking at me, Ganimard, and I loved her. Do you fully understand what that means: to be under the eyes of a woman that one loves? I cared for nothing in the world but that. And that is why I am here.”
“Permit me to say: you have been here a long time.”
“In the first place, I wished to forget. Do not laugh; it was a delightful adventure and it is still a tender memory. Besides, I have been suffering from neurasthenia. Life is so feverish these days that it is necessary to take the ‘rest cure’ occasionally, and I find this spot a sovereign remedy for my tired nerves.”
“Arsène Lupin, you are not a bad fellow, after all.”
“Thank you,” said Lupin. “Ganimard, this is Friday. On Wednesday next, at four o’clock in the afternoon, I will smoke my cigar at your house in the rue Pergolese.”
“Arsène Lupin, I will expect you.”
They shook hands like two old friends who valued each other at their true worth; then the detective stepped to the door.
“Ganimard!”
“What is it?” asked Ganimard, as he turned back.
“You have forgotten your watch.”
“My watch?”
“Yes, it strayed into my pocket.”
He returned the watch, excusing himself:
“Pardon me … a bad habit. Because they have taken mine is no reason why I should take yours. Besides, I have a chronometer here that satisfies me fairly well.”
He took from the drawer a large gold watch and heavy chain.
“From whose pocket did that come?” asked Ganimard.
Arsène Lupin gave a hasty glance at the initials engraved on the watch.
“J. B.… Who the devil can that be? … Ah! yes, I remember. Jules Bouvier, the judge who conducted my examination. A charming fellow!… ”
THE MYSTERY OF THE STRONG ROOM
USING THE NOM DE PLUME Lillie Thomas Meade, Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith (1854–1914) not only wrote more than two hundred fifty books for young adult girls, but also wrote numerous volumes of detective fiction, several of wh
ich are historically important. Stories from the Diary of a Doctor (1894; second series 1896), written in collaboration with Dr. Edgar Beaumont (under the pseudonym Dr. Clifford Halifax), is the first series of medical mysteries published in England. The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings (1899), written in collaboration with Robert Eustace, is the first series of stories about a female crook. The thoroughly evil leader of an Italian criminal organization, Madame Koluchy, matches wits with Norman Head, a reclusive philosopher. Other memorable books by Meade include A Master of Mysteries (1898), The Gold Star Line (1899), The Sanctuary Club (1900), which features an unusual health club in which a series of murders is committed by apparently supernatural means, all written in collaboration with Eustace, and The Sorceress of the Strand (1903), in which Madame Sarah, an even more sinister villainess than Madame Koluchy, specializes in murder.
Robert Eustace is the pseudonym of Dr. Eustace Robert Barton (1863–1948). He is known mainly for his collaborations with other writers. In addition to working with Meade, he cowrote stories with Edgar Jepson; a novel with the once-popular mystery writer Gertrude Warden, The Stolen Pearl: A Romance of London (1903); and, most famously, with Dorothy L. Sayers on a novel, The Documents in the Case (1930).
“The Mystery of the Strong Room” was first published in The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings (London, Ward, Lock, 1899).
L. T. MEADE AND ROBERT EUSTACE
LATE IN THE AUTUMN of that same year Mme. Koluchy was once more back in town. There was a warrant out for the arrest of Lockhart, who had evidently fled the country; but Madame, still secure in her own invincible cunning, was at large. The firm conviction that she was even now preparing a mine for our destruction was the reverse of comforting, and Dufrayer and I spent many gloomy moments as we thought over the possibilities of our future.
On a certain evening towards the latter end of October I went to dine with my friend. I found him busy arranging his table, which was tastefully decorated, and laid for three.
“An unexpected guest is coming to dine,” he said, as I entered the room. “I must speak to you alone before he arrives. Come into the smoking-room; he may be here at any moment.”
I followed Dufrayer, who closed the door behind us.
“I must tell you everything and quickly,” he began, “and I must also ask you to be guided by me. I have consulted with Tyler, and he says it is our best course.”
“Well?” I interrupted.
“The name of the man who is coming here to-night is Maurice Carlton,” continued Dufrayer. “His mother was a Greek, but on the father’s side he comes of a good old English stock. He inherited a place in Norfolk, Cor Castle, from his father; but the late owner lost heavily on the turf, and in consequence the present man has endeavoured to retrieve his fortunes as a diamond merchant. I met him some years ago in Athens. He has been wonderfully successful, and is now, I believe—or, at least, so he says—one of the richest men in Europe. He called upon me with regard to some legal business, and in the course of conversation referred incidentally to Mme. Koluchy. I drew him out, and found that he knew a good deal about her, but what their actual relations are I cannot say. I was very careful not to commit myself, and after consideration decided to ask him to dine here to-night in order that we both might see him together. I have thought over everything carefully, and am quite sure our only course now is not to mention anything we know about Madame. We may only give ourselves away in doing so. By keeping quiet we shall have a far better chance of seeing what she is up to. You agree with me, don’t you?”
“Surely we ought to acquaint Carlton with her true character?” I replied.
Dufrayer shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“No,” he said, “we have played that game too often, and you know what the result has been. Believe me, we shall serve both his interests and ours best by remaining quiet. Carlton is living now at his own place, but comes up to London constantly. About two years ago he married a young English lady, who was herself the widow of an Italian. I believe they have a son, but am not quite sure. He seems an uncommonly nice fellow himself, and I should say his wife was fortunate in her husband; but, there, I hear his ring—let us go into the next room.”
We did so, and the next moment Carlton appeared. Dufrayer introduced him to me, and soon afterwards we went into the dining-room. Carlton was a handsome man, built on a somewhat massive scale. His face was of the Greek type, but his physique that of an Englishman. He had dark eyes, somewhat long and narrow, and apt, except when aroused, to wear a sleepy expression. It needed but a glance to show that in his blood was a mixture of the fiery East, with the nonchalance and suppression of all feeling which characterize John Bull. As I watched him, without appearing to do so, I came to the conclusion that I had seldom seen more perfect self-possession, or stronger indications of suppressed power.
As the meal proceeded, conversation grew brisk and brilliant. Carlton talked well, and, led on by Dufrayer, gave a short résumé of his life since they had last met.
“Yes,” he said, “I am uncommonly lucky, and have done pretty well on the whole. Diamond dealing, as perhaps you know, is one of the most risky things that any man can take up, but my early training gave me a sound knowledge of the business, and I think I know what I am about. There is no trade to which the art of swindling has been more applied than to mine; but, there, I have had luck, immense luck, such as does not come to more than one man in a hundred.”
“I suppose you have had some pretty exciting moments,” I remarked.
“No, curiously enough,” he replied; “I have personally never had any very exciting times. Big deals, of course, are often anxious moments, but beyond the natural anxiety to carry a large thing through, my career has been fairly simple. Some of my acquaintances, however, have not been so lucky, and one in particular is just going through a rare experience.”
“Indeed,” I answered; “are you at liberty to tell us what it is?”
He glanced from one of us to the other.
“I think so,” he said. “Perhaps you have already heard of the great Rocheville diamond?”
“No,” I remarked; “tell us about it, if you will.”
Dinner being over, he leant back in his chair and helped himself to a cigar.
“It is curious how few people know about this diamond,” he said, “although it is one of the most beautiful stones in the world. For actual weight, of course, many of the well-known stones can beat it. It weighs exactly eighty-two carats, and is an egg-shaped stone with a big indented hollow at the smaller end; but for lustre and brilliance I have never seen its equal. It has had a curious history. For centuries it was in the possession of an Indian Maharajah—it was bought from him by an American millionaire, and passed through my hands some ten years ago. I would have given anything to have kept it, but my finances were not so prosperous as they are now, and I had to let it go. A Russian baron bought it and took it to Naples, where it was stolen. This diamond was lost to the world till a couple of months ago, when it turned up in this country.”
When Carlton mentioned Naples, the happy hunting-ground of the Brotherhood, Dufrayer glanced at me.
“But there is a fatality about its ownership,” he continued; “it has again disappeared.”
“How?” I cried.
“I wish I could tell you,” he answered. “The circumstances of its loss are as follows: A month ago my wife and I were staying with an old friend, a relation of my mother’s, a merchant named Michael Röden, of Röden Frères, Cornhill, the great dealers. Röden said he had a surprise for me, and he showed me the Rocheville diamond. He told me that he had bought it from a Cingalese dealer in London, and for a comparatively small price.”
“What is its actual value?” interrupted Dufrayer.
“Roughly, I should think about fifteen thousand pounds, but I believe Röden secured it for ten. Well, poor chap, he has now lost both the stone and his money. My firm belief is that what he bought was an imitation, though how a man of his ex
perience could have done such a thing is past knowledge. This is exactly what happened. Mrs. Carlton and I, as I have said, were staying down at his place in Staffordshire, and he had the diamond with him. At my wife’s request, for she possesses a most intelligent interest in precious stones, he took us down to his strong room, and showed it to us. He meant to have it set for his own wife, who is a very beautiful woman. The next morning he took the diamond up to town, and Mrs. Carlton and I returned to Cor Castle. I got a wire from Röden that same afternoon, begging me to come up at once. I found him in a state of despair. He showed me the stone, to all appearance identically the same as the one we had looked at on the previous evening, and declared that it had just been proved to be an imitation. He said it was the most skilful imitation he had ever seen. We put it to every known test, and there was no doubt whatever that it was not a diamond. The specific gravity test was final on this point. The problem now is: Did he buy the real diamond which has since been stolen or an imitation? He swears that the Rocheville diamond was in his hands, that he tested it carefully at the time; he also says that since it came into his possession it was absolutely impossible for any one to steal it, and yet that the theft has been committed there is very little doubt. At least one thing is clear, the stone which he now possesses is not a diamond at all.”
“Has anything been discovered since?” I asked.
“Nothing,” replied Carlton, rising as he spoke, “and never will be, I expect. Of one thing there is little doubt. The shape and peculiar appearance of the Rocheville diamond are a matter of history to all diamond dealers, and the maker of the imitation must have had the stone in his possession for some considerable time. The facsimile is absolutely and incredibly perfect.”
“Is it possible,” said Dufrayer suddenly, “that the strong room in Röden’s house could have been tampered with?”
“You would scarcely say so if you knew the peculiar make of that special strong room,” replied Carlton. “I think I can trust you and your friend with a somewhat important secret. Two strong rooms have been built, one for me at Cor Castle, and one for my friend Röden at his place in Staffordshire. These rooms are constructed on such a peculiar plan that the moment any key is inserted in the lock electric bells are set ringing within. These bells are connected in each case with the bedroom of the respective owners. Thus you will see for yourselves that no one could tamper with the lock without immediately giving such an alarm as would make any theft impossible. My friend Röden and I invented these special safes, and got them carried out on plans of our own. We both believe that our most valuable stones are safer in our own houses than in our places of business in town. But stay, gentlemen, you shall see for yourselves. Why should you not both come down to my place for a few days’ shooting? I shall then have the greatest possible pleasure in showing you my strong room. You may be interested, too, in seeing some of my collection—I flatter myself, a unique one. The weather is perfect just now for shooting, and I have plenty of pheasants, also room enough and to spare. We are a big, cheerful party, and the lioness of the season is with us, Mme. Koluchy.”