Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes (23 page)

“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: