[1]SeeArsène Lupin. By Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc. (Doubleday, Page & Co.).
[1]SeeArsène Lupin. By Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc. (Doubleday, Page & Co.).
"The nature of the crime is self-evident," he declared, with a great air of conviction, "and we shall have no difficulty in discovering the motive. So all is well. . . . M. Lenormand, how do you do? . . . I am delighted to see you. . . ."
M. Formerie was not in the least delighted. On the contrary, M. Lenormand's presence did not please him at all, seeing that the chief detective hardly took the trouble to disguise the contempt in which he held him. However, the magistrate drew himself up and, in his most solemn tones:
"So, doctor, you consider that death took place about a dozen hours ago, perhaps more! . . . That, in fact, was my own idea. . . . We are quite agreed. . . . And the instrument of the crime?"
"A knife with a very thin blade, Monsieur le Juged'Instruction," replied the surgeon. "Look, the blade has been wiped on the dead man's own handkerchief. . . ."
"Just so . . . just so . . . you can see the mark. . . . And now let us go and question Mr. Kesselbach's secretary and man-servant. I have no doubt that their examination will throw some more light on the case."
Chapman, who together with Edwards, had been moved to his own room, on the left of the sitting-room, had already recovered from his experiences. He described in detail the events of the previous day, Mr. Kesselbach's restlessness, the expected visit of the Colonel and, lastly, the attack of which they had been the victims.
"Aha!" cried M. Formerie. "So there's an accomplice! And you heard his name! . . . Marco, you say? . . . This is very important. When we've got the accomplice, we shall be a good deal further advanced. . . ."
"Yes, but we've not got him," M. Lenormand ventured to remark.
"We shall see. . . . One thing at a time. . . . And then, Mr. Chapman, this Marco went away immediately after M. Gourel had rung the bell?"
"Yes, we heard him go."
"And after he went, did you hear nothing else?"
"Yes . . . from time to time, but vaguely. . . . The door was shut."
"And what sort of noises did you hear?"
"Bursts of voices. The man . . ."
"Call him by his name, Arsène Lupin."
"Arsène Lupin must have telephoned."
"Capital! We will examine the person of the hotelwho has charge of the branch exchange communicating with the outside. And, afterward, did you hear him go out, too?"
"He came in to see if we were still bound; and, a quarter of an hour later, he went away, closing the hall-door after him."
"Yes, as soon as his crime was committed. Good. . . . Good. . . . It all fits in. . . . And, after that?"
"After that, we heard nothing more. . . . The night passed. . . . I fell asleep from exhaustion. . . . So did Edwards. . . . And it was not until this morning . . ."
"Yes, I know. . . . There, it's not going badly . . . it all fits in. . . ."
And, marking off the stages of his investigation, in a tone as though he were enumerating so many victories over the stranger, he muttered thoughtfully:
"The accomplice . . . the telephone . . . the time of the murder . . . the sounds that were heard. . . . Good. . . . Very good. . . . We have still to establish the motive of the crime. . . . In this case, as we have Lupin to deal with, the motive is obvious. M. Lenormand, have you noticed the least sign of anything being broken open?"
"No."
"Then the robbery must have been effected upon the person of the victim himself. Has his pocket-book been found?"
"I left it in the pocket of his jacket," said Gourel.
They all went into the sitting-room, where M. Formerie discovered that the pocket-book contained nothing but visiting-cards and papers establishing the murdered man's identity.
"That's odd. Mr. Chapman, can you tell us if Mr. Kesselbach had any money on him?"
"Yes. On the previous day—that is, on Monday, the day before yesterday—we went to the Crédit Lyonnais, where Mr. Kesselbach hired a safe . . ."
"A safe at the Crédit Lyonnais? Good. . . . We must look into that."
"And, before we left, Mr. Kesselbach opened an account and drew out five or six thousand francs in bank-notes."
"Excellent . . . that tells us just what we want to know."
Chapman continued:
"There is another point, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. Mr. Kesselbach, who for some days had been very uneasy in his mind—I have told you the reason: a scheme to which he attached the utmost importance—Mr. Kesselbach seemed particularly anxious about two things. There was, first, a little ebony box, which he put away safely at the Crédit Lyonnais; and, next, a little black morocco note-case, in which he kept a few papers."
"And where is that?"
"Before Lupin's arrival, he put it, in my presence, into that travelling-bag."
M. Formerie took the bag and felt about in it. The note-case was not there. He rubbed his hands:
"Ah, everything fits in! . . . We know the culprit, the conditions and the motive of the crime. This case won't take long. Are we quite agreed upon everything, M. Lenormand?"
"Upon not one single thing."
There was a moment of stupefaction. The commissary of police had arrived: and, behind him, inspite of the constables keeping the door, a troop of journalists, and the hotel staff had forced their way in and were standing in the entrance-lobby.
Notorious though the old fellow was for his bluntness—a bluntness which was not without a certain discourtesy and which had already procured him an occasional reprimand in high quarters—the abruptness of this reply took every one aback. And M. Formerie in particular appeared utterly nonplussed:
"Still," he said, "I can see nothing that isn't quite simple. Lupin is the thief. . . ."
"Why did he commit the murder?" M. Lenormand flung at him.
"In order to commit the theft."
"I beg your pardon; the witnesses' story proves that the theft took place before the murder. Mr. Kesselbach was first bound and gagged, then robbed. Why should Lupin, who has never resorted to murder, choose this time to kill a man whom he had rendered helpless and whom he had already robbed?"
The examining-magistrate stroked his long, fair whiskers, with the gesture customary to him when a question seemed incapable of solution. He replied in a thoughtful tone:
"There are several answers to that. . . ."
"What are they?"
"It depends . . . it depends upon a number of facts as yet unknown. . . . And, moreover, the objection applies only to the nature of the motives. We are agreed as to the remainder."
"No."
This time, again, the denial was flat, blunt, almost impolite; so much so that the magistrate was absolutely nonplussed, dared not even raise a protest, and remained abashed in the presence of this strange collaborator. At last he said:
"We all have our theories. I should like to know yours."
"I have none."
The chief detective rose and, leaning on his stick, took a few steps through the room. All the people around him were silent. . . . And it was rather curious, in a group in which, after all, his position was only that of an auxiliary, a subordinate, to see this ailing, decrepit, elderly man dominate the others by the sheer force of an authority which they had to feel, even though they did not accept it. After a long pause he said:
"I should like to inspect the rooms which adjoin this suite."
The manager showed him the plan of the hotel. The only way out of the right-hand bedroom, which was Mr. Kesselbach's, was through the little entrance-hall of the suite. But the bedroom on the left, the room occupied by the secretary, communicated with another apartment.
"Let us inspect it," said M. Lenormand.
M. Formerie could not help shrugging his shoulders and growling:
"But the communicating door is bolted and the window locked."
"Let us inspect it," repeated M. Lenormand.
He was taken into the apartment, which was the first of the five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach. Then, at his request, he was taken to the rooms leading out of it. All the communicating doors were bolted on both sides.
"Are not any of these rooms occupied?" he asked.
"No."
"Where are the keys?"
"The keys are always kept in the office."
"Then no one can have got in? . . ."
"No one, except the floor-waiter who airs and dusts the rooms."
"Send for him, please."
The man, whose name was Gustave Beudot, replied that he had closed the windows of five rooms on the previous day in accordance with his general instructions.
"At what time?"
"At six o'clock in the evening."
"And you noticed nothing?"
"No, sir."
"And, this morning . . . ?"
"This morning, I opened the windows at eight o'clock exactly."
"And you found nothing?"
He hesitated. He was pressed with questions and ended by admitting:
"Well, I picked up a cigarette-case near the fireplace in 420. . . . I intended to take it to the office this evening."
