813 (37 page)

Two shots together and two more …

Loud yells of pain … Four men came tumbling down, one after the other, like dolls at a cockshy.

“Four from seven leaves three,” said Lupin. “Shall I go on?”

His arms remained outstretched, levelled at the Broker and his two pals.

“You swine!” growled the Broker, feeling for a weapon.

“Hands up,” cried Lupin, “or I fire! … That’s it … Now, you two, take away his toys … If not … !”

The two scoundrels, shaking with fear, caught hold of their leader and compelled him to submit.

“Bind him! … Bind him, confound it! … What difference does it make to you? … Once I’m gone, you’re all free … Come along, have you finished? The wrists first … with your belts … And the ankles … Hurry up! …”

The Broker, beaten and disabled, made no further resistance. While his pals were binding him, Lupin stooped over them and dealt them two terrific blows on the head with the butt-end of his revolver. They sank down in a heap.

“That’s a good piece of work,” he said, taking breath. “Pity there are not another fifty of them. I was just in the mood … And all so easily done … with a smile on one’s face … What do you think of it, Broker?”

The scoundrel lay cursing. Lupin said:

“Cheer up, old man! Console yourself with the thought that you are helping in a good action, the rescue of Mrs. Kesselbach. She will thank you in person for your gallantry.”

He went to the door of the second room and opened it:

“What’s this?” he said, stopping on the threshold, taken aback, dumfounded.

The room was empty.

He went to the window, saw a ladder leaning against the balcony, a telescopic steel ladder, and muttered:

“Kidnapped … kidnapped … Louis de Malreich … Oh, the villain! …”

He reflected for a minute, trying to master his anguish of mind, and said to himself that, after all, as Mrs. Kesselbach seemed to be in no immediate danger, there was no cause for alarm.

But he was seized with a sudden fit of rage and flew at the seven scoundrels, gave a kick or two to those of the wounded who stirred, felt for his bank-notes and put them back in his pocket, then gagged the men’s mouths and tied their hands with anything that he could find—blind-cords, curtain-loops, blankets and sheets reduced to strips—and, lastly, laid in a row on the carpet, in front of the sofa, seven bundles of humanity, packed tight together and tied up like so many parcels:

“Mummies on toast!” he chuckled. “A dainty dish for those who like that sort of thing! … You pack of fools, how does this suit you, eh? There you are, like corpses at the Morgue … Serves you right for attacking Lupin, Lupin the protector of the widow and orphan! … Are you trembling? Quite unnecessary, my lambs! Lupin never hurt a fly yet! … Only, Lupin is a decent man, he can’t stand vermin; and the Lupin knows his duty. I ask you, is life possible with a lot of scamps like you about? Think of it: no respect for other people’s lives; no respect for property, for laws, for society; no conscience; no anything! What are we coming to? Lord, what are we coming to?”

Without even taking the trouble to lock them in, he left the room, went down the street and walked until he came to his taxi. He sent the driver in search of another and brought both cabs back to Mrs. Kesselbach’s house.

A good tip, paid in advance, avoided all tedious explanations. With the help of the two men, he carried the seven prisoners down and plumped them anyhow, on one another’s knees, into the cabs. The wounded men yelled and moaned. He shut the doors, shouting:

“Mind your hands!”

He got up beside the driver of the front cab.

“Where to?” asked the man.

“36, Quai des Orfevers: the detective-office.”

The motors throbbed, the drivers started the gear and the strange procession went scooting down the slopes of the Trocadero.

In the streets, they passed a few vegetable-carts. Men carrying long poles were turning out the street-lamps.

There were stars in the sky. A cool breeze was wafted through the air.

Lupin sang aloud:

The Place de la Concorde, the Louvre … In the distance, the dark bulk of Notre Dame …

He turned round and half opened the door:

“Having a good time, mates? So am I, thank you. It’s a grand night for a drive and the air’s delicious! …”

They were now bumping over the ill-paved quays. And soon they arrived at the Palais de Justice and the door of the detective-office.

“Wait here,” said Lupin to the two drivers, “and be sure you look after your seven fares.”

He crossed the outer yard and went down the passage on the right leading to the rooms of the central office. He found the night inspectors on duty.

“A bag, gentlemen,” he said, as he entered, “a fine bag too. Is M. Weber here? I am the new commissary of police for Auteuil.”

“M. Weber is in his flat. Do you want him sent for?”

“Just one second. I’m in a hurry. I’ll leave a line for him.”

He sat down at a table and wrote:

“M
Y DEAR
W
EBER
,

“I am bringing you the seven scoundrels composing Altenheim’s gang, the men who killed Gourel (and plenty of others) and who killed me as well, under the name of M. Lenormand.

“That only leaves their leader unaccounted for. I am going to effect his arrest this minute. Come and join me. He lives in the Rue Delaizement, at Neuilly and goes by the name of Leon Massier.

“Kind regards.
“Yours,
“A
RSÈNE
L
UPIN
,
“
Chief of the Detective-service
.”

He sealed the letter:

“Give that to M. Weber. It’s urgent. Now I want seven men to receive the goods. I left them on the quay.”

On going back to the taxis, he was met by a chief inspector:

“Ah, it’s you M. Lebœuf!” he said. “I’ve made a fine haul … The whole of Altenheim’s gang … They’re there in the taxi-cabs.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Hard at work kidnapping Mrs. Kesselbach and robbing her house. But I’ll tell you all about it when the time comes.”

The chief inspector took him aside and, with the air of surprise:

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I was sent for to see the commissary of police for Auteuil. And I don’t seem to … Whom have I the honor of addressing?”

“Somebody who is making you a handsome present of seven hooligans of the finest quality.”

“Still, I should like to know …”

“My name?”

“Yes.”

“Arsène Lupin.”

He nimbly tripped the chief inspector up, ran to the Rue de Rivoli, jumped into a passing taxi-cab and drove to the Porte des Ternes.

The Route de la Revolte was close by. He went to No. 3.

For all his coolness and self-command, Arsène Lupin was unable to control his excitement. Would he find Dolores Kesselbach? Had Louis de Malreich taken her either to his own place or to the Broker’s shed?

Lupin had taken the key of the shed from the Broker, so that it was easy for him, after ringing and walking across the different yards, to open the door and enter the lumber-shop.

He switched on his lantern and took his bearings. A little to the right was the free space in which he had seen the accomplices hold their last confabulation. On the sofa mentioned by the Broker he saw a black figure, Dolores lay wrapped in blankets and gagged.

He helped her up.

“Ah, it’s you, it’s you!” she stammered. “They haven’t touched you!”

And, rising and pointing to the back of the shop:

“There … he went out that side … I heard him … I am sure … You must go … please!”

“I must get you away first,” he said.

“No, never mind me … go after him … I entreat you … Strike him!”

Fear, this time, instead of dejecting her, seemed to be giving her unwonted strength; and she repeated, with an immense longing to place her terrible enemy in his power:

“Go after him first … I can’t go on living like this … You must save me from him … I can’t go on living …”

He unfastened her bonds, laid her carefully on the sofa and said:

“You are right … Besides, you have nothing to fear here … Wait for me, I shall come back.”

As he was going away, she caught hold of his hand:

“But you yourself?”

“Well?”

“If that man …”

It was as though she dreaded for Lupin the great, final contest to which she was exposing him and as though, at the last moment, she would have been glad to hold him back.

He said:

“Thank you, have no fear. What have I to be afraid of? He is alone.”

And, leaving her, he went to the back of the shed. As he expected, he found a ladder standing against the wall which brought him to the level of the little window through which he had watched the scoundrels hold their meeting. It was the way by which Malreich had returned to his house in the Rue Delaizement.

He, therefore, took the same road, just as he had done a few hours earlier, climbed into the loft of the other coach-house and down into the garden. He found himself at the back of the villa occupied by Malreich.

Strange to say, he did not doubt, for a moment that Malreich was there. He would meet him inevitably; the formidable battle which they were waging against each other was nearing its end. A few minutes more and, one way or another, all would be over.

He was amazed, on grasping the handle of a door, to find that the handle turned and the door opened under his pressure. The villa was not even locked.

He passed through a kitchen, a hall and up a staircase; and he walked deliberately, without seeking to deaden the sound of his footsteps.

On the landing, he stopped. The perspiration streamed from his forehead; and his temples throbbed under the rush of his blood. Nevertheless, he remained calm, master of himself and conscious of his least thoughts. He laid two revolvers on a stair:

“No weapons,” he said to himself. “My hands only, just the effort of my two hands … That’s quite enough … That will be better …”

Opposite him were three doors. He chose the middle one, turned the handle and encountered no obstacle. He went in. There was no light in the room, but the rays of the night entered through the wide-open window and, amid the darkness, he saw the sheets and the white curtains of the bed.

And somebody was standing beside it.

He savagely cast the gleam of his lantern upon that form.

Malreich!

The pallid face of Malreich, his dim eyes, his cadaverous cheek-bones, his scraggy neck …

And all this stood motionless, opposite him, at five steps’ distance; and he could not have said whether that dull face, that death-face, expressed the least terror or even a grain of anxiety.

Lupin took a step forward … and a second … and a third …

The man did not move.

Did he see? Did he understand? It was as though the man’s eyes were gazing into space and that he thought himself possessed by an hallucination, rather than looking upon a real image.

One more step …

“He will defend himself,” thought Lupin, “he is bound to defend himself.”

And Lupin thrust out his arms.

The man did not make a movement. He did not retreat; his eyelids did not blink.

The contact took place.

And it was Lupin, scared and bewildered, who lost his head. He knocked the man back upon his bed, stretched him at full length, rolled him in the sheets, bound him in the blankets and held him under his knee, like a prey … whereas the man had not made the slightest movement of resistance.

“Ah!” shouted Lupin, drunk with delight and satisfied hatred. “At last I have crushed you, you odious brute! At last I am the master!”

He heard a noise outside, in the Rue Delaizement; men knocking at the gate. He ran to the window and cried:

“Is that you, Weber? Already? Well done! You are a model servant! Break down the gate, old chap, and come up here; delighted to see you!”

In a few minutes, he searched his prisoner’s clothes, got hold of his pocket-book, cleared the papers out of the drawers of the desk and the davenport, flung them on the table and went through them.

He gave a shout of joy: the bundle of letters was there, the famous bundle of letters which he had promised to restore to the Emperor.

He put back the papers in their place and went to the window:

“It’s all finished, Weber! You can come in! You will find Mr. Kesselbach’s murderer in his bed, all ready tied up … Good-bye, Weber!”

And Lupin, tearing down the stairs, ran to the coach-house and went back to Dolores Kesselbach, while Weber was breaking into the villa.

Single-handed, he had arrested Altenheim’s seven companions!

And he had delivered to justice the mysterious leader of the gang, the infamous monster, Louis de Malreich!

A young man sat writing at a table on a wide wooden balcony.

From time to time, he raised his head and cast a vague glance toward the horizon of hills, where the trees, stripped by the autumn, were shedding their last leaves over the red roofs of the villas and the lawns of the gardens. Then he went on writing.

Presently he took up his paper and read aloud:

Nos jours s’en vont à la dérive,

Comme emportés par un courant

Qui les pousse vers une rive

Où l’on n’aborde qu’en mourant.

“Not so bad,” said a voice behind him. “Mme. Amable Tastu might have written that, or Mrs. Felicia Hemans. However, we can’t all be Byrons or Lamartines!”

“You! … You! …” stammered the young man, in dismay.

“Yes, I, poet, I myself, Arsène Lupin come to see his dear friend Pierre Leduc.”

Pierre Leduc began to shake, as though shivering with fever. He asked, in a low voice:

“Has the hour come?”

“Yes, my dear Pierre Leduc: the hour has come for you to give up, or rather to interrupt the slack poet’s life which you have been leading for months at the feet of Geneviève Ernemont and Mrs. Kesselbach and to perform the part which I have allotted to you in my play … oh, a fine play, I assure you, thoroughly well-constructed, according to all the canons
of art, with top notes, comic relief and gnashing of teeth galore! We have reached the fifth act; the grand finale is at hand; and you, Pierre Leduc, are the hero. There’s fame for you!”