Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes (25 page)

“The second theft was provoked by the first. The newspapers having related how the Jewish lamp had disappeared, someone 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.

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, someone 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?”

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 enquire?”

“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 stand-point 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.”