"Have you it on you?"
"No, it is in my room. It is a gun-metal case. It has a space for tobacco and cigarette-papers on one side and for matches on the other. There are two initials in gold: an L and an M. . . ."
"What's that?"
Chapman had stepped forward. He seemed greatly surprised and, questioning the servant:
"A gun-metal cigarette-case, you say?"
"Yes."
"With three compartments—for tobacco, cigarette-papers, and matches. . . . Russian tobacco, wasn't it, very fine and light?"
"Yes."
"Go and fetch it. . . . I should like to see it for myself . . . to make sure. . . ."
At a sign from the chief detective, Gustave Beudot left the room.
M. Lenormand sat down and his keen eyes examined the carpet, the furniture and the curtains. He asked:
"This is room 420, is it not?"
"Yes."
The magistrate grinned:
"I should very much like to know what connection you establish between this incident and the tragedy. Five locked doors separate us from the room in which Mr. Kesselbach was murdered."
M. Lenormand did not condescend to reply.
Time passed. Gustave did not return.
"Where does he sleep?" asked the chief detective.
"On the sixth floor," answered the manager. "The room is on the Rue de Judée side: above this, therefore. It's curious that he's not back yet."
"Would you have the kindness to send some one to see?"
The manager went himself, accompanied by Chapman. A few minutes after, he returned alone, running, with every mark of consternation on his face.
"Well?"
"Dead!"
"Murdered?"
"Yes."
"Oh, by thunder, how clever these scoundrels are!" roared M. Lenormand, "Off with you, Gourel, andhave the doors of the hotel locked. . . . Watch every outlet. . . . And you, Mr. Manager, please take us to Gustave Beudot's room."
The manager led the way. But as they left the room, M. Lenormand stooped and picked up a tiny little round piece of paper, on which his eyes had already fixed themselves.
It was a label surrounded with a blue border and marked with the number 813. He put it in his pocket, on chance, and joined the others. . . .
A small wound in the back, between the shoulder-blades. . . .
"Exactly the same wound as Mr. Kesselbach's," declared the doctor.
"Yes," said M. Lenormand, "it was the same hand that struck the blow and the same weapon was used."
Judging by the position of the body, the man had been surprised when on his knees before the bed, feeling under the mattress for the cigarette-case which he had hidden there. His arm was still caught between the mattress and the bed, but the cigarette-case was not to be found.
"That cigarette-case must have been devilish compromising!" timidly suggested M. Formerie, who no longer dared put forward any definite opinion.
"Well, of course!" said the chief detective.
"At any rate, we know the initials: an L and an M. And with that, together with what Mr. Chapman appears to know, we shall easily learn. . . ."
M. Lenormand gave a start:
"Chapman! But where is he?"
They looked in the passage among the groups of people crowded together. Chapman was not there.
"Mr. Chapman came with me," said the manager.
"Yes, yes, I know, but he did not come back with you."
"No, I left him with the corpse."
"You left him! . . . Alone?"
"I said to him, 'Stay here . . . don't move.'"
"And was there no one about? Did you see no one?"
"In the passage? No."
"But in the other attics? . . . Or else, look here, round that corner: was there no one hiding there?"
M. Lenormand seemed greatly excited. He walked up and down, he opened the doors of the rooms. And, suddenly, he set off at a run, with an agility of which no one would have thought him capable. He rattled down the six storeys, followed at a distance by the manager and the examining-magistrate. At the bottom, he found Gourel in front of the main door.
"Has no one gone out?"
"No, chief."
"What about the other door, in the Rue Orvieto?"
"I have posted Dieuzy there."
"With firm orders?"
"Yes, chief."
The huge hall of the hotel was crowded with anxious visitors, all commenting on the more or less accurate versions that had reached them of the crime. All the servants had been summoned by telephone and were arriving, one by one. M. Lenormand questioned them without delay. None of them was able to supply the least information. But a fifth-floor chambermaid appeared. Ten minutes earlier, or thereabouts, she had passed two gentlemen who were coming down theservants' staircase between the fifth and the fourth floors.
"They came down very fast. The one in front was holding the other by the hand. I was surprised to see those two gentlemen on the servants' staircase."
"Would you know them again?"
"Not the first one. He had his head turned the other way. He was a thin, fair man. He wore a soft black hat . . . and black clothes."
"And the other?"
"Oh, the other was an Englishman, with a big, clean-shaven face and a check suit. He had no hat on."
The description obviously referred to Chapman.
The woman added:
"He looked . . . he looked quite funny . . . as if he was mad."
Gourel's word was not enough for M. Lenormand. One after the other, he questioned the under-porters standing at the two doors:
"Did you know Mr. Chapman?"
"Yes, sir, he always spoke to us."
"And you have not seen him go out?"
"No, sir. He has not been out this morning."
M. Lenormand turned to the commissary of police: "How many men have you with you, Monsieur le Commissaire?"
"Four."
"That's not sufficient. Telephone to your secretary to send you all the men available. And please be so good as yourself to organize the closest watch at every outlet. The state of siege, Monsieur le Commissaire. . . ."
"But I say," protested the manager, "my customers?"
"I don't care a hang, sir, for your customers! My duty comes before everything; and my duty is at all costs to arrest. . . ."
"So you believe . . ." the examining-magistrate ventured to interpolate.
"I don'tbelieve, monsieur . . . I am sure that the perpetrator of both the murders is still in the hotel."
"But then Chapman . . ."
"At this moment, I cannot guarantee that Chapman is still alive. In any case, it is only a question of minutes, of seconds. . . . Gourel, take two men and search all the rooms on the fourth floor. . . . Mr. Manager, send one of your clerks with them. . . . As for the other floors, I shall proceed as soon as we are reënforced. Come, Gourel, off with you, and keep your eyes open. . . . It's big game you're hunting!"
Gourel and his men hurried away. M. Lenormand himself remained in the hall, near the office. This time, he did not think of sitting down, as his custom was. He walked from the main entrance to the door in the Rue Orvieto and returned to the point from which he had started. At intervals he gave instructions:
"Mr. Manager, see that the kitchens are watched. They may try to escape that way. . . . Mr. Manager, instruct your young lady at the telephone not to put any of the people in the hotel into communication with outside subscribers. If a call comes from the outside, she can connect the caller with the person asked for, but she must take a note of that person's name. . . . Mr. Manager, have a list made out of all your visitors whose name begins with an L or an M."
The tension caught the spectators by the throat,as they stood clustered in the middle of the hall, silent and gasping for breath, shaking with fear at the least sound, obsessed by the infernal image of the murderer. Where was he hiding? Would he show himself? Was he not one of themselves: this one, perhaps . . . or that one? . . .
And all eyes were turned on the gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, an olive-green frock-coat and a maroon-colored neckerchief, who was walking about, with his bent back, on a pair of shaky legs.
At times, one of the waiters accompanying Sergeant Gourel on his search would come running up.
"Any news?" asked M. Lenormand.
"No, sir, we've found nothing."
The manager made two attempts to induce him to relax his orders regarding the doors. The situation was becoming intolerable. The office was filled with loudly-protesting visitors, who had business outside, or who had arranged to leave Paris.
"I don't care a hang!" said M. Lenormand again.
"But I know them all."
"I congratulate you."
"You are exceeding your powers."
"I know."
"The law will decide against you."
"I'm convinced of that."
"Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction himself. . . ."
"M. Formerie had better not interfere. He can mind his own business, which is to examine the servants, as he is doing now. Besides, it has nothing to do with the examining-magistrate, it has to do with the police. It's my affair."
