813 (32 page)

Twenty minutes later, Waldemar returned and they sat down and dined together, opposite each other, silent and pensive.

“Waldemar, a good cigar would be a treat … I thank you … Ah, this one crackles as a self-respecting Havana should!”

He lit his cigar and, after a minute or two:

“You can smoke, count; I don’t mind in the least; in fact, I rather like it.”

An hour passed. Waldemar dozed and, from time to time, swallowed a glass of brandy to wake himself up.

Soldiers passed in and out, waiting on them.

“Coffee,” asked Lupin.

They brought him some coffee.

“What bad stuff!” he grumbled. “If that’s what Cæsar drinks! … Give me another cup all the same, Waldemar. We may have a long night before us. Oh, what vile coffee!”

He lit a second cigar and did not say another word. Ten minutes passed. He continued not to move or speak.

Suddenly, Waldemar sprang to his feet and said to Lupin, angrily:

“Hi! Stand up, there!”

Lupin was whistling a tune at the moment. He kept on whistling, peacefully.

“Stand up, I say!”

Lupin turned round. His Imperial Majesty had just entered. Lupin rose from his chair.

“How far are we?” asked the Emperor.

“I think, Sire, that I shall be able to satisfy Your Imperial Majesty soon.”

“What? Do you know …”

“The hiding-place? Very nearly, Sire … A few details still escape me … but everything will be cleared up, once we are on the spot: I have no doubt of it.”

“Are we to stay here?”

“No, Sire, I will beg you to go with me to the Renascence palace. But we have plenty of time; and, if Your Imperial Majesty will permit me, I should like first to think over two or three points.”

Without waiting for the reply, he sat down, to Waldemar’s great indignation.

In a few minutes, the Emperor, who had walked away and was talking to the count, came up to him:

“Are you ready now, M. Lupin?”

Lupin kept silence. A fresh question. His head fell on his chest.

“But he’s asleep; I really believe that he’s asleep!”

Waldemar, beside himself with rage, shook him violently by the shoulder. Lupin fell from his chair, sank to the floor, gave two or three convulsive movements and then lay quite still.

“What’s the matter with him?” exclaimed the Emperor. “He’s not dead, I hope!”

He took a lamp and bent over him:

“How pale he is! A face like wax! … Look, Waldemar … Feel his heart … He’s alive, is he not?”

“Yes, Sire,” said the count, after a moment, “the heart is beating quite regularly.”

“Then what is it? I don’t understand … What happened?”

“Shall I go and fetch the doctor?”

“Yes, run …”

The doctor found Lupin in the same state, lying inert and quiet. He had him put on a bed, subjected him to a long examination and asked what he had had to eat.

“Do you suspect a case of poisoning, doctor?”

“No, Sire, there are no traces of poisoning. But I am thinking … what’s on that tray and in that cup?”

“Coffee,” said the count.

“For you?”

“No, for him. I did not have any.”

The doctor poured out some coffee, tasted it and said:

“I was right. He has been put to sleep with a narcotic.”

“But by whom?” cried the Emperor, angrily. “Look here, Waldemar; it’s exasperating, the way things happen in this place!”

“Sire? …”

“Well, yes, I’ve had enough of it! … I am really beginning to believe that the man’s right and that there is some one in the castle … That French money, that narcotic …”

“If any one had got into this enclosure, Sire, it would be known by this time … We’ve been hunting in every direction for three hours.”

“Still, I didn’t make the coffee, I assure you … And, unless you did …”

“Oh, Sire!”

“Well, then, hunt about … search … You have two hundred men at your disposal; and the out-houses are not so large as all that! For, after all, the ruffian is prowling round here, round these buildings … near the kitchen … somewhere or other! Go and bustle about!”

The fat Waldemar bustled about all night, conscientiously, because it was the master’s order, but without conviction, because it was impossible for a stranger to hide among ruins which were so well-watched. And, as a matter of fact, the event proved that he was right: the investigations were fruitless; and no one was able to discover the mysterious hand that had prepared the narcotic drink.

Lupin spent the night lifeless on his bed. In the morning, the doctor, who had not left his side, told a messenger of the Emperor’s that he was still asleep.

At nine o’clock, however, he made his first movement, a sort of effort to wake up.

Later on, he stammered:

“What time is it?”

“Twenty-five to ten.”

He made a fresh effort; and it was evident that, in the midst of his torpor, his whole being was intent upon returning to life.

A clock struck ten.

He started and said:

“Let them carry me; let them carry me to the palace.”

With the doctor’s approval, Waldemar called his men and sent word to the Emperor. They laid Lupin on a stretcher and set out for the palace.

“The first floor,” he muttered.

They carried him up.

“At the end of the corridor,” he said. “The last room on the left.”

They carried him to the last room, which was the twelfth, and gave him a chair, on which he sat down, exhausted.

The Emperor arrived: Lupin did not stir, sat looking, unconscious, with no expression in his eyes.

Then, in a few minutes, he seemed to wake, looked round him, at the walls, the ceilings, the people, and said:

“A narcotic, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said the doctor.

“Have they found … the man?”

“No.”

He seemed to be meditating and several times jerked his head with a thoughtful air: but they soon saw that he was asleep.

The Emperor went up to Waldemar:

“Order your car round.”

“Oh? … But then, Sire …?”

“Well, what? I am beginning to think that he is taking us in and that all this is merely play-acting, to gain time.”

“Possibly … yes …” said Waldemar, agreeing.

“It’s quite obvious! He is making the most of certain curious coincidences, but he knows nothing; and his story about gold coins and his narcotic are so many inventions! If we lend ourselves to his little game any longer, he’ll slip out of your fingers. Your car, Waldemar.”

The count gave his orders and returned. Lupin had not woke up. The Emperor, who was looking round the room, said to Waldemar:

“This is the Minerva room, is it not?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“But then why is there an ‘N’ in two places?”

There were, in fact, two “N’s,” one over the chimneypiece, the other over an old dilapidated clock fitted into the wall and displaying a complicated set of works, with weights hanging lifeless at the end of their cords.

“The two ‘N’s’ …” said Waldemar.

The Emperor did not listen to the answer. Lupin had moved again, opening his eyes and uttering indistinct syllables. He stood up, walked across the room and fell down from sheer weakness.

Then came the struggle, the desperate struggle of his brain, his nerves, his will against that hideous, paralyzing torpor, the struggle of a dying man against death, the struggle of life against extinction. And the sight was one of infinite sadness.

“He is suffering,” muttered Waldemar.

“Or at least, he is pretending to suffer,” declared the Emperor, “and pretending very cleverly at that. What an actor!”

Lupin stammered:

“An injection, doctor, an injection of caffeine … at once …”

“May I, Sire?” asked the doctor.

“Certainly … Until twelve o’clock, do all that he asks. He has my promise.”

“How many minutes … before twelve o’clock?” asked Lupin.

“Forty,” said somebody.

“Forty? … I shall do it … I am sure to do it … I’ve got to do it …” He took his head in his two hands. “Oh, if I had my brain, the real brain, the brain that thinks! It would be a matter of a second! There is only one dark spot left … but I cannot … my thoughts escape me … I can’t grasp it … it’s awful.”

His shoulders shook. Was he crying?

They heard him repeating:

“813 … 813 …” And, in a lower voice, “813 … an ‘8’ … a ‘1’ … a ‘3’ … yes, of course … But why? … That’s not enough …”

The Emperor muttered:

“He impresses me. I find it difficult to believe that a man can play a part like that …”

Half-past eleven struck … a quarter to twelve …

Lupin remained motionless, with his fists glued to his temples.

The Emperor waited, with his eyes fixed on a chronometer which Waldemar held in his hand.

Ten minutes more … five minutes more …

“Is the car there, Waldemar? … Are your men ready?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Is that watch of yours a repeater, Waldemar?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“At the last stroke of twelve, then …”

“But …”

“At the last stroke of twelve, Waldemar.”

There was really something tragic about the scene, that sort of grandeur and solemnity which the hours assume at the approach of a possible miracle, when it seems as though the voice of fate itself were about to find utterance.

The Emperor did not conceal his anguish. This fantastic adventurer who was called Arsène Lupin and whose amazing life he knew, this man troubled him … and, although he was resolved to make an end of all this dubious story, he could not help waiting … and hoping.

Two minutes more … one minute more …

Then they counted by seconds.

Lupin seemed asleep.

“Come, get ready,” said the Emperor to the count.

The count went up to Lupin and placed his hand on his shoulder.

The silvery chime of the repeater quivered and struck … one, two, three, four, five …

“Waldemar, old chap, pull the weights of the old clock.”

A moment of stupefaction. It was Lupin’s voice, speaking very calmly.

Waldemar, annoyed at the familiarity of the address, shrugged his shoulders.

“Do as he says, Waldemar,” said the Emperor.

“Yes, do as I say, my dear count,” echoed Lupin, recovering his powers of chaff. “You know the ropes so well … all you have to do is to pull those of the clock … in turns … one, two … capital! … That’s how they used to wind it up in the old days.”

The pendulum, in fact, was started; and they heard its regular ticking.

“Now the hands,” said Lupin. “Set them at a little before twelve … Don’t move … Let me …”

He rose and walked to the face of the clock, standing two feet away, at most, with his eyes fixed, with every nerve attentive.

The twelve strokes sounded, twelve heavy, deep strokes.

A long silence. Nothing happened. Nevertheless, the Emperor waited, as though he were sure that something was going to happen. And Waldemar did not move, stood with wide-open eyes.

Lupin, who had stooped over the clock-face, now drew himself up, muttering:

“That’s it … I have it …”

He went back to his chair and commanded:

“Waldemar, set the hands at two minutes to twelve again. Oh, no, old chap, not backwards! The way the hands go! … Yes, I know, it will take rather long … but it can’t be helped.”

All the hours struck and the half hours, up to half-past eleven.

“Listen, Waldemar,” said Lupin.

And he spoke seriously, without jesting, as though himself excited and anxious:

“Listen, Waldemar. Do you see on the face of the clock a little round dot marking the first hour? That dot is loose, isn’t it? Put the fore-finger of your left hand on it and press. Good. Do the same with your thumb on the dot marking the third hour. Good. With your right hand, push in the dot at the eighth hour. Good. Thank you. Go and sit down, my dear fellow.”

The minute-hand shifted, moved to the twelfth dot and the clock struck again.

Lupin was silent and very white. The twelve strokes rang out in the silence.

At the twelfth stroke, there was a sound as of a spring being set free. The clock stopped dead. The pendulum ceased swinging.

And suddenly, the bronze ornament representing a ram’s head, which crowned the dial, fell forwards, uncovering a sort of little recess cut out of the stone wall.

In this recess was a chased silver casket.

Lupin took it and carried it to the Emperor:

“Would Your Imperial Majesty be so good as to open it yourself? The letters which you instructed me to look for are inside.”

The Emperor raised the lid and seemed greatly astonished.

The casket was empty.

The casket was empty.

It was an enormous, unforeseen sensation. After the success of the calculation made by Lupin, after the ingenious discovery of the secret of the clock, the Emperor, who had no doubt left as to the ultimate success, appeared utterly confounded.

Opposite him was Lupin, pallid and wan, with drawn jaws and bloodshot eyes, gnashing his teeth with rage and impotent hate.

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, then snatched up the casket, turned it over, examined it, as though he hoped to find a false bottom. At last, for greater certainty, in a fit of fury, he crushed it, with an irresistible grip.

That relieved him. He breathed more easily.

The Emperor said:

“Who has done this?”

“Still the same man, Sire, the one who is following the same road as I and pursuing the same aim: Mr. Kesselbach’s murderer.”

“When?”

“Last night. Ah, Sire, why did you not leave me free when I came out of prison! Had I been free, I should have come here without losing an hour. I should have arrived before him! I should have given Isilda money before he did! I should have read Malreich, the old French servant’s diary, before he did!”

“So you think that it was through the revelations in the diary …?”

“Why, yes, Sire! He had time to read them. And, lurking I don’t know where, kept informed of all our movements by I don’t know whom, he put me to sleep last night, in order to get rid of me.”

“But the palace was guarded.”

“Guarded by your soldiers, Sire. Does that count with a man like him? Besides, I have no doubt that Waldemar concentrated his search upon the out-buildings, thus thinning the posts in the palace.”