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Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes

<h2>CHAPTER II. THE BLUE DIAMOND.</h2> On the evening of March 27, at number 134 avenue Henri-Martin, in the house that he had inherited from his brother six months before, the old general Baron d’Hautrec, ambassador at Berlin under the second Empire, was asleep in a comfortable armchair, while his secretary was reading to him, and the Sister Auguste was warming his bed and preparing the night-lamp. At eleven o’clock, the Sister, who was obliged to return to the convent of her order at that hour, said to the secretary: “Mademoiselle Antoinette, my work is finished; I am going.” “Very well, Sister.” “Do not forget that the cook is away, and that you are alone in the house with the servant.” “Have no fear for the Baron. I sleep in the adjoining room and always leave the door open.” The Sister left the house. A few moments later, Charles, the servant, came to receive his orders. The Baron was now awake, and spoke for himself. “The usual orders, Charles: see that the electric bell rings in your room, and, at the first alarm, run for the doctor. Now, Mademoiselle Antoinette, how far did we get in our reading?” “Is Monsieur not going to bed now?” “No, no, I will go later. Besides, I don’t need anyone.” Twenty minutes later, he was sleeping again, and Antoinette crept away on tiptoe. At that moment, Charles was closing the shutters on the lower floor. In the kitchen, he bolted the door leading to the garden, and, in the vestibule, he not only locked the door but hooked the chain as well. Then he ascended to his room on the third floor, went to bed, and was soon asleep. Probably an hour had passed, when he leaped from his bed in alarm. The bell was ringing. It rang for some time, seven or eight seconds perhaps, without intermission. “Well?” muttered Charles, recovering his wits, “another of the Baron’s whims.” He dressed himself quickly, descended the stairs, stopped in front of the door, and rapped, according to his custom. He received no reply. He opened the door and entered. “Ah! no light,” he murmured. “What is that for?” Then, in a low voice, he called: “Mademoiselle?” No reply. “Are you there, mademoiselle? What’s the matter? Is Monsieur le Baron ill?” No reply. Nothing but a profound silence that soon became depressing. He took two steps forward; his foot struck a chair, and, having touched it, he noticed that it was overturned. Then, with his hand, he discovered other objects on the floor—a small table and a screen. Anxiously, he approached the wall, felt for the electric button, and turned on the light. In the centre of the room, between the table and dressing-case, lay the body of his master, the Baron d’Hautrec. “What!... It can’t be possible!” he stammered. He could not move. He stood there, with bulging eyes, gazing stupidly at the terrible disorder, the overturned chairs, a large crystal candelabra shattered in a thousand pieces, the clock lying on the marble hearthstone, all evidence of a fearful and desperate struggle. The handle of a stiletto glittered, not far from the corpse; the blade was stained with blood. A handkerchief, marked with red spots, was lying on the edge of the bed. Charles recoiled with horror: the body lying at his feet extended itself for a moment, then shrunk up again; two or three tremors, and that was the end. He stooped over the body. There was a clean-cut wound on the neck from which the blood was flowing and then congealing in a black pool on the carpet. The face retained an expression of extreme terror. “Some one has killed him!” he muttered, “some one has killed him!” Then he shuddered at the thought that there might be another dreadful crime. Did not the baron’s secretary sleep in the adjoining room? Had not the assassin killed her also? He opened the door; the room was empty. He concluded that Antoinette had been abducted, or else she had gone away before the crime. He returned to the baron’s chamber, his glance falling on the secretary, he noticed that that article of furniture remained intact. Then, he saw upon a table, beside a bunch of keys and a pocketbook that the baron placed there every night, a handful of golden louis. Charles seized the pocketbook, opened it, and found some bank-notes. He counted them; there were thirteen notes of one hundred francs each. Instinctively, mechanically, he put the bank-notes in his pocket, rushed down the stairs, drew the bolt, unhooked the chain, closed the door behind him, and fled to the street. <hr /> Charles was an honest man. He had scarcely left the gate, when, cooled by the night air and the rain, he came to a sudden halt. Now, he saw his action in its true light, and it filled him with horror. He hailed a passing cab, and said to the driver: “Go to the police-office, and bring the commissary. Hurry! There has been a murder in that house.” The cab-driver whipped his horse. Charles wished to return to the house, but found the gate locked. He had closed it himself when he came out, and it could not be opened from the outside. On the other hand, it was useless to ring, as there was no one in the house. It was almost an hour before the arrival of the police. When they came, Charles told his story and handed the bank-notes to the commissary. A locksmith was summoned, and, after considerable difficulty, he succeeded in forcing open the garden gate and the vestibule door. The commissary of police entered the room first, but, immediately, turned to Charles and said: “You told me that the room was in the greatest disorder.” Charles stood at the door, amazed, bewildered; all the furniture had been restored to its accustomed place. The small table was standing between the two windows, the chairs were upright, and the clock was on the centre of the mantel. The debris of the candelabra had been removed. “Where is.... Monsieur le Baron?” stammered Charles. “That’s so!” exclaimed the officer, “where is the victim?” He approached the bed, and drew aside a large sheet, under which reposed the Baron d’Hautrec, formerly French Ambassador at Berlin. Over him, lay his military coat, adorned with the Cross of Honor. His features were calm. His eyes were closed. “Some one has been here,” said Charles. “How did they get in?” “I don’t know, but some one has been here during my absence. There was a stiletto on the floor—there! And a handkerchief, stained with blood, on the bed. They are not here now. They have been carried away. And some one has put the room in order.” “Who would do that?” “The assassin.” “But we found all the doors locked.” “He must have remained in the house.” “Then he must be here yet, as you were in front of the house all the time.” Charles reflected a moment, then said, slowly: “Yes ... of course.... I didn’t go away from the gate.” “Who was the last person you saw with the baron?” “Mademoiselle Antoinette, his secretary.” “What has become of her?” “I don’t know. Her bed wasn’t occupied, so she must have gone out. I am not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty.” “But how could she leave the house?” “By the door,” said Charles. “But you had bolted and chained it.” “Yes, but she must have left before that.” “And the crime was committed after her departure?” “Of course,” said the servant. The house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had fled. How? And when? Was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to his identity? Such were the questions the police were called upon to solve. The coroner came at seven o’clock; and, at eight o’clock, Mon. Dudouis, the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. They were followed by the Procureur of the Republic and the investigating magistrate. In addition to these officials, the house was overrun with policemen, detectives, newspaper reporters, photographers, and relatives and acquaintances of the murdered man. A thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse according to the information furnished by Charles; they questioned Sister Auguste when she arrived; but they discovered nothing new. Sister Auguste was astonished to learn of the disappearance of Antoinette Bréhat. She had engaged the young girl twelve days before, on excellent recommendations, and refused to believe that she would neglect her duty by leaving the house during the night. “But, you see, she hasn’t returned yet,” said the magistrate, “and we are still confronted with the question: What has become of her?” “I think she was abducted by the assassin,” said Charles. The theory was plausible, and was borne out by certain facts. Mon. Dudouis agreed with it. He said: “Abducted? ma foi! that is not improbable.” “Not only improbable,” said a voice, “but absolutely opposed to the facts. There is not a particle of evidence to support such a theory.” The voice was harsh, the accent sharp, and no one was surprised to learn that the speaker was Ganimard. In no one else, would they tolerate such a domineering tone. “Ah! it is you, Ganimard!” exclaimed Mon. Dudouis. “I had not seen you before.” “I have been here since two o’clock.” “So you are interested in some things outside of lottery ticket number 514, the affair of the rue Clapeyron, the blonde lady and Arsène Lupin?” “Ha-ha!” laughed the veteran detective. “I would not say that Lupin is a stranger to the present case. But let us forget the affair of the lottery ticket for a few moments, and try to unravel this new mystery.” <hr /> Ganimard is not one of those celebrated detectives whose methods will create a school, or whose name will be immortalized in the criminal annals of his country. He is devoid of those flashes of genius which characterize the work of Dupin, Lecoq and Sherlock Holmes. Yet, it must be admitted, he possesses superior qualities of observation, sagacity, perseverance and even intuition. His merit lies in his absolute independence. Nothing troubles or influences him, except, perhaps, a sort of fascination that Arsène Lupin holds over him. However that may be, there is no doubt that his position on that morning, in the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec, was one of undoubted superiority, and his collaboration in the case was appreciated and desired by the investigating magistrate. “In the first place,” said Ganimard, “I will ask Monsieur Charles to be very particular on one point: He says that, on the occasion of his first visit to the room, various articles of furniture were overturned and strewn about the place; now, I ask him whether, on his second visit to the room, he found all those articles restored to their accustomed places—I mean, of course, correctly placed.” “Yes, all in their proper places,” replied Charles. “It is obvious, then, that the person who replaced them must have been familiar with the location of those articles.” The logic of this remark was apparent to his hearers. Ganimard continued: “One more question, Monsieur Charles. You were awakened by the ringing of your bell. Now, who, do you think, rang it?” “Monsieur le baron, of course.” “When could he ring it?” “After the struggle ... when he was dying.” “Impossible; because you found him lying, unconscious, at a point more than four metres from the bell-button.” “Then he must have rung during the struggle.” “Impossible,” declared Ganimard, “since the ringing, as you have said, was continuous and uninterrupted, and lasted seven or eight seconds. Do you think his antagonist would have permitted him to ring the bell in that leisurely manner?” “Well, then, it was before the attack.” “Also, quite impossible, since you have told us that the lapse of time between the ringing of the bell and your entrance to the room was not more than three minutes. Therefore, if the baron rang before the attack, we are forced to the conclusion that the struggle, the murder and the flight of the assassin, all occurred within the short space of three minutes. I repeat: that is impossible.” “And yet,” said the magistrate, “some one rang. If it were not the baron, who was it?” “The murderer.” “For what purpose?” “I do not know. But the fact that he did ring proves that he knew that the bell communicated with the servant’s room. Now, who would know that, except an inmate of the house?” Ganimard was drawing the meshes of his net closer and tighter. In a few clear and logical sentences, he had unfolded and defined his theory of the crime, so that it seemed quite natural when the magistrate said: “As I understand it, Ganimard, you suspect the girl Antoinette Bréhat?” “I do not suspect her; I accuse her.” “You accuse her of being an accomplice?” “I accuse her of having killed Baron d’Hautrec.” “Nonsense! What proof have you?” “The handful of hair I found in the right hand of the victim.” He produced the hair; it was of a beautiful blond color, and glittered like threads of gold. Charles looked at it, and said: “That is Mademoiselle Antoinette’s hair. There can be no doubt of it. And, then, there is another thing. I believe that the knife, which I saw on my first visit to the room, belonged to her. She used it to cut the leaves of books.” A long, dreadful silence followed, as if the crime had acquired an additional horror by reason of having been committed by a woman. At last, the magistrate said: “Let us assume, until we are better informed, that the baron was killed by Antoinette Bréhat. We have yet to learn where she concealed herself after the crime, how she managed to return after Charles left the house, and how she made her escape after the arrival of the police. Have you formed any opinion on those points Ganimard?” “None.” “Well, then, where do we stand?” Ganimard was embarrassed. Finally, with a visible effort, he said: “All I can say is that I find in this case the same method of procedure as we found in the affair of the lottery ticket number 514; the same phenomena, which might be termed the faculty of disappearing. Antoinette Bréhat has appeared and disappeared in this house as mysteriously as Arsène Lupin entered the house of Monsieur Detinan and escaped therefrom in the company of the blonde lady.” “Does that signify anything?” “It does to me. I can see a probable connection between those two strange incidents. Antoinette Bréhat was hired by Sister Auguste twelve days ago, that is to say, on the day after the blonde Lady so cleverly slipped through my fingers. In the second place, the hair of the blonde Lady was exactly of the same brilliant golden hue as the hair found in this case.” “So that, in your opinion, Antoinette Bréhat—” “Is the blonde Lady—precisely.” “And that Lupin had a hand in both cases?” “Yes, that is my opinion.” This statement was greeted with an outburst of laughter. It came from Mon. Dudouis. “Lupin! always Lupin! Lupin is into everything; Lupin is everywhere!” “Yes, Lupin is into everything of any consequence,” replied Ganimard, vexed at the ridicule of his superior. “Well, so far as I see,” observed Mon. Dudouis, “you have not discovered any motive for this crime. The secretary was not broken into, nor the pocketbook carried away. Even, a pile of gold was left upon the table.” “Yes, that is so,” exclaimed Ganimard, “but the famous diamond?” “What diamond?” “The blue diamond! The celebrated diamond which formed part of the royal crown of France, and which was given by the Duke d’Aumale to Leonide Lebrun, and, at the death of Leonide Lebrun, was purchased by the Baron d’Hautrec as a souvenir of the charming comedienne that he had loved so well. That is one of those things that an old Parisian, like I, does not forget.” “It is obvious that if the blue diamond is not found, the motive for the crime is disclosed,” said the magistrate. “But where should we search for it?” “On the baron’s finger,” replied Charles. “He always wore the blue diamond on his left hand.” “I saw that hand, and there was only a plain gold ring on it,” said Ganimard, as he approached the corpse. “Look in the palm of the hand,” replied the servant. Ganimard opened the stiffened hand. The bezel was turned inward, and, in the centre of that bezel, the blue diamond shone with all its glorious splendor. “The deuce!” muttered Ganimard, absolutely amazed, “I don’t understand it.” “You will now apologize to Lupin for having suspected him, eh?” said Mon. Dudouis, laughing. Ganimard paused for a moment’s reflection, and then replied, sententiously: “It is only when I do not understand things that I suspect Arsène Lupin.” Such were the facts established by the police on the day after the commission of that mysterious crime. Facts that were vague and incoherent in themselves, and which were not explained by any subsequent discoveries. The movements of Antoinette Bréhat remained as inexplicable as those of the blonde Lady, and the police discovered no trace of that mysterious creature with the golden hair who had killed Baron d’Hautrec and had failed to take from his finger the famous diamond that had once shone in the royal crown of France. <hr /> The heirs of the Baron d’Hautrec could not fail to benefit by such notoriety. They established in the house an exhibition of the furniture and other objects which were to be sold at the auction rooms of Drouot & Co. Modern furniture of indifferent taste, various objects of no artistic value ... but, in the centre of the room, in a case of purple velvet, protected by a glass globe, and guarded by two officers, was the famous blue diamond ring. A large magnificent diamond of incomparable purity, and of that indefinite blue which the clear water receives from an unclouded sky, of that blue which can be detected in the whiteness of linen. Some admired, some enthused ... and some looked with horror on the chamber of the victim, on the spot where the corpse had lain, on the floor divested of its blood-stained carpet, and especially the walls, the unsurmountable walls over which the criminal must have passed. Some assured themselves that the marble mantel did not move, others imagined gaping holes, mouths of tunnels, secret connections with the sewers, and the catacombs— The sale of the blue diamond took place at the salesroom of Drouot & Co. The place was crowded to suffocation, and the bidding was carried to the verge of folly. The sale was attended by all those who usually appear at similar events in Paris; those who buy, and those who make a pretense of being able to buy; bankers, brokers, artists, women of all classes, two cabinet ministers, an Italian tenor, an exiled king who, in order to maintain his credit, bid, with much ostentation, and in a loud voice, as high as one hundred thousand francs. One hundred thousand francs! He could offer that sum without any danger of his bid being accepted. The Italian tenor risked one hundred and fifty thousand, and a member of the Comédie-Française bid one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs. When the bidding reached two hundred thousand francs, the smaller competitors fell out of the race. At two hundred and fifty thousand, only two bidders remained in the field: Herschmann, the well-known capitalist, the king of gold mines; and the Countess de Crozon, the wealthy American, whose collection of diamonds and precious stones is famed throughout the world. “Two hundred and sixty thousand ... two hundred and seventy thousand ... seventy-five ... eighty....” exclaimed the auctioneer, as he glanced at the two competitors in succession. “Two hundred and eighty thousand for madame.... Do I hear any more?” “Three hundred thousand,” said Herschmann. There was a short silence. The countess was standing, smiling, but pale from excitement. She was leaning against the back of the chair in front of her. She knew, and so did everyone present, that the issue of the duel was certain; logically, inevitably, it must terminate to the advantage of the capitalist, who had untold millions with which to indulge his caprices. However, the countess made another bid: “Three hundred and five thousand.” Another silence. All eyes were now directed to the capitalist in the expectation that he would raise the bidding. But Herschmann was not paying any attention to the sale; his eyes were fixed on a sheet of paper which he held in his right hand, while the other hand held a torn envelope. “Three hundred and five thousand,” repeated the auctioneer. “Once!... Twice!... For the last time.... Do I hear any more?... Once!... Twice!... Am I offered any more? Last chance!...” Herschmann did not move. “Third and last time!... Sold!” exclaimed the auctioneer, as his hammer fell. “Four hundred thousand,” cried Herschman, starting up, as if the sound of the hammer had roused him from his stupor. Too late; the auctioneer’s decision was irrevocable. Some of Herschmann’s acquaintances pressed around him. What was the matter? Why did he not speak sooner? He laughed, and said: “Ma foi! I simply forgot—in a moment of abstraction.” “That is strange.” “You see, I just received a letter.” “And that letter was sufficient—” “To distract my attention? Yes, for a moment.” Ganimard was there. He had come to witness the sale of the ring. He stopped one of the attendants of the auction room, and said: “Was it you who carried the letter to Monsieur Herschmann?” “Yes.” “Who gave it to you?” “A lady.” “Where is she?” “Where is she?... She was sitting down there ... the lady who wore a thick veil.” “She has gone?” “Yes, just this moment.” Ganimard hastened to the door, and saw the lady descending the stairs. He ran after her. A crush of people delayed him at the entrance. When he reached the sidewalk, she had disappeared. He returned to the auction room, accosted Herschmann, introduced himself, and enquired about the letter. Herschmann handed it to him. It was carelessly scribbled in pencil, in a handwriting unknown to the capitalist, and contained these few words: “The blue diamond brings misfortune. Remember the Baron d’Hautrec.” <hr /> The vicissitudes of the blue diamond were not yet at an end. Although it had become well-known through the murder of the Baron d’Hautrec and the incidents at the auction-rooms, it was six months later that it attained even greater celebrity. During the following summer, the Countess de Crozon was robbed of the famous jewel she had taken so much trouble to acquire. Let me recall that strange affair, of which the exciting and dramatic incidents sent a thrill through all of us, and over which I am now permitted to throw some light. On the evening of August 10, the guests of the Count and Countess de Crozon were assembled in the drawing-room of the magnificent château which overlooks the Bay de Somme. To entertain her friends, the countess seated herself at the piano to play for them, after first placing her jewels on a small table near the piano, and, amongst them, was the ring of the Baron d’Hautrec. An hour later, the count and the majority of the guests retired, including his two cousins and Madame de Réal, an intimate friend of the countess. The latter remained in the drawing-room with Herr Bleichen, the Austrian consul, and his wife. They conversed for a time, and then the countess extinguished the large lamp that stood on a table in the centre of the room. At the same moment, Herr Bleichen extinguished the two piano lamps. There was a momentary darkness; then the consul lighted a candle, and the three of them retired to their rooms. But, as soon as she reached her apartment, the countess remembered her jewels and sent her maid to get them. When the maid returned with the jewels, she placed them on the mantel without the countess looking at them. Next day, Madame de Crozon found that one of her rings was missing; it was the blue diamond ring. She informed her husband, and, after talking it over, they reached the conclusion that the maid was above suspicion, and that the guilty party must be Herr Bleichen. The count notified the commissary of police at Amiens, who commenced an investigation and, discreetly, exercised a strict surveillance over the Austrian consul to prevent his disposing of the ring. The château was surrounded by detectives day and night. Two weeks passed without incident. Then Herr Bleichen announced his intended departure. That day, a formal complaint was entered against him. The police made an official examination of his luggage. In a small satchel, the key to which was always carried by the consul himself, they found a bottle of dentifrice, and in that bottle they found the ring. Madame Bleichen fainted. Her husband was placed under arrest. Everyone will remember the line of defense adopted by the accused man. He declared that the ring must have been placed there by the Count de Crozen as an act of revenge. He said: “The count is brutal and makes his wife very unhappy. She consulted me, and I advised her to get a divorce. The count heard of it in some way, and, to be revenged on me, he took the ring and placed it in my satchel.” The count and countess persisted in pressing the charge. Between the explanation which they gave and that of the consul, both equally possible and equally probable, the public had to choose. No new fact was discovered to turn the scale in either direction. A month of gossip, conjectures and investigations failed to produce a single ray of light. Wearied of the excitement and notoriety, and incapable of securing the evidence necessary to sustain their charge against the consul, the count and countess at last sent to Paris for a detective competent to unravel the tangled threads of this mysterious skein. This brought Ganimard into the case. For four days, the veteran detective searched the house from top to bottom, examined every foot of the ground, had long conferences with the maid, the chauffeur, the gardeners, the employees in the neighboring post-offices, visited the rooms that had been occupied by the various guests. Then, one morning, he disappeared without taking leave of his host or hostess. But a week later, they received this telegram: “Please come to the Japanese Tea-room, rue Boissy d’Anglas, to-morrow, Friday, evening at five o’clock. Ganimard.” <hr /> At five o’clock, Friday evening, their automobile stopped in front of number nine rue Boissy-d’Anglas. The old detective was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for them. Without a word, he conducted them to the first floor of the Japanese Tea-room. In one of the rooms, they met two men, whom Ganimard introduced in these words: “Monsieur Gerbois, professor in the College of Versailles, from whom, you will remember, Arsène Lupin stole half a million; Monsieur Léonce d’Hautrec, nephew and sole legatee of the Baron d’Hautrec.” A few minutes later, another man arrived. It was Mon. Dudouis, head of the detective service, and he appeared to be in a particularly bad temper. He bowed, and then said: “What’s the trouble now, Ganimard? I received your telephone message asking me to come here. Is it anything of consequence?” “Yes, chief, it is a very important matter. Within an hour, the last two cases to which I was assigned will have their dénouement here. It seemed to me that your presence was indispensable.” “And also the presence of Dieuzy and Folenfant, whom I noticed standing near the door as I came in?” “Yes, chief.” “For what? Are you going to make an arrest, and you wish to do it with a flourish? Come, Ganimard, I am anxious to hear about it.” Ganimard hesitated a moment, then spoke with the obvious intention of making an impression on his hearers: “In the first place, I wish to state that Herr Bleichen had nothing to do with the theft of the ring.” “Oh! oh!” exclaimed Mon. Dudouis, “that is a bold statement and a very serious one.” “And is that all you have discovered?” asked the Count de Crozon. “Not at all. On the second day after the theft, three of your guests went on an automobile trip as far as Crécy. Two of them visited the famous battlefield; and, while they were there, the third party paid a hasty visit to the post-office, and mailed a small box, tied and sealed according to the regulations, and declared its value to be one hundred francs.” “I see nothing strange in that,” said the count. “Perhaps you will see something strange in it when I tell you that this person, in place of giving her true name, sent the box under the name of Rousseau, and the person to whom it was addressed, a certain Monsieur Beloux of Paris, moved his place of residence immediately after receiving the box, in other words, the ring.” “I presume you refer to one of my cousins d’Andelle?” “No,” replied Ganimard. “Madame de Réal, then?” “Yes.” “You accuse my friend, Madam de Réal?” cried the countess, shocked and amazed. “I wish to ask you one question, madame,” said Ganimard. “Was Madam de Réal present when you purchased the ring?” “Yes, but we did not go there together.” “Did she advise you to buy the ring?” The countess considered for a moment, then said: “Yes, I think she mentioned it first—” “Thank you, madame. Your answer establishes the fact that it was Madame de Réal who was the first to mention the ring, and it was she who advised you to buy it.” “But, I consider my friend is quite incapable—” “Pardon me, countess, when I remind you that Madame de Réal is only a casual acquaintance and not your intimate friend, as the newspapers have announced. It was only last winter that you met her for the first time. Now, I can prove that everything she has told you about herself, her past life, and her relatives, is absolutely false; that Madame Blanche de Réal had no actual existence before she met you, and she has now ceased to exist.” “Well?” “Well?” replied Ganimard. “Your story is a very strange one,” said the countess, “but it has no application to our case. If Madame de Réal had taken the ring, how do you explain the fact that it was found in Herr Bleichen’s tooth-powder? Anyone who would take the risk and trouble of stealing the blue diamond would certainly keep it. What do you say to that?” “I—nothing—but Madame de Réal will answer it.” “Oh! she does exist, then?” “She does—and does not. I will explain in a few words. Three days ago, while reading a newspaper, I glanced over the list of hotel arrivals at Trouville, and there I read: ‘Hôtel Beaurivage—Madame de Réal, etc.’ “I went to Trouville immediately, and interviewed the proprietor of the hotel. From the description and other information I received from him, I concluded that she was the very Madame de Réal that I was seeking; but she had left the hotel, giving her address in Paris as number three rue de Colisée. The day before yesterday I went to that address, and learned that there was no person there called Madame de Réal, but there was a Madame Réal, living on the second floor, who acted as a diamond broker and was frequently away from home. She had returned from a journey on the preceding evening. Yesterday, I called on her and, under an assumed name, I offered to act as an intermedium in the sale of some diamonds to certain wealthy friends of mine. She is to meet me here to-day to carry out that arrangement.” “What! You expect her to come here?” “Yes, at half-past five.” “Are you sure it is she?” “Madame de Réal of the Château de Crozon? Certainly. I have convincing evidence of that fact. But ... listen!... I hear Folenfant’s signal.” It was a whistle. Ganimard arose quickly. “There is no time to lose. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, will you be kind enough to go into the next room. You also, Monsieur d’Hautrec, and you, Monsieur Gerbois. The door will remain open, and when I give the signal, you will come out. Of course, Chief, you will remain here.” “We may be disturbed by other people,” said Mon. Dudouis. “No. This is a new establishment, and the proprietor is one of my friends. He will not let anyone disturb us—except the blonde Lady.” “The blonde Lady! What do you mean?” “Yes, the blonde Lady herself, chief; the friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, the mysterious blonde Lady against whom I hold convincing evidence; but, in addition to that, I wish to confront her with all the people she has robbed.” He looked through the window. “I see her. She is coming in the door now. She can’t escape: Folenfant and Dieuzy are guarding the door.... The blonde Lady is captured at last, Chief!” A moment later a woman appeared at the door; she was tall and slender, with a very pale complexion and bright golden hair. Ganimard trembled with excitement; he could not move, nor utter a word. She was there, in front of him, at his mercy! What a victory over Arsène Lupin! And what a revenge! And, at the same time, the victory was such an easy one that he asked himself if the blonde Lady would not yet slip through his fingers by one of those miracles that usually terminated the exploits of Arsène Lupin. She remained standing near the door, surprised at the silence, and looked about her without any display of suspicion or fear. “She will get away! She will disappear!” thought Ganimard. Then he managed to get between her and the door. She turned to go out. “No, no!” he said. “Why are you going away?” “Really, monsieur, I do not understand what this means. Allow me—” “There is no reason why you should go, madame, and very good reasons why you should remain.” “But—” “It is useless, madame. You cannot go.” Trembling, she sat on a chair, and stammered: “What is it you want?” Ganimard had won the battle and captured the blonde Lady. He said to her: “Allow me to present the friend I mentioned, who desires to purchase some diamonds. Have you procured the stones you promised to bring?” “No—no—I don’t know. I don’t remember.” “Come! Jog your memory! A person of your acquaintance intended to send you a tinted stone.... ‘Something like the blue diamond,’ I said, laughing; and you replied: ‘Exactly, I expect to have just what you want.’ Do you remember?” She made no reply. A small satchel fell from her hand. She picked it up quickly, and held it securely. Her hands trembled slightly. “Come!” said Ganimard, “I see you have no confidence in us, Madame de Réal. I shall set you a good example by showing you what I have.” He took from his pocketbook a paper which he unfolded, and disclosed a lock of hair. “These are a few hairs torn from the head of Antoinette Bréhat by the Baron d’Hautrec, which I found clasped in his dead hand. I have shown them to Mlle. Gerbois, who declares they are of the exact color of the hair of the blonde Lady. Besides, they are exactly the color of your hair—the identical color.” Madame Réal looked at him in bewilderment, as if she did not understand his meaning. He continued: “And here are two perfume bottles, without labels, it is true, and empty, but still sufficiently impregnated with their odor to enable Mlle. Gerbois to recognize in them the perfume used by that blonde Lady who was her traveling companion for two weeks. Now, one of these bottles was found in the room that Madame de Réal occupied at the Château de Crozon, and the other in the room that you occupied at the Hôtel Beaurivage.” “What do you say?... The blonde Lady ... the Château de Crozon....” The detective did not reply. He took from his pocket and placed on the table, side by side, four small sheets of paper. Then he said: “I have, on these four pieces of paper, various specimens of handwriting; the first is the writing of Antoinette Bréhat; the second was written by the woman who sent the note to Baron Herschmann at the auction sale of the blue diamond; the third is that of Madame de Réal, written while she was stopping at the Château de Crozon; and the fourth is your handwriting, madame ... it is your name and address, which you gave to the porter of the Hôtel Beaurivage at Trouville. Now, compare the four handwritings. They are identical.” “What absurdity is this? really, monsieur, I do not understand. What does it mean?” “It means, madame,” exclaimed Ganimard, “that the blonde Lady, the friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, is none other than you, Madame Réal.” Ganimard went to the adjoining room and returned with Mon. Gerbois, whom he placed in front of Madame Réal, as he said: “Monsieur Gerbois, is this the person who abducted your daughter, the woman you saw at the house of Monsieur Detinan?” “No.” Ganimard was so surprised that he could not speak for a moment; finally, he said: “No?... You must be mistaken....” “I am not mistaken. Madame is blonde, it is true, and in that respect resembles the blonde Lady; but, in all other respects, she is totally different.” “I can’t believe it. You must be mistaken.” Ganimard called in his other witnesses. “Monsieur d’Hautrec,” he said, “do you recognize Antoinette Bréhat?” “No, this is not the person I saw at my uncle’s house.” “This woman is not Madame de Réal,” declared the Count de Crozon. That was the finishing touch. Ganimard was crushed. He was buried beneath the ruins of the structure he had erected with so much care and assurance. His pride was humbled, his spirit was broken, by the force of this unexpected blow. Mon. Dudouis arose, and said: “We owe you an apology, madame, for this unfortunate mistake. But, since your arrival here, I have noticed your nervous agitation. Something troubles you; may I ask what it is?” “Mon Dieu, monsieur, I was afraid. My satchel contains diamonds to the value of a hundred thousand francs, and the conduct of your friend was rather suspicious.” “But you were frequently absent from Paris. How do you explain that?” “I make frequent journeys to other cities in the course of my business. That is all.” Mon. Dudouis had nothing more to ask. He turned to his subordinate, and said: “Your investigation has been very superficial, Ganimard, and your conduct toward this lady is really deplorable. You will come to my office to-morrow and explain it.” The interview was at an end, and Mon. Dudouis was about to leave the room when a most annoying incident occurred. Madame Réal turned to Ganimard, and said: “I understand that you are Monsieur Ganimard. Am I right?” “Yes.” “Then, this letter must be for you. I received it this morning. It was addressed to ‘Mon. Justin Ganimard, care of Madame Réal.’ I thought it was a joke, because I did not know you under that name, but it appears that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous.” Ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone: “Once upon a time, there were a blonde Lady, a Lupin, and a Ganimard. Now, the wicked Ganimard had evil designs on the pretty blonde Lady, and the good Lupin was her friend and protector. When the good Lupin wished the blonde Lady to become the friend of the Countess de Crozon, he caused her to assume the name of Madame de Réal, which is a close resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a pale complexion and golden hair. And the good Lupin said to himself: If ever the wicked Ganimard gets upon the track of the blonde Lady, how useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the honest diamond broker. A wise precaution that has borne good fruit. A little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked Ganimard, a perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine blonde Lady at the Hôtel Beaurivage, the name and address of Madame Réal written on the hotel register by the genuine blonde Lady, and the trick is played. What do you think of it, Ganimard? I wished to tell you the true story of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it. Really, it is quite amusing, and I have enjoyed it very much. “Accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to the worthy Mon. Dudouis. “ARSÈNE LUPIN.” “He knows everything,” muttered Ganimard, but he did not see the humor of the situation as Lupin had predicted. “He knows some things I have never mentioned to any one. How could he find out that I was going to invite you here, chief? How could he know that I had found the first perfume bottle? How could he find out those things?” He stamped his feet and tore his hair—a prey to the most tragic despair. Mon. Dudouis felt sorry for him, and said: “Come, Ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time.” And Mon. Dudouis left the room, accompanied by Madame Réal. <hr /> During the next ten minutes, Ganimard read and re-read the letter of Arsène Lupin. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, Monsieur d’Hautrec and Monsieur Gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the room. At last, the count approached the detective, and said: “My dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth than we were before.” “Pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the blonde Lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that Arsène Lupin directed them.” “Those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more obscure. The blonde Lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue diamond, and yet she does not steal it. Afterward she steals it and gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. How do you explain her strange conduct?” “I cannot explain it.” “Of course; but, perhaps, someone else can.” “Who?” The Count hesitated, so the Countess replied, frankly: “There is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the arena with Arsène Lupin and overcome him. Have you any objection to our engaging the services of Herlock Sholmes in this case?” Ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply: “No ... but ... I do not understand what——” “Let me explain. All this mystery annoys me. I wish to have it cleared up. Monsieur Gerbois and Monsieur d’Hautrec have the same desire, and we have agreed to send for the celebrated English detective.” “You are right, madame,” replied the detective, with a loyalty that did him credit, “you are right. Old Ganimard is not able to overcome Arsène Lupin. But will Herlock Sholmes succeed? I hope so, as I have the greatest admiration for him. But ... it is improbable.” “Do you mean to say that he will not succeed?” “That is my opinion. I can foresee the result of a duel between Herlock Sholmes and Arsène Lupin. The Englishman will be defeated.” “But, in any event, can we count on your assistance?” “Quite so, madame. I shall be pleased to render Monsieur Sholmes all possible assistance.” “Do you know his address?” “Yes; 219 Parker street.” That evening Monsieur and Madame de Crozon withdrew the charge they had made against Herr Bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to Herlock Sholmes. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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