Just then a squad of police burst into the hotel. The chief detective divided them into several sectionswhich he sent up to the third floor. Then, addressing the commissary of police:
"My dear commissary, I leave the task of watching the doors to you. No weakness, I entreat you. I will take the responsibility for anything that happens."
And, turning to the lift, he had himself conveyed to the second floor.
It was a difficult business and a long one, for they had to open the doors of the sixty bedrooms, to inspect all the bathrooms, all the recesses, all the cupboards, every nook and corner.
And it was also fruitless. An hour later, on the stroke of twelve, M. Lenormand had just done the second floor; the other parties had not yet finished the upper floors; and no discovery had been made.
M. Lenormand hesitated: had the murderer retreated to the attics?
He was deciding, however, to go downstairs, when he was told that Mrs. Kesselbach had just arrived with her lady-companion. Edwards, the old confidential man-servant, had accepted the task of informing her of Mr. Kesselbach's death.
M. Lenormand found her in one of the drawing rooms, overcome by the unexpected shock, dry-eyed, but with her features wrung with grief and her body trembling all over, as though convulsed with fever. She was a rather tall, dark woman; and her black and exceedingly beautiful eyes were filled with gold, with little gold spots, like spangles gleaming in the dark. Her husband had met her in Holland, where Dolores was born of an old family of Spanish origin, the Amontis. He fell in love with her at first sight; and for four yearsthe harmony between them, built up of mutual affection and devotion, had never been interrupted.
M. Lenormand introduced himself. She looked at him without replying; and he was silent, for she did not appear, in her stupor, to understand what he said. Then, suddenly, she began to shed copious tears and asked to be taken to her husband.
In the hall, M. Lenormand found Gourel, who was looking for him and who rushed at him with a hat which he held in his hand:
"I picked this up, chief. . . . There's no doubt whom it belongs to, is there?"
It was a soft, black felt hat and resembled the description given. There was no lining or label inside it.
"Where did you pick it up?"
"On the second-floor landing of the servants' staircase."
"Nothing on the other floors?"
"Nothing. We've searched everywhere. There is only the first floor left. And this hat shows that the man went down so far. We're burning, chief!"
"I think so."
At the foot of the stairs M. Lenormand stopped:
"Go back to the commissary and give him my orders: he must post two men at the foot of each of the four staircases, revolver in hand. And they are to fire, if necessary. Understand this, Gourel: if Chapman is not saved and if the fellow escapes, it means my resignation. I've been wool-gathering for over two hours."
He went up the stairs. On the first floor he met two policemen leaving a bedroom, accompanied by a servant of the hotel.
The passage was deserted. The hotel staff dared notventure into it. Some of the permanent visitors had locked themselves in their rooms; and the police had to knock for a long time and proclaim who they were before they could get the doors opened.
Farther on, M. Lenormand saw another group of policemen searching the maid's pantry and, at the end of a long passage, he saw some more men who were approaching the turning, that is to say, that part of the passage which contained the rooms overlooking the Rue de Judée.
And, suddenly, he heard these men shouting; and they disappeared at a run.
He hurried after them.
The policemen had stopped in the middle of the passage. At their feet, blocking their way, with its face on the carpet, lay a corpse.
M. Lenormand bent down and took the lifeless head in his hands:
"Chapman," he muttered. "He is dead."
He examined the body. A white knitted silk muffler was tied round the neck. He undid it. Red stains appeared; and he saw that the muffler held a thick wad of cotton-wool in position against the nape of the neck. The wad was soaked with blood.
Once again there was the same little wound, clean, frank and pitiless.
M. Formerie and the commissary were at once told and came hastening up.
"No one gone out?" asked the chief detective. "No surprise?"
"No," said the commissary. "There are two men on guard at the foot of each staircase."
"Perhaps he has gone up again?" said M. Formerie.
"No! . . . No! . . ."
"But some one must have met him. . . ."
"No. . . . This all happened quite a long time ago. The hands are cold. . . . The murder must have been committed almost immediately after the other . . . as soon as the two men came here by the servants' staircase."
"But the body would have been seen! Think, fifty people must have passed this spot during the last two hours. . . ."
"The body was not here."
"Then where was it?"
"Why, how can I tell?" snapped the chief detective. "Do as I'm doing, look for yourself! You can't find things by talking."
He furiously patted the knob of his stick with a twitching hand; and he stood there, with his eyes fixed on the body, silent and thoughtful. At last he spoke:
"Monsieur le Commissaire, be so good as to have the victim taken to an empty room. Let them fetch the doctor. Mr. Manager, would you mind opening the doors of all the rooms on this passage for me?"
On the left were three bedrooms and two sitting-rooms, forming an empty suite, which M. Lenormand inspected. On the right were four bedrooms. Two were occupied respectively by a M. Reverdat and an Italian, Baron Giacomini, who were both then out. In the third room they found an elderly English maiden lady still in bed; and, in the fourth, an Englishman who was placidly reading and smoking and who had not been in the least disturbed by the noises in the passage. His name was Major Parbury.
No amount of searching or questioning led to any result. The old maid had heard nothing before the exclamations of the policeman: no noise of a struggle,no cry of pain, no sound of quarreling; and Major Parbury neither.
Moreover, there was no suspicious clue found, no trace of blood, nothing to lead them to suppose that the unfortunate Chapman had been in one of those rooms.
"It's queer," muttered the examining-magistrate, "it's all very queer. . . ." And he confessed, ingenuously, "I feel more and more at sea. . . . There is a whole series of circumstances that are partly beyond me. What do you make of it, M. Lenormand?"
M. Lenormand was on the point of letting off one of those pointed rejoinders in which he was wont to give vent to his chronic ill-temper, when Gourel appeared upon the scene, all out of breath.
"Chief," he panted, "they've found this . . . downstairs . . . in the office . . . on a chair. . . ."
It was a parcel of moderate dimensions, wrapped up in a piece of black serge.
"Did they open it?" asked the chief.
"Yes, but when they saw what the parcel contained, they did it up again exactly as it was . . . fastened very tight, as you can see. . . ."
"Untie it."
Gourel removed the wrapper and disclosed a black diagonal jacket and trousers, which had evidently been packed up in a hurry, as the creases in the cloth showed. In the middle was a towel, covered with blood, which had been dipped in water, in order, no doubt, to destroy the marks of the hands that had been wiped on it. Inside the napkin was a steel dagger, with a handle encrusted with gold. This also was red with blood, the blood of three men stabbed withinthe space of a few hours by an invisible hand, amid the crowd of three hundred people moving about in the huge hotel.
Edwards, the man-servant, at once identified the dagger as belonging to Mr. Kesselbach. He had seen it on the table on the previous day, before the assault committed by Lupin.
"Mr. Manager," said the chief detective, "the restriction is over. Gourel, go and give orders to leave the doors free."
"So you think that Lupin has succeeded in getting out?" asked M. Formerie.
"No. The perpetrator of the three murders which we have discovered is in one of the rooms of the hotel, or, rather, he is among the visitors in the hall or in the reception-rooms. In my opinion, he was staying in the hotel."
"Impossible! Besides, where would he have changed his clothes? And what clothes would he have on now?"
"I don't know, but I am stating a fact."
"And you are letting him go? Why, he'll just walk out quietly, with his hands in his pockets!"
"The one who walks away like that, without his luggage, and who does not return, will be the criminal. Mr. Manager, please come with me to the office. I should like to make a close inspection of your visitors' book."
In the office, M. Lenormand found a few letters addressed to Mr. Kesselbach. He handed them to the examining-magistrate. There was also a parcel that had just come by the Paris parcel-post. The paper in which it was packed was partly torn; and M. Lenormand saw that it held a small ebony box, engraved with the name of Rudolf Kesselbach. Feeling curious,he opened the parcel. The box contained the fragments of a looking-glass which had evidently been fixed to the inside of the lid. It also contained the card of Arsène Lupin.
But one detail seemed to strike the chief detective. On the outside, at the bottom of the box, was a little blue-edged label, similar to the label which he had picked up in the room on the fourth floor where the cigarette-case was found, and this label bore the same number, 813.
"Auguste, show M. Lenormand in."
The messenger went out and, a few seconds later, announced the chief of the detective-service.
There were three men in the prime minister's private room on the Place Beauvau: the famous Valenglay, leader of the radical party for the past thirty years and now president of the council and minister of the interior; the attorney-general, M. Testard; and the prefect of police, Delaume.
The prefect of police and the attorney-general did not rise from the chairs which they had occupied during their long conversation with the prime minister. Valenglay, however, stood up and, pressing the chief detective's hand, said, in the most cordial tones:
"I have no doubt, my dear Lenormand, that you know the reason why I asked you to come."
"The Kesselbach case?"
"Yes."
The Kesselbach case! Not one of us but is able to recall not only the main details of this tragic affair, the tangled skein of which I have set myself to unravel, but even its very smallest incidents, so greatly did the tragedy excite us all during these recent years. Nor is there one of us but remembers the extraordinarystir which it created both in and outside France. And yet there was one thing that upset the public even more than the three murders committed in such mysterious circumstances, more than the detestable atrocity of that butchery, more than anything else; and that was the reappearance—one might almost say the resurrection—of Arsène Lupin.
Arsène Lupin! No one had heard speak of him for over four years, since his incredible, his astounding adventure of the Hollow Needle,[2]since the day when he had slunk away into the darkness before the eyes of Holmlock Shears and Isidore Beautrelet, carrying on his back the dead body of the woman whom he loved, and followed by his old servant, Victoire.
[2]SeeThe Hollow Needle. By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos and published by Doubleday, Page & Co.
[2]SeeThe Hollow Needle. By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos and published by Doubleday, Page & Co.
From that day onward he had been generally believed to be dead. This was the version put about by the police, who, finding no trace of their adversary, were content purely and simply to bury him.
Some, however, believing him to be saved, described him as leading a placid, Philistine existence. According to them, he was living with his wife and children, growing his small potatoes; whereas others maintained that, bent down with the weight of sorrow and weary of the vanities of this world, he had sought the seclusion of a Trappist monastery.
And here he was once more looming large in the public view and resuming his relentless struggle against society! Arsène Lupin was Arsène Lupin again, the fanciful, intangible, disconcerting, audacious, genial Arsène Lupin! But, this time, a cry of horror arose. Arsène Lupin had taken human life! And the fierceness, the cruelty, the ruthless cynicism of the crime were so great that, then and there, the legend of the popular hero, of the chivalrous and occasionally sentimental adventurer, made way for a new conception of an inhuman, bloodthirsty, and ferocious monster. The crowd now loathed and feared its former idol with more intensity than it had once shown in admiring him for his easy grace and his diverting good-humor.
And, forthwith, the indignation of that frightened crowd turned against the police. Formerly, people had laughed. They forgave the beaten commissary of police for the comical fashion in which he allowed himself to be beaten. But the joke had lasted too long; and, in a burst of revolt and fury, they now called the authorities to account for the unspeakable crimes which these were powerless to prevent.
In the press, at public meetings, in the streets and even in the tribune of the Chamber of Deputies there was such an explosion of wrath that the government grew alarmed and strove by every possible means to allay the public excitement.
It so happened that Valenglay, the premier, took a great interest in all these police questions and had often amused himself by going closely into different cases with the chief of the detective-service, whose good qualities and independent character he valued highly. He sent for the prefect and the attorney-general to see him in his room, talked to them and then sent for M. Lenormand.
"Yes, my dear Lenormand, it's about the Kesselbach case. But, before we discuss it, I must call yourattention to a point which more particularly affects and, I may say, annoys Monsieