Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes (19 page)

He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired:

“Did four men pass here just now?”

“Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends.”

“Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?”

“Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now.”

“Ah!” thought Ganimard; “what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses.”

And he sank down on a chair in despair.

Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood.

“We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train … Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days.”

“Neither will I.”

“Ah! It was a great struggle!”

“Superb!”

“A few repulses, here and there—”

“Of no consequence.”

“And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!”

“My arm broken!”

“What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?”

“Especially when it is my arm.”

“Ah! Yes, don’t you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery!”

“How lucky!”

The doors of the carriages were being closed.

“All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!”

The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson.

“What’s the matter, Wilson? You’re not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together.”

“My nerves are all right.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“I have only one hand.”

“What of it?” exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. “You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!”

Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes.

“Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes,” said the porter.

The Englishman looked at him; it was Arsène Lupin.

“You! … You!” he stammered, absolutely astounded.

And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said:

“You! You! But you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge.”

Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation:

“Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part.”

The train whistled. Lupin continued:

“I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches … yes … and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest—your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy. … ” He leaped to the platform and closed the door.

“Adieu,” he repeated, waving his handkerchief. “Adieu … I shall write to you … You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson … I am truly sorry … I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient … Adieu … See you soon.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE JEWISH LAMP.

HERLOCK SHOLMES AND WILSON WERE
sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire.

Sholmes’ pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings.

Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak:

“Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments.”

Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact—an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window.

The lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows!

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the postman.”

The man entered, shown in by the servant.

“Two registered letters, sir … if you will sign, please?”

Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned.

“It seems to please you,” remarked Wilson, after a moment’s silence.

“This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case—here’s one. Read—”

Wilson read:

“Monsieur,

“I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses.

“Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige,

“Your humble servant,

“Baron Victor d’Imblevalle,

“18 rue Murillo, Paris.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that sounds good … a little trip to Paris … and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Arsène Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions.”

He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor.

“Well! What’s the matter?” asked Wilson, anxiously.

He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement:

“My Dear Monsieur:

“You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat.

“Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside.

“My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself,
the sincere regards of your devoted
ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

“Arsène Lupin!” repeated Wilson, astounded.

Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed:

“Ah! He is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn’t I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?”

“I tell you—he’s afraid,” suggested Wilson.

“Nonsense! Arsène Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it.”

“But how did he know that the Baron d’Imblevalle had written to you?”

“What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy.”

“I thought … I supposed—”

“What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?”

“No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things.”

“No person can perform
marvellous
 things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude—that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine.”

Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness:

“Sholmes, you are going to Paris.”

“Possibly.”

“And Lupin’s affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d’Imblevalle.”

“Possibly.”

“Sholmes, I shall go with you.”

“Ah; ah! My old friend,” exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, “you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?”

“What can happen to me? You will be there.”

“That’s the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train.”

“Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?”

“What good are they?”

“I will send a telegram.”

“No; if you do that, Arsène Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover.”

That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three hours sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment.

Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He was delighted at the idea of another duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation.

“At last!” exclaimed Wilson, “we are getting to work again.”

And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air.

At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly.

“Fine weather, Wilson … Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a royal reception.”

“Yes, but what a crowd!”

“So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will recognize us in such a crowd.”

“Is this Monsieur Sholmes?”

He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. She repeated her enquiry:

“You are Monsieur Sholmes?”

As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time:

“Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?”

“What do you want?” he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one.

“You must listen to me, Monsieur Sholmes, as it is a serious matter. I know that you are going to the rue Murillo.”

“What do you say?”

“I know … I know … rue Murillo … number 18. Well, you must not go … no, you must not. I assure you that you will regret it. Do not think that I have any interest in the matter. I do it because it is right … because my conscience tells me to do it.”

Sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted:

“Oh! I beg of you, don’t neglect my advice … Ah! If I only knew how to convince you! Look at me! Look into my eyes! They are sincere … they speak the truth.”

She gazed at Sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected.

Wilson nodded his head, as he said:

“Mademoiselle looks honest.”

“Yes,” she implored, “and you must have confidence—”

“I have confidence in you, mademoiselle,” replied Wilson.

“Oh, how happy you make me! And so has your friend? I feel it … I am sure of it! What happiness! Everything will be all right now! … What a good idea of mine! … Ah! Yes, there is a train for Calais in twenty minutes. You will take it … Quick, follow me … you must come this way … there is just time.”

She tried to drag them along. Sholmes seized her arm, and in as gentle a voice as he could assume, said to her:

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I cannot yield to your wishes, but I never abandon a task that I have once undertaken.”

“I beseech you … I implore you … Ah! If you could only understand!”

Sholmes passed outside and walked away at a quick pace. Wilson said to the girl:

“Have no fear … he will be in at the finish. He never failed yet.”

And he ran to overtake Sholmes.

HERLOCK SHOLMES—ARSÈNE LUPIN.

These words, in great black letters, met their gaze as soon as they left the railway station. A number of sandwich-men were parading through the street, one behind the other, carrying heavy canes with iron ferrules with which they struck the pavement in harmony, and, on their backs, they carried large posters, on which one could read the following notice:

THE MATCH BETWEEN HERLOCK SHOLMES
AND ARSÈNE LUPIN. ARRIVAL OF THE ENGLISH
CHAMPION. THE GREAT DETECTIVE ATTACKS
THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE MURILLO. READ THE
DETAILS IN THE “ECHO DE FRANCE”.

Wilson shook his head, and said:

“Look at that, Sholmes, and we thought we were travelling incognito! I shouldn’t be surprised to find the republican guard waiting for us at the rue Murillo to give us an official reception with toasts and champagne.”

“Wilson, when you get funny, you get beastly funny,” growled Sholmes.

Then he approached one of the sandwich-men with the obvious intention of seizing him in his powerful grip and crushing him, together with his infernal sign-board. There was quite a crowd gathered about the men, reading the notices, and joking and laughing.