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Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes

<h2>CHAPTER VIII. THE SHIPWRECK.</h2> “That’s what I don’t like, Wilson,” said Herlock Sholmes, after he had read Arsène Lupin’s message; “that is what exasperates me in this affair—to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me everywhere. He sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my inmost thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. Ah! he is possessed of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive woman, yes, surpassing even that of Herlock Sholmes himself. Nothing escapes him. I resemble an actor whose every step and movement are directed by a stage-manager; who says this and does that in obedience to a superior will. That is my position. Do you understand, Wilson?” Certainly Wilson would have understood if his faculties had not been deadened by the profound slumber of a man whose temperature varies between one hundred and one hundred and three degrees. But whether he heard or not was a matter of no consequence to Herlock Sholmes, who continued: “I have to concentrate all my energy and bring all my resources into action in order to make the slightest progress. And, fortunately for me, those petty annoyances are like so many pricks from a needle and serve only to stimulate me. As soon as the heat of the wound is appeased and the shock to my vanity has subsided I say to myself: ‘Amuse yourself, my dear fellow, but remember that he who laughs last laughs best. Sooner or later you will betray yourself.’ For you know, Wilson, it was Lupin himself, who, by his first dispatch and the observation that it suggested to little Henriette, disclosed to me the secret of his correspondence with Alice Hemun. Have you forgotten that circumstance, dear boy?” But Wilson was asleep; and Sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his speech: “And, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps, but the light is creeping in. In the first place, I must learn all about Monsieur Bresson. Ganimard and I will visit the bank of the river, at the spot where Bresson threw away the package, and the particular rôle of that gentleman will be known to me. After that the game will be played between me and Alice Demun. Rather a light-weight opponent, hein, Wilson? And do you not think that I will soon know the phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and what the isolated letters—the ‘C’ and the ‘H’—mean? That is all I want to know, Wilson.” Mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing Sholmes gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner: “Monsieur Sholmes, I must scold you if you waken my patient. It isn’t nice of you to disturb him. The doctor has ordered absolute rest.” He looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at her wonderful self-possession. “Why do you look at me so, Monsieur Sholmes?... You seem to be trying to read my thoughts.... No?... Then what is it?” She questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face and in her frank blue eyes. A smile played upon her lips; and she displayed so much unaffected candor that the Englishman almost lost his temper. He approached her and said, in a low voice: “Bresson killed himself last night.” She affected not to understand him; so he repeated: “Bresson killed himself yesterday....” She did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did not concern or interest her in any way. “You have been informed,” said Sholmes, displaying his annoyance. “Otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. Ah! you are stronger than I expected. But what’s the use of your trying to conceal anything from me?” He picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said: “Will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent to Bresson four days before the theft of the Jewish lamp?” “The order?... Bresson?... the theft of the Jewish lamp?” She repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. He continued: “Yes. Here are the letters employed ... on this bit of paper.... What did you say to Bresson?” “The letters employed ... what did I say....” Suddenly she burst into laughter: “Ah! that is it! I understand! I am an accomplice in the crime! There is a Monsieur Bresson who stole the Jewish lamp and who has now committed suicide. And I am the friend of that gentleman. Oh! how absurd you are!” “Whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in the avenue des Ternes?” “Who? My modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais. Do you suppose that my modiste and my friend Monsieur Bresson are the same person?” Despite all he knew, Sholmes was now in doubt. A person can feign terror, joy, anxiety, in fact all emotions; but a person cannot feign absolute indifference or light, careless laughter. Yet he continued to question her: “Why did you accost me the other evening at the Northern Railway station? And why did you entreat me to leave Paris immediately without investigating this theft?” “Ah! you are too inquisitive, Monsieur Sholmes,” she replied, still laughing in the most natural manner. “To punish you I will tell you nothing, and, besides, you must watch the patient while I go to the pharmacy on an urgent message. Au revoir.” She left the room. “I am beaten ... by a girl,” muttered Sholmes. “Not only did I get nothing out of her but I exposed my hand and put her on her guard.” And he recalled the affair of the blue diamond and his first interview with Clotilde Destange. Had not the blonde Lady met his question with the same unruffled serenity, and was he not once more face to face with one of those creatures who, under the protection and influence of Arsène Lupin, maintain the utmost coolness in the face of a terrible danger? “Sholmes ... Sholmes....” It was Wilson who called him. Sholmes approached the bed, and, leaning over, said: “What’s the matter, Wilson? Does your wound pain you?” Wilson’s lips moved, but he could not speak. At last, with a great effort, he stammered: “No ... Sholmes ... it is not she ... that is impossible——” “Come, Wilson, what do you know about it? I tell you that it is she! It is only when I meet one of Lupin’s creatures, prepared and instructed by him, that I lose my head and make a fool of myself.... I bet you that within an hour Lupin will know all about our interview. Within an hour? What am I saying?... Why, he may know already. The visit to the pharmacy ... urgent message. All nonsense!... She has gone to telephone to Lupin.” Sholmes left the house hurriedly, went down the avenue de Messine, and was just in time to see Mademoiselle enter a pharmacy. Ten minutes later she emerged from the shop carrying some small packages and a bottle wrapped in white paper. But she had not proceeded far, when she was accosted by a man who, with hat in hand and an obsequious air, appeared to be asking for charity. She stopped, gave him something, and proceeded on her way. “She spoke to him,” said the Englishman to himself. If not a certainty, it was at least an intuition, and quite sufficient to cause him to change his tactics. Leaving the girl to pursue her own course, he followed the suspected mendicant, who walked slowly to the avenue des Ternes and lingered for a long time around the house in which Bresson had lived, sometimes raising his eyes to the windows of the second floor and watching the people who entered the house. At the end of an hour he climbed to the top of a tramcar going in the direction of Neuilly. Sholmes followed and took a seat behind the man, and beside a gentleman who was concealed behind the pages of a newspaper. At the fortifications the gentleman lowered the paper, and Sholmes recognized Ganimard, who thereupon whispered, as he pointed to the man in front: “It is the man who followed Bresson last night. He has been watching the house for an hour.” “Anything new in regard to Bresson?” asked Sholmes. “Yes, a letter came to his address this morning.” “This morning? Then it was posted yesterday before the sender could know of Bresson’s death.” “Exactly. It is now in the possession of the examining magistrate. But I read it. It says: He will not accept any compromise. He wants everything—the first thing as well as those of the second affair. Otherwise he will proceed.” “There is no signature,” added Ganimard. “It seems to me those few lines won’t help us much.” “I don’t agree with you, Monsieur Ganimard. To me those few lines are very interesting.” “Why so? I can’t see it.” “For reasons that are personal to me,” replied Sholmes, with the indifference that he frequently displayed toward his colleague. The tramcar stopped at the rue de Château, which was the terminus. The man descended and walked away quietly. Sholmes followed at so short a distance that Ganimard protested, saying: “If he should turn around he will suspect us.” “He will not turn around.” “How do you know?” “He is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin, and the fact that he walks in that manner, with his hands in his pockets, proves, in the first place, that he knows he is being followed and, in the second place, that he is not afraid.” “But I think we are keeping too close to him.” “Not too close to prevent his slipping through our fingers. He is too sure of himself.” “Ah! Look there! In front of that café there are two of the bicycle police. If I summon them to our assistance, how can the man slip through our fingers?” “Well, our friend doesn’t seem to be worried about it. In fact, he is asking for their assistance himself.” “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Ganimard, “he has a nerve.” The man approached the two policemen just as they were mounting their bicycles. After a few words with them he leaped on a third bicycle, which was leaning against the wall of the café, and rode away at a fast pace, accompanied by the two policemen. “Hein! one, two, three and away!” growled Sholmes. “And through whose agency, Monsieur Ganimard? Two of your colleagues.... Ah! but Arsène Lupin has a wonderful organization! Bicycle policemen in his service!... I told you our man was too calm, too sure of himself.” “Well, then,” said Ganimard, quite vexed, “what are we to do now? It is easy enough to laugh! Anyone can do that.” “Come, come, don’t lose your temper! We will get our revenge. But, in the meantime, we need reinforcements.” “Folenfant is waiting for me at the end of the avenue de Neuilly.” “Well, go and get him and join me later. I will follow our fugitive.” Sholmes followed the bicycle tracks, which were plainly visible in the dust of the road as two of the machines were furnished with striated tires. Very soon he ascertained that the tracks were leading him to the edge of the Seine, and that the three men had turned in the direction taken by Bresson on the preceding evening. Thus he arrived at the gateway where he and Ganimard had concealed themselves, and, a little farther on, he discovered a mingling of the bicycle tracks which showed that the men had halted at that spot. Directly opposite there was a little point of land which projected into the river and, at the extremity thereof, an old boat was moored. It was there that Bresson had thrown away the package, or, rather, had dropped it. Sholmes descended the bank and saw that the declivity was not steep and the water quite shallow, so it would be quite easy to recover the package, provided the three men had not forestalled him. “No, that can’t be,” he thought, “they have not had time. A quarter of an hour at the most. And yet, why did they come this way?” A fisherman was seated on the old boat. Sholmes asked him: “Did you see three men on bicycles a few minutes ago?” The fisherman made a negative gesture. But Sholmes insisted: “Three men who stopped on the road just on top of the bank?” The fisherman rested his pole under his arm, took a memorandum book from his pocket, wrote on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to Sholmes. The Englishman gave a start of surprise. In the middle of the paper which he held in his hand he saw the series of letters cut from the alphabet-book: CDEHNOPRZEO—237. The man resumed his fishing, sheltered from the sun by a large straw hat, with his coat and vest lying beside him. He was intently watching the cork attached to his line as it floated on the surface of the water. There was a moment of silence—solemn and terrible. “Is it he?” conjectured Sholmes, with an anxiety that was almost pitiful. Then the truth burst upon him: “It is he! It is he! No one else could remain there so calmly, without the slightest display of anxiety, without the least fear of what might happen. And who else would know the story of those mysterious letters? Alice had warned him by means of her messenger.” Suddenly the Englishman felt that his hand—that his own hand had involuntarily seized the handle of his revolver, and that his eyes were fixed on the man’s back, a little below the neck. One movement, and the drama would be finished; the life of the strange adventurer would come to a miserable end. The fisherman did not stir. Sholmes nervously toyed with his revolver, and experienced a wild desire to fire it and end everything; but the horror of such an act was repugnant to his nature. Death would be certain and would end all. “Ah!” he thought, “let him get up and defend himself. If he doesn’t, so much the worse for him. One second more ... and I fire....” But a sound of footsteps behind him caused him to turn his head. It was Ganimard coming with some assistants. Then, quickly changing his plans, Sholmes leaped into the boat, which was broken from its moorings by his sudden action; he pounced upon the man and seized him around the body. They rolled to the bottom of the boat together. “Well, now!” exclaimed Lupin, struggling to free himself, “what does this mean? When one of us has conquered the other, what good will it do? You will not know what to do with me, nor I with you. We will remain here like two idiots.” The two oars slipped into the water. The boat drifted into the stream. “Good Lord, what a fuss you make! A man of your age ought to know better! You act like a child.” Lupin succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of the detective, who, thoroughly exasperated and ready to kill, put his hand in his pocket. He uttered an oath: Lupin had taken his revolver. Then he knelt down and tried to capture one of the lost oars in order to regain the shore, while Lupin was trying to capture the other oar in order to drive the boat down the river. “It’s gone! I can’t reach it,” said Lupin. “But it’s of no consequence. If you get your oar I can prevent your using it. And you could do the same to me. But, you see, that is the way in this world, we act without any purpose or reason, as our efforts are in vain since Fate decides everything. Now, don’t you see, Fate is on the side of his friend Lupin. The game is mine! The current favors me!” The boat was slowly drifting down the river. “Look out!” cried Lupin, quickly. Someone on the bank was pointing a revolver. Lupin stooped, a shot was fired; it struck the water beyond the boat. Lupin burst into laughter. “God bless me! It’s my friend Ganimard! But it was very wrong of you to do that, Ganimard. You have no right to shoot except in self-defense. Does poor Lupin worry you so much that you forget yourself?... Now, be good, and don’t shoot again!... If you do you will hit our English friend.” He stood behind Sholmes, facing Ganimard, and said: “Now, Ganimard, I am ready! Aim for his heart!... Higher!... A little to the left.... Ah! you missed that time ... deuced bad shot.... Try again.... Your hand shakes, Ganimard.... Now, once more ... one, two, three, fire!... Missed!... Parbleu! the authorities furnish you with toy-pistols.” Lupin drew a long revolver and fired without taking aim. Ganimard put his hand to his hat: the bullet had passed through it. “What do you think of that, Ganimard! Ah! that’s a real revolver! A genuine English bulldog. It belongs to my friend, Herlock Sholmes.” And, with a laugh, he threw the revolver to the shore, where it landed at Ganimard’s feet. Sholmes could not withhold a smile of admiration. What a torrent of youthful spirits! And how he seemed to enjoy himself! It appeared as if the sensation of peril caused him a physical pleasure; and this extraordinary man had no other purpose in life than to seek for dangers simply for the amusement it afforded him in avoiding them. Many people had now gathered on the banks of the river, and Ganimard and his men followed the boat as it slowly floated down the stream. Lupin’s capture was a mathematical certainty. “Confess, old fellow,” said Lupin, turning to the Englishman, “that you would not exchange your present position for all the gold in the Transvaal! You are now in the first row of the orchestra chairs! But, in the first place, we must have the prologue ... after which we can leap, at one bound, to the fifth act of the drama, which will represent the capture or escape of Arsène Lupin. Therefore, I am going to ask you a plain question, to which I request a plain answer—a simple yes or no. Will you renounce this affair? At present I can repair the damage you have done; later it will be beyond my power. Is it a bargain?” “No.” Lupin’s face showed his disappointment and annoyance. He continued: “I insist. More for your sake than my own, I insist, because I am certain you will be the first to regret your intervention. For the last time, yes or no?” “No.” Lupin stooped down, removed one of the boards in the bottom of the boat, and, for some minutes, was engaged in a work the nature of which Sholmes could not discern. Then he arose, seated himself beside the Englishman, and said: “I believe, monsieur, that we came to the river to-day for the same purpose: to recover the object which Bresson threw away. For my part I had invited a few friends to join me here, and I was on the point of making an examination of the bed of the river when my friends announced your approach. I confess that the news did not surprise me, as I have been notified every hour concerning the progress of your investigation. That was an easy matter. Whenever anything occurred in the rue Murillo that might interest me, simply a ring on the telephone and I was informed.” He stopped. The board that he had displaced in the bottom of the boat was rising and water was working into the boat all around it. “The deuce! I didn’t know how to fix it. I was afraid this old boat would leak. You are not afraid, monsieur?” Sholmes shrugged his shoulders. Lupin continued: “You will understand then, in those circumstances, and knowing in advance that you would be more eager to seek a battle than I would be to avoid it, I assure you I was not entirely displeased to enter into a contest of which the issue is quite certain, since I hold all the trump cards in my hand. And I desired that our meeting should be given the widest publicity in order that your defeat may be universally known, so that another Countess de Crozon or another Baron d’Imblevalle may not be tempted to solicit your aid against me. Besides, my dear monsieur—” He stopped again and, using his half-closed hands as a lorgnette, he scanned the banks of the river. “Mon Dieu! they have chartered a superb boat, a real war-vessel, and see how they are rowing. In five minutes they will be along-side, and I am lost. Monsieur Sholmes, a word of advice; you seize me, bind me and deliver me to the officers of the law. Does that programme please you?... Unless, in the meantime, we are shipwrecked, in which event we can do nothing but prepare our wills. What do you think?” They exchanged looks. Sholmes now understood Lupin’s scheme: he had scuttled the boat. And the water was rising. It had reached the soles of their boots. Then it covered their feet; but they did not move. It was half-way to their knees. The Englishman took out his tobacco, rolled a cigarette, and lighted it. Lupin continued to talk: “But do not regard that offer as a confession of my weakness. I surrender to you in a battle in which I can achieve a victory in order to avoid a struggle upon a field not of my own choosing. In so doing I recognize the fact that Sholmes is the only enemy I fear, and announce my anxiety that Sholmes will not be diverted from my track. I take this opportunity to tell you these things since fate has accorded me the honor of a conversation with you. I have only one regret; it is that our conversation should have occurred while we are taking a foot-bath ... a situation that is lacking in dignity, I must confess.... What did I say? A foot-bath? It is worse than that.” The water had reached the board on which they were sitting, and the boat was gradually sinking. Sholmes, smoking his cigarette, appeared to be calmly admiring the scenery. For nothing in the world, while face to face with that man who, while threatened by dangers, surrounded by a crowd, followed by a posse of police, maintained his equanimity and good humor, for nothing in the world would he, Sholmes, display the slightest sign of nervousness. Each of them looked as if he might say: Should a person be disturbed by such trifles? Are not people drowned in a river every day? Is it such an unusual event as to deserve special attention? One chatted, whilst the other dreamed; both concealing their wounded pride beneath a mask of indifference. One minute more and the boat will sink. Lupin continued his chatter: “The important thing to know is whether we will sink before or after the arrival of the champions of the law. That is the main question. As to our shipwreck, that is a foregone conclusion. Now, monsieur, the hour has come in which we must make our wills. I give, devise and bequeath all my property to Herlock Sholmes, a citizen of England, for his own use and benefit. But, mon Dieu, how quickly the champions of the law are approaching! Ah! the brave fellows! It is a pleasure to watch them. Observe the precision of the oars! Ah! is it you, Brigadier Folenfant? Bravo! The idea of a war-vessel is an excellent one. I commend you to your superiors, Brigadier Folenfant.... Do you wish a medal? You shall have it. And your comrade Dieuzy, where is he?... Ah! yes, I think I see him on the left bank of the river at the head of a hundred natives. So that, if I escape shipwreck, I shall be captured on the left by Dieuzy and his natives, or, on the right, by Ganimard and the populace of Neuilly. An embarrassing dilemma!” The boat entered an eddy; it swung around and Sholmes caught hold of the oarlocks. Lupin said to him: “Monsieur, you should remove your coat. You will find it easier to swim without a coat. No? You refuse? Then I shall put on my own.” He donned his coat, buttoned it closely, the same as Sholmes, and said: “What a discourteous man you are! And what a pity that you should be so stubborn in this affair, in which, of course, you display your strength, but, oh! so vainly! really, you mar your genius——” “Monsieur Lupin,” interrupted Sholmes, emerging from his silence, “you talk too much, and you frequently err through excess of confidence and through your frivolity.” “That is a severe reproach.” “Thus, without knowing it, you furnished me, only a moment ago, with the information I required.” “What! you required some information and you didn’t tell me?” “I had no occasion to ask you for it—you volunteered it. Within three hours I can deliver the key of the mystery to Monsieur d’Imblevalle. That is the only reply——” He did not finish the sentence. The boat suddenly sank, taking both of the men down with it. It emerged immediately, with its keel in the air. Shouts were heard on either bank, succeeded by an anxious moment of silence. Then the shouts were renewed: one of the shipwrecked party had come to the surface. It was Herlock Sholmes. He was an excellent swimmer, and struck out, with powerful strokes, for Folenfant’s boat. “Courage, Monsieur Sholmes,” shouted Folenfant; “we are here. Keep it up ... we will get you ... a little more, Monsieur Sholmes ... catch the rope.” The Englishman seized the rope they had thrown to him. But, while they were hauling him into the boat, he heard a voice behind him, saying: “The key of the mystery, monsieur, yes, you shall have it. I am astonished that you haven’t got it already. What then? What good will it do you? By that time you will have lost the battle....” Now comfortably installed astride the keel of the boat, Lupin continued his speech with solemn gestures, as if he hoped to convince his adversary. “You must understand, my dear Sholmes, there is nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. You find yourself in the deplorable position of a gentleman——” “Surrender, Lupin!” shouted Folenfant. “You are an ill-bred fellow, Folenfant, to interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. I was saying——” “Surrender, Lupin!” “Oh! parbleu! Brigadier Folenfant, a man surrenders only when he is in danger. Surely, you do not pretend to say that I am in any danger.” “For the last time, Lupin, I call on you to surrender.” “Brigadier Folenfant, you have no intention of killing me; you may wish to wound me since you are afraid I may escape. But if by chance the wound prove mortal? Just think of your remorse! It would embitter your old age.” The shot was fired. Lupin staggered, clutched at the keel of the boat for a moment, then let go and disappeared. <hr /> It was exactly three o’clock when the foregoing events transpired. Precisely at six o’clock, as he had foretold, Herlock Sholmes, dressed in trousers that were too short and a coat that was too small, which he had borrowed from an innkeeper at Neuilly, wearing a cap and a flannel shirt, entered the boudoir in the Rue Murillo, after having sent word to Monsieur and Madame d’Imblevalle that he desired an interview. They found him walking up and down the room. And he looked so ludicrous in his strange costume that they could scarcely suppress their mirth. With pensive air and stooped shoulders, he walked like an automaton from the window to the door and from the door to the window, taking each time the same number of steps, and turning each time in the same manner. He stopped, picked up a small ornament, examined it mechanically, and resumed his walk. At last, planting himself before them, he asked: “Is Mademoiselle here?” “Yes, she is in the garden with the children.” “I wish Mademoiselle to be present at this interview.” “Is it necessary——” “Have a little patience, monsieur. From the facts I am going to present to you, you will see the necessity for her presence here.” “Very well. Suzanne, will you call her?” Madame d’Imblevalle arose, went out, and returned almost immediately, accompanied by Alice Demun. Mademoiselle, who was a trifle paler than usual, remained standing, leaning against a table, and without even asking why she had been called. Sholmes did not look at her, but, suddenly turning toward Monsieur d’Imblevalle, he said, in a tone which did not admit of a reply: “After several days’ investigation, monsieur, I must repeat what I told you when I first came here: the Jewish lamp was stolen by some one living in the house.” “The name of the guilty party?” “I know it.” “Your proof?” “I have sufficient to establish that fact.” “But we require more than that. We desire the restoration of the stolen goods.” “The Jewish lamp? It is in my possession.” “The opal necklace? The snuff-box?” “The opal necklace, the snuff-box, and all the goods stolen on the second occasion are in my possession.” Sholmes delighted in these dramatic dialogues, and it pleased him to announce his victories in that curt manner. The baron and his wife were amazed, and looked at Sholmes with a silent curiosity, which was the highest praise. He related to them, very minutely, what he had done during those three days. He told of his discovery of the alphabet book, wrote upon a sheet of paper the sentence formed by the missing letters, then related the journey of Bresson to the bank of the river and the suicide of the adventurer, and, finally, his struggle with Lupin, the shipwreck, and the disappearance of Lupin. When he had finished, the baron said, in a low voice: “Now, you have told us everything except the name of the guilty party. Whom do you accuse?” “I accuse the person who cut the letters from the alphabet book, and communicated with Arsène Lupin by means of those letters.” “How do you know that such correspondence was carried on with Arsène Lupin?” “My information comes from Lupin himself.” He produced a piece of paper that was wet and crumpled. It was the page which Lupin had torn from his memorandum-book, and upon which he had written the phrase. “And you will notice,” said Sholmes, with satisfaction, “that he was not obliged to give me that sheet of paper, and, in that way, disclose his identity. Simple childishness on his part, and yet it gave me exactly the information I desired.” “What was it?” asked the baron. “I don’t understand.” Sholmes took a pencil and made a fresh copy of the letters and figures. “CDEHNOPRZEO—237.” “Well?” said the baron; “it is the formula you showed me yourself.” “No. If you had turned and returned that formula in every way, as I have done, you would have seen at first glance that this formula is not like the first one.” “In what respect do they differ?” “This one has two more letters—an E and an O.” “Really; I hadn’t noticed that.” “Join those two letters to the C and the H which remained after forming the word ‘respondez,’ and you will agree with me that the only possible word is ECHO.” “What does that mean?” “It refers to the Echo de France, Lupin’s newspaper, his official organ, the one in which he publishes his communications. Reply in the Echo de France, in the personal advertisements, under number 237. That is the key to the mystery, and Arsène Lupin was kind enough to furnish it to me. I went to the newspaper office.” “What did you find there?” “I found the entire story of the relations between Arsène Lupin and his accomplice.” Sholmes produced seven newspapers which he opened at the fourth page and pointed to the following lines: 1. Ars. Lup. Lady implores protection. 540. 2. 540. Awaiting particulars. A.L. 3. A.L. Under domin. enemy. Lost. 4. 540. Write address. Will make investigation. 5. A.L. Murillo. 6. 540. Park three o’clock. Violets. 7. 237. Understand. Sat. Will be Sun. morn. park. “And you call that the whole story!” exclaimed the baron. “Yes, and if you will listen to me for a few minutes, I think I can convince you. In the first place, a lady who signs herself 540 implores the protection of Arsène Lupin, who replies by asking for particulars. The lady replies that she is under the domination of an enemy—who is Bresson, no doubt—and that she is lost if some one does not come to her assistance. Lupin is suspicious and does not yet venture to appoint an interview with the unknown woman, demands the address and proposes to make an investigation. The lady hesitates for four days—look at the dates—finally, under stress of circumstances and influenced by Bresson’s threats, she gives the name of the street—Murillo. Next day, Arsène Lupin announces that he will be in the Park Monceau at three o’clock, and asks his unknown correspondent to wear a bouquet of violets as a means of identification. Then there is a lapse of eight days in the correspondence. Arsène Lupin and the lady do not require to correspond through the newspaper now, as they see each other or write directly. The scheme is arranged in this way: in order to satisfy Bresson’s demands, the lady is to carry off the Jewish lamp. The date is not yet fixed. The lady who, as a matter of prudence, corresponds by means of letters cut out of a book, decides on Saturday and adds: Reply Echo 237. Lupin replies that it is understood and that he will be in the park on Sunday morning. Sunday morning, the theft takes place.” “Really, that is an excellent chain of circumstantial evidence and every link is complete,” said the baron. “The theft has taken place,” continued Sholmes. “The lady goes out on Sunday morning, tells Lupin what she has done, and carries the Jewish lamp to Bresson. Everything occurs then exactly as Lupin had foreseen. The officers of the law, deceived by an open window, four holes in the ground and two scratches on the balcony railing, immediately advance the theory that the theft was committed by a burglar. The lady is safe.” “Yes, I confess the theory was a logical one,” said the baron. “But the second theft—” “The second theft was provoked by the first. The newspapers having related how the Jewish lamp had disappeared, some one conceived the idea of repeating the crime and carrying away what had been left. This time, it was not a simulated theft, but a real one, a genuine burglary, with ladders and other paraphernalia—” “Lupin, of course—” “No. Lupin does not act so stupidly. He doesn’t fire at people for trifling reasons.” “Then, who was it?” “Bresson, no doubt, and unknown to the lady whom he had menaced. It was Bresson who entered here; it was Bresson that I pursued; it was Bresson who wounded poor Wilson.” “Are you sure of it?” “Absolutely. One of Bresson’s accomplices wrote to him yesterday, before his suicide, a letter which proves that negotiations were pending between this accomplice and Lupin for the restitution of all the articles stolen from your house. Lupin demanded everything, ‘the first thing (that is, the Jewish lamp) as well as those of the second affair.’ Moreover, he was watching Bresson. When the latter returned from the river last night, one of Lupin’s men followed him as well as we.” “What was Bresson doing at the river?” “Having been warned of the progress of my investigations——” “Warned! by whom?” “By the same lady, who justly feared that the discovery of the Jewish lamp would lead to the discovery of her own adventure. Thereupon, Bresson, having been warned, made into a package all the things that could compromise him and threw them into a place where he thought he could get them again when the danger was past. It was after his return, tracked by Ganimard and myself, having, no doubt, other sins on his conscience, that he lost his head and killed himself.” “But what did the package contain?” “The Jewish lamp and your other ornaments.” “Then, they are not in your possession?” “Immediately after Lupin’s disappearance, I profited by the bath he had forced upon me, went to the spot selected by Bresson, where I found the stolen articles wrapped in some soiled linen. They are there, on the table.” Without a word, the baron cut the cord, tore open the wet linen, picked out the lamp, turned a screw in the foot, then divided the bowl of the lamp which opened in two equal parts and there he found the golden chimera, set with rubies and emeralds. It was intact. <hr /> There was in that scene, so natural in appearance and which consisted of a simple exposition of facts, something which rendered it frightfully tragic—it was the formal, direct, irrefutable accusation that Sholmes launched in each of his words against Mademoiselle. And it was also the impressive silence of Alice Demun. During that long, cruel accumulation of accusing circumstances heaped one upon another, not a muscle of her face had moved, not a trace of revolt or fear had marred the serenity of her limpid eyes. What were her thoughts. And, especially, what was she going to say at the solemn moment when it would become necessary for her to speak and defend herself in order to break the chain of evidence that Herlock Sholmes had so cleverly woven around her? That moment had come, but the girl was silent. “Speak! Speak!” cried Mon. d’Imblevalle. She did not speak. So he insisted: “One word will clear you. One word of denial, and I will believe you.” That word, she would not utter. The baron paced to and fro in his excitement; then, addressing Sholmes, he said: “No, monsieur, I cannot believe it, I do not believe it. There are impossible crimes! and this is opposed to all I know and to all that I have seen during the past year. No, I cannot believe it.” He placed his hand on the Englishman’s shoulder, and said: “But you yourself, monsieur, are you absolutely certain that you are right?” Sholmes hesitated, like a man on whom a sudden demand is made and cannot frame an immediate reply. Then he smiled, and said: “Only the person whom I accuse, by reason of her situation in your house, could know that the Jewish lamp contained that magnificent jewel.” “I cannot believe it,” repeated the baron. “Ask her.” It was, really, the very thing he would not have done, blinded by the confidence the girl had inspired in him. But he could no longer refrain from doing it. He approached her and, looking into her eyes, said: “Was it you, mademoiselle? Was it you who took the jewel? Was it you who corresponded with Arsène Lupin and committed the theft?” “It was I, monsieur,” she replied. She did not drop her head. Her face displayed no sign of shame or fear. “Is it possible?” murmured Mon. d’Imblevalle. “I would never have believed it.... You are the last person in the world that I would have suspected. How did you do it?” “I did it exactly as Monsieur Sholmes has told it. On Saturday night I came to the boudoir, took the lamp, and, in the morning I carried it ... to that man.” “No,” said the baron; “what you pretend to have done is impossible.” “Impossible—why?” “Because, in the morning I found the door of the boudoir bolted.” She blushed, and looked at Sholmes as if seeking his counsel. Sholmes was astonished at her embarrassment. Had she nothing to say? Did the confessions, which had corroborated the report that he, Sholmes, had made concerning the theft of the Jewish lamp, merely serve to mask a lie? Was she misleading them by a false confession? The baron continued: “That door was locked. I found the door exactly as I had left it the night before. If you entered by that door, as you pretend, some one must have opened it from the interior—that is to say, from the boudoir or from our chamber. Now, there was no one inside these two rooms ... there was no one except my wife and myself.” Sholmes bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in order to conceal his emotion. A sudden light had entered his mind, that startled him and made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Everything was revealed to him, like the sudden lifting of a fog from the morning landscape. He was annoyed as well as ashamed, because his deductions were fallacious and his entire theory was wrong. Alice Demun was innocent! Alice Demun was innocent. That proposition explained the embarrassment he had experienced from the beginning in directing the terrible accusation against that young girl. Now, he saw the truth; he knew it. After a few seconds, he raised his head, and looked at Madame d’Imblevalle as naturally as he could. She was pale—with that unusual pallor which invades us in the relentless moments of our lives. Her hands, which she endeavored to conceal, were trembling as if stricken with palsy. “One minute more,” thought Sholmes, “and she will betray herself.” He placed himself between her and her husband in the desire to avert the awful danger which, through his fault, now threatened that man and woman. But, at sight of the baron, he was shocked to the very centre of his soul. The same dreadful idea had entered the mind of Monsieur d’Imblevalle. The same thought was at work in the brain of the husband. He understood, also! He saw the truth! In desperation, Alice Demun hurled herself against the implacable truth, saying: “You are right, monsieur. I made a mistake. I did not enter by this door. I came through the garden and the vestibule ... by aid of a ladder—” It was a supreme effort of true devotion. But a useless effort! The words rang false. The voice did not carry conviction, and the poor girl no longer displayed those clear, fearless eyes and that natural air of innocence which had served her so well. Now, she bowed her head—vanquished. The silence became painful. Madame d’Imblevalle was waiting for her husband’s next move, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. The baron appeared to be struggling against the dreadful suspicion, as if he would not submit to the overthrow of his happiness. Finally, he said to his wife: “Speak! Explain!” “I have nothing to tell you,” she replied, in a very low voice, and with features drawn by anguish. “So, then ... Mademoiselle....” “Mademoiselle saved me ... through devotion ... through affection ... and accused herself....” “Saved you from what? From whom?” “From that man.” “Bresson?” “Yes; it was I whom he held in fear by threats.... I met him at one of my friends’.... and I was foolish enough to listen to him. Oh! there was nothing that you cannot pardon. But I wrote him two letters ... letters which you will see.... I had to buy them back ... you know how.... Oh! have pity on me?... I have suffered so much!” “You! You! Suzanne!” He raised his clenched fists, ready to strike her, ready to kill her. But he dropped his arms, and murmured: “You, Suzanne.... You!... Is it possible?” By short detached sentences, she related the heartrending story, her dreadful awakening to the infamy of the man, her remorse, her fear, and she also told of Alice’s devotion; how the young girl divined the sorrow of her mistress, wormed a confession out of her, wrote to Lupin, and devised the scheme of the theft in order to save her from Bresson. “You, Suzanne, you,” repeated Monsieur d’Imblevalle, bowed with grief and shame.... “How could you?” <hr /> On the same evening, the steamer “City of London,” which plies between Calais and Dover, was gliding slowly over the smooth sea. The night was dark; the wind was fainter than a zephyr. The majority of the passengers had retired to their cabins; but a few, more intrepid, were promenading on the deck or sleeping in large rocking-chairs, wrapped in their travelling-rugs. One could see, here and there, the light of a cigar, and one could hear, mingled with the soft murmur of the breeze, the faint sound of voices which were carefully subdued to harmonize with the deep silence of the night. One of the passengers, who had been pacing to and fro upon the deck, stopped before a woman who was lying on a bench, scrutinized her, and, when she moved a little, he said: “I thought you were asleep, Mademoiselle Alice.” “No, Monsieur Sholmes, I am not sleepy. I was thinking.” “Of what? If I may be so bold as to inquire?” “I was thinking of Madame d’Imblevalle. She must be very unhappy. Her life is ruined.” “Oh! no, no,” he replied quickly. “Her mistake was not a serious one. Monsieur d’Imblevalle will forgive and forget it. Why, even before we left, his manner toward her had softened.” “Perhaps ... but he will remember it for a long time ... and she will suffer a great deal.” “You love her?” “Very much. It was my love for her that gave me strength to smile when I was trembling from fear, that gave me courage to look in your face when I desired to hide from your sight.” “And you are sorry to leave her?” “Yes, very sorry. I have no relatives, no friends—but her.” “You will have friends,” said the Englishman, who was affected by her sorrow. “I have promised that. I have relatives ... and some influence. I assure you that you will have no cause to regret coming to England.” “That may be, monsieur, but Madame d’Imblevalle will not be there.” Herlock Sholmes resumed his promenade upon the deck. After a few minutes, he took a seat near his travelling companion, filled his pipe, and struck four matches in a vain effort to light it. Then, as he had no more matches, he arose and said to a gentleman who was sitting near him: “May I trouble you for a match?” The gentleman opened a box of matches and struck one. The flame lighted up his face. Sholmes recognized him—it was Arsène Lupin. If the Englishman had not given an almost imperceptible movement of surprise, Lupin would have supposed that his presence on board had been known to Sholmes, so well did he control his feelings and so natural was the easy manner in which he extended his hand to his adversary. “How’s the good health, Monsieur Lupin?” “Bravo!” exclaimed Lupin, who could not repress a cry of admiration at the Englishman’s sang-froid. “Bravo? and why?” “Why? Because I appear before you like a ghost, only a few hours after you saw me drowned in the Seine; and through pride—a quality that is essentially English—you evince not the slightest surprise. You greet me as a matter of course. Ah! I repeat: Bravo! Admirable!” “There is nothing remarkable about it. From the manner in which you fell from the boat, I knew very well that you fell voluntarily, and that the bullet had not touched you.” “And you went away without knowing what had become of me?” “What had become of you? Why, I knew that. There were at least five hundred people on the two banks of the river within a space of half-a-mile. If you escaped death, your capture was certain.” “And yet I am here.” “Monsieur Lupin, there are two men in the world at whom I am never astonished: in the first place, myself—and then, Arsène Lupin.” The treaty of peace was concluded. If Sholmes had not been successful in his contests with Arsène Lupin; if Lupin remained the only enemy whose capture he must never hope to accomplish; if, in the course of their struggles, he had not always displayed a superiority, the Englishman had, none the less, by means of his extraordinary intuition and tenacity, succeeded in recovering the Jewish lamp as well as the blue diamond. This time, perhaps, the finish had not been so brilliant, especially from the standpoint of the public spectators, since Sholmes was obliged to maintain a discreet silence in regard to the circumstances in which the Jewish lamp had been recovered, and to announce that he did not know the name of the thief. But as man to man, Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes, detective against burglar, there was neither victor nor vanquished. Each of them had won corresponding victories. Therefore they could now converse as courteous adversaries who had lain down their arms and held each other in high regard. At Sholmes’ request, Arsène Lupin related the strange story of his escape. “If I may dignify it by calling it an escape,” he said. “It was so simple! My friends were watching for me, as I had asked them to meet me there to recover the Jewish lamp. So, after remaining a good half-hour under the overturned boat, I took advantage of an occasion when Folenfant and his men were searching for my dead body along the bank of the river, to climb on top of the boat. Then my friends simply picked me up as they passed by in their motor-boat, and we sailed away under the staring eyes of an astonished multitude, including Ganimard and Folenfant.” “Very good,” exclaimed Sholmes, “very neatly played. And now you have some business in England?” “Yes, some accounts to square up.... But I forgot ... what about Monsieur d’Imblevalle?” “He knows everything.” “All! my dear Sholmes, what did I tell you? The wrong is now irreparable. Would it not have been better to have allowed me to carry out the affair in my own way? In a day or two more, I should have recovered the stolen goods from Bresson, restored them to Monsieur d’Imblevalle, and those two honest citizens would have lived together in peace and happiness ever after. Instead of that—” “Instead of that,” said Sholmes, sneeringly, “I have mixed the cards and sown the seeds of discord in the bosom of a family that was under your protection.” “Mon Dieu! of course, I was protecting them. Must a person steal, cheat and wrong all the time?” “Then you do good, also?” “When I have the time. Besides, I find it amusing. Now, for instance, in our last adventure, I found it extremely diverting that I should be the good genius seeking to help and save unfortunate mortals, while you were the evil genius who dispensed only despair and tears.” “Tears! Tears!” protested Sholmes. “Certainly! The d’Imblevalle household is demolished, and Alice Demun weeps.” “She could not remain any longer. Ganimard would have discovered her some day, and, through her, reached Madame d’Imblevalle.” “Quite right, monsieur; but whose fault is it?” Two men passed by. Sholmes said to Lupin, in a friendly tone: “Do you know those gentlemen?” “I thought I recognized one of them as the captain of the steamer.” “And the other?” “I don’t know.” “It is Austin Gilett, who occupies in London a position similar to that of Monsieur Dudouis in Paris.” “Ah! how fortunate! Will you be so kind as to introduce me? Monsieur Dudouis is one of my best friends, and I shall be delighted to say as much of Monsieur Austin Gilett.” The two gentlemen passed again. “And if I should take you at your word, Monsieur Lupin?” said Sholmes, rising, and seizing Lupin’s wrist with a hand of iron. “Why do you grasp me so tightly, monsieur? I am quite willing to follow you.” In fact, he allowed himself to be dragged along without the least resistance. The two gentlemen were disappearing from sight. Sholmes quickened his pace. His finger-nails even sank into Lupin’s flesh. “Come! Come!” he exclaimed, with a sort of feverish haste, in harmony with his action. “Come! quicker than that.” But he stopped suddenly. Alice Demun was following them. “What are you doing, Mademoiselle? You need not come. You must not come!” It was Lupin who replied: “You will notice, monsieur, that she is not coming of her own free will. I am holding her wrist in the same tight grasp that you have on mine.” “Why?” “Because I wish to present her also. Her part in the affair of the Jewish lamp is much more important than mine. Accomplice of Arsène Lupin, accomplice of Bresson, she has a right to tell her adventure with the Baroness d’Imblevalle—which will deeply interest Monsieur Gilett as an officer of the law. And by introducing her also, you will have carried your gracious intervention to the very limit, my dear Sholmes.” The Englishman released his hold on his prisoner’s wrist. Lupin liberated Mademoiselle. They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, silently and motionless. Then Sholmes returned to the bench and sat down, followed by Lupin and the girl. After a long silence, Lupin said: “You see, monsieur, whatever we may do, we will never be on the same side. You are on one side of the fence; I am on the other. We can exchange greetings, shake hands, converse a moment, but the fence is always there. You will remain Herlock Sholmes, detective, and I, Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar. And Herlock Sholmes will ever obey, more or less spontaneously, with more or less propriety, his instinct as a detective, which is to pursue the burglar and run him down, if possible. And Arsène Lupin, in obedience to his burglarious instinct, will always be occupied in avoiding the reach of the detective, and making sport of the detective, if he can do it. And, this time, he can do it. Ha-ha-ha!” He burst into a loud laugh, cunning, cruel and odious. Then, suddenly becoming serious, he addressed Alice Demun: “You may be sure, mademoiselle, even when reduced to the last extremity, I shall not betray you. Arsène Lupin never betrays anyone—especially those whom he loves and admires. And, may I be permitted to say, I love and admire the brave, dear woman you have proved yourself to be.” He took from his pocket a visiting card, tore it in two, gave one-half of it to the girl, as he said, in a voice shaken with emotion: “If Monsieur Sholmes’ plans for you do not succeed, mademoiselle, go to Lady Strongborough—you can easily find her address—and give her that half of the card, and, at the same time, say to her: Faithful friend. Lady Strongborough will show you the true devotion of a sister.” “Thank you,” said the girl; “I shall see her to-morrow.” “And now, Monsieur Sholmes,” exclaimed Lupin, with the satisfied air of a gentleman who has fulfilled his duty, “I will say good-night. We will not land for an hour yet, so I will get that much rest.” He lay down on the bench, with his hands beneath his head. In a short time the high cliffs of the English coast loomed up in the increasing light of a new-born day. The passengers emerged from the cabins and crowded the deck, eagerly gazing on the approaching shore. Austin Gilette passed by, accompanied by two men whom Sholmes recognized as sleuths from Scotland Yard. Lupin was asleep, on his bench. <h4>THE END.</h4> <hr /> The further startling, wonderful and thrilling adventures of “Arsène Lupin” will be found in the book entitled “Arsène Lupin Gentleman-Burglar”. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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