“I beseech you … I implore you … Ah! If you could only understand!”
Sholmes passed outside and walked away at a quick pace. Wilson said to the girl:
“Have no fear … he will be in at the finish. He never failed yet.”
And he ran to overtake Sholmes.
HERLOCK SHOLMES—ARSÈNE LUPIN.
These words, in great black letters, met their gaze as soon as they left the railway station. A number of sandwich-men were parading through the street, one behind the other, carrying heavy canes with iron ferrules with which they struck the pavement in harmony, and, on their backs, they carried large posters, on which one could read the following notice:
THE MATCH BETWEEN HERLOCK SHOLMES
AND ARSÈNE LUPIN. ARRIVAL OF THE ENGLISH
CHAMPION. THE GREAT DETECTIVE ATTACKS
THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE MURILLO. READ THE
DETAILS IN THE “ECHO DE FRANCE”.
Wilson shook his head, and said:
“Look at that, Sholmes, and we thought we were travelling incognito! I shouldn’t be surprised to find the republican guard waiting for us at the rue Murillo to give us an official reception with toasts and champagne.”
“Wilson, when you get funny, you get beastly funny,” growled Sholmes.
Then he approached one of the sandwich-men with the obvious intention of seizing him in his powerful grip and crushing him, together with his infernal sign-board. There was quite a crowd gathered about the men, reading the notices, and joking and laughing.
Repressing a furious access of rage, Sholmes said to the man:
“When did they hire you?”
“This morning.”
“How long have you been parading?”
“About an hour.”
“But the boards were ready before that?”
“Oh, yes, they were ready when we went to the agency this morning.”
So then it appears that Arsène Lupin had foreseen that he, Sholmes, would accept the challenge. More than that, the letter written by Lupin showed that he was eager for the fray and that he was prepared to measure swords once more with his formidable rival. Why? What motive could Arsène Lupin have in renewing the struggle?
Sholmes hesitated for a moment. Lupin must be very confident of his success to show so much insolence in advance; and was not he, Sholmes, falling into a trap by rushing into the battle at the first call for help?
However, he called a carriage.
“Come, Wilson! … Driver, 18 rue Murillo!” he exclaimed, with an outburst of his accustomed energy. With distended veins and clenched fists, as if he were about to engage in a boxing bout, he jumped into the carriage.
The rue Murillo is bordered with magnificent private residences, the rear of which overlook the Parc Monceau. One of the most pretentious of these houses is number 18, owned and occupied by the Baron d’Imblevalle and furnished in a luxurious manner consistent with the owner’s taste and wealth. There was a courtyard in front of the house, and, in the rear, a garden well filled with trees whose branches mingle with those of the park.
After ringing the bell, the two Englishmen were admitted, crossed the courtyard, and were received at the door by a footman who showed them into a small parlor facing the garden in the rear of the house. They sat down and, glancing about, made a rapid inspection of the many valuable objects with which the room was filled.
“Everything very choice,” murmured Wilson, “and in the best of taste. It is a safe deduction to make that those who had the leisure to collect these articles must now be at least fifty years of age.”
The door opened, and the Baron d’Imblevalle entered, followed by his wife. Contrary to the deduction made by Wilson, they were both quite young, of elegant appearance, and vivacious in speech and action. They were profuse in their expressions of gratitude.
“So kind of you to come! Sorry to have caused you so much trouble! The theft now seems of little consequence, since it has procured us this pleasure.”
“How charming these French people are!” thought Wilson, evolving one of his commonplace deductions.
“But time is money,” exclaimed the baron, “especially your time, Monsieur Sholmes. So I will come to the point. Now, what do you think of the affair? Do you think you can succeed in it?”
“Before I can answer that I must know what it is about.”
“I thought you knew.”
“No; so I must ask you for full particulars, even to the smallest detail. First, what is the nature of the case?”
“A theft.”
“When did it take place?”
“Last Saturday,” replied the baron, “or, at least, sometime during Saturday night or Sunday morning.”
“That was six days ago. Now, you can tell me all about it.”
“In the first place, monsieur, I must tell you that my wife and I, conforming to the manner of life that our position demands, go out very little. The education of our children, a few receptions, and the care and decoration of our house—such constitutes our life; and nearly all our evenings are spent in this little room, which is my wife’s boudoir, and in which we have gathered a few artistic objects. Last Saturday night, about eleven o’clock, I turned off the electric lights, and my wife and I retired, as usual, to our room.”
“Where is your room?”
“It adjoins this. That is the door. Next morning, that is to say, Sunday morning, I arose quite early. As Suzanne, my wife, was still asleep, I passed into the boudoir as quietly as possible so as not to wake her. What was my astonishment when I found that window open—as we had left it closed the evening before!”
“A servant—”
“No one enters here in the morning until we ring. Besides, I always take the precaution to bolt the second door which communicates with the ante-chamber. Therefore, the window must have been opened from the outside. Besides, I have some evidence of that: the second pane of glass from the right—close to the fastening—had been cut.”
“And what does that window overlook?”
“As you can see for yourself, it opens on a little balcony, surrounded by a stone railing. Here, we are on the first floor, and you can see the garden behind the house and the iron fence which separates it from the Parc Monceau. It is quite certain that the thief came through the park, climbed the fence by the aid of a ladder, and thus reached the terrace below the window.”
“That is quite certain, you say?”
“Well, in the soft earth on either side of the fence, they found the two holes made by the bottom of the ladder, and two similar holes can be seen below the window. And the stone railing of the balcony shows two scratches which were doubtless made by the contact of the ladder.”
“Is the Parc Monceau closed at night?”
“No; but if it were, there is a house in course of erection at number 14, and a person could enter that way.”
Herlock Sholmes reflected for a few minutes, and then said:
“Let us come down to the theft. It must have been committed in this room?”
“Yes; there was here, between that twelfth century Virgin and that tabernacle of chased silver, a small Jewish lamp. It has disappeared.”
“And is that all?”
“That is all.”
“Ah! … And what is a Jewish lamp?”
“One of those copper lamps used by the ancient Jews, consisting of a standard which supported a bowl containing the oil, and from this bowl projected several burners intended for the wicks.”
“Upon the whole, an object of small value.”
“No great value, of course. But this one contained a secret hiding-place in which we were accustomed to place a magnificent jewel, a chimera in gold, set with rubies and emeralds, which was of great value.”
“Why did you hide it there?”
“Oh! I can’t give any reason, monsieur, unless it was an odd fancy to utilize a hiding-place of that kind.”
“Did anyone know it?”
“No.”
“No one—except the thief,” said Sholmes. “Otherwise he would not have taken the trouble to steal the lamp.”
“Of course. But how could he know it, as it was only by accident that the secret mechanism of the lamp was revealed to us.”
“A similar accident has revealed it to someone else … a servant … or an acquaintance. But let us proceed: I suppose the police have been notified?”
“Yes. The examining magistrate has completed his investigation. The reporter-detectives attached to the leading newspapers have also made their investigations. But, as I wrote to you, it seems to me the mystery will never be solved.”
Sholmes arose, went to the window, examined the casement, the balcony, the terrace, studied the scratches on the stone railing with his magnifying-glass, and then requested Mon. d’Imblevalle to show him the garden.
Outside, Sholmes sat down in a rattan chair and gazed at the roof of the house in a dreamy way. Then he walked over to the two little wooden boxes with which they had covered the holes made in the ground by the bottom of the ladder with a view of preserving them intact. He raised the boxes, kneeled on the ground, scrutinized the holes and made some measurements. After making a similar examination of the holes near the fence, he and the baron returned to the boudoir where Madame d’Imblevalle was waiting for them. After a short silence Sholmes said:
“At the very outset of your story, baron, I was surprised at the very simple methods employed by the thief. To raise a ladder, cut a window-pane, select a valuable article, and walk out again—no, that is not the way such things are done. All that is too plain, too simple.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“That the Jewish lamp was stolen under the direction of Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin!” exclaimed the baron.
“Yes, but he did not do it himself, as no one came from the outside. Perhaps a servant descended from the upper floor by means of a waterspout that I noticed when I was in the garden.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Arsène Lupin would not leave this room empty-handed.”
“Empty-handed! But he had the lamp.”
“But that would not have prevented his taking that snuff-box, set with diamonds, or that opal necklace. When he leaves anything, it is because he can’t carry it away.”
“But the marks of the ladder outside?”
“A false scent. Placed there simply to avert suspicion.”
“And the scratches on the balustrade?”
“A farce! They were made with a piece of sandpaper. See, here are scraps of the paper that I picked up in the garden.”
“And what about the marks made by the bottom of the ladder?”
“Counterfeit! Examine the two rectangular holes below the window, and the two holes near the fence. They are of a similar form, but I find that the two holes near the house are closer to each other than the two holes near the fence. What does that fact suggest? To me, it suggested that the four holes were made by a piece of wood prepared for the purpose.”
“The better proof would be the piece of wood itself.”
“Here it is,” said Sholmes, “I found it in the garden, under the box of a laurel tree.”
The baron bowed to Sholmes in recognition of his skill. Only forty minutes had elapsed since the Englishman had entered the house, and he had already exploded all the theories theretofore formed, and which had been based on what appeared to be obvious and undeniable facts. But what now appeared to be the real facts of the case rested upon a more solid foundation, to-wit, the astute reasoning of a Herlock Sholmes.
“The accusation which you make against one of our household is a very serious matter,” said the baroness. “Our servants have been with us a long time and none of them would betray our trust.”
“If none of them has betrayed you, how can you explain the fact that I received this letter on the same day and by the same mail as the letter you wrote to me?”
He handed to the baroness the letter that he had received from Arsène Lupin. She exclaimed, in amazement:
“Arsène Lupin! How could he know?”
“Did you tell anyone that you had written to me?”
“No one,” replied the baron. “The idea occurred to us the other evening at the dinner-table.”
“Before the servants?”
“No, only our two children. Oh, no … Sophie and Henriette had left the table, hadn’t they, Suzanne?”
Madame d’Imblevalle, after a moment’s reflection, replied:
“Yes, they had gone to Mademoiselle.”
“Mademoiselle?” queried Sholmes.
“The governess, Mademoiselle Alice Demun.”
“Does she take her meals with you?”
“No. Her meals are served in her room.”
Wilson had an idea. He said:
“The letter written to my friend Herlock Sholmes was posted?”
“Of course.”
“Who posted it?”
“Dominique, who has been my valet for twenty years,” replied the baron. “Any search in that direction would be a waste of time.”
“One never wastes his time when engaged in a search,” said Wilson, sententiously.
This preliminary investigation now ended, and Sholmes asked permission to retire.
At dinner, an hour later, he saw Sophie and Henriette, the two children of the family, one was six and the other eight years of age. There was very little conversation at the table. Sholmes responded to the friendly advances of his hosts in such a curt manner that they were soon reduced to silence. When the coffee was served, Sholmes swallowed the contents of his cup, and rose to take his leave.
At that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message addressed to Sholmes. He opened it, and read:
“You have my enthusiastic admiration. The results attained by you in so short a time are simply marvellous. I am dismayed.
“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
Sholmes made a gesture of indignation and handed the message to the baron, saying:
“What do you think now, monsieur? Are the walls of your house furnished with eyes and ears?”
“I don’t understand it,” said the baron, in amazement.
“Nor do I; but I do understand that Lupin has knowledge of everything that occurs in this house. He knows every movement, every word. There is no doubt of it. But how does he get his information? That is the first mystery I have to solve, and when I know that I will know everything.”
That night, Wilson retired with the clear conscience of a man who has performed his whole duty and thus acquired an undoubted right to sleep and repose. So he fell asleep very quickly, and was soon enjoying the most delightful dreams in which he pursued Lupin and captured him single-handed; and the sensation was so vivid and exciting that it woke him from his sleep. Someone was standing at his bedside. He seized his revolver, and cried:
“Don’t move, Lupin, or I’ll fire.”
“The deuce! Wilson, what do you mean?”
“Oh! It is you, Sholmes. Do you want me?”
“I want to show you something. Get up.”
Sholmes led him to the window, and said:
“Look! … On the other side of the fence. … ”
“In the park?”
“Yes. What do you see?”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Yes, you do see something.”
“Ah! Of course, a shadow … two of them.”
“Yes, close to the fence. See, they are moving. Come, quick!”
Quickly they descended the stairs, and reached a room which opened into the garden. Through the glass door they could see the two shadowy forms in the same place.
“It is very strange,” said Sholmes, “but it seems to me I can hear a noise inside the house.”
“Inside the house? Impossible! Everybody is asleep.”
“Well, listen—”
At that moment a low whistle came from the other side of the fence, and they p
erceived a dim light which appeared to come from the house.
“The baron must have turned on the light in his room. It is just above us.”
“That must have been the noise you heard,” said Wilson. “Perhaps they are watching the fence also.”
Then there was a second whistle, softer than before.
“I don’t understand it; I don’t understand,” said Sholmes, irritably.
“No more do I,” confessed Wilson.
Sholmes turned the key, drew the bolt, and quietly opened the door. A third whistle, louder than before, and modulated to another form. And the noise above their heads became more pronounced. Sholmes said:
“It seems to be on the balcony outside the boudoir window.”
He put his head through the half-opened door, but immediately recoiled, with a stifled oath. Then Wilson looked. Quite close to them there was a ladder, the upper end of which was resting on the balcony.
“The deuce!” said Sholmes, “there is someone in the boudoir. That is what we heard. Quick, let us remove the ladder.”
But at that instant a man slid down the ladder and ran toward the spot where his accomplices were waiting for him outside the fence. He carried the ladder with him. Sholmes and Wilson pursued the man and overtook him just as he was placing the ladder against the fence. From the other side of the fence two shots were fired.
“Wounded?” cried Sholmes.
“No,” replied Wilson.
Wilson seized the man by the body and tried to hold him, but the man turned and plunged a knife into Wilson’s breast. He uttered a groan, staggered and fell.
“Damnation!” muttered Sholmes, “if they have killed him I will kill them.”
He laid Wilson on the grass and rushed toward the ladder. Too late—the man had climbed the fence and, accompanied by his confederates, had fled through the bushes.
“Wilson, Wilson, it is not serious, hein? Merely a scratch.”
The house door opened, and Monsieur d’Imblevalle appeared, followed by the servants, carrying candles.
“What’s the matter?” asked the baron. “Is Monsieur Wilson wounded?”
“Oh! It’s nothing—a mere scratch,” repeated Sholmes, trying to deceive himself.
The blood was flowing profusely, and Wilson’s face was livid. Twenty minutes later the doctor ascertained that the point of the knife had penetrated to within an inch and a half of the heart.
Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes Page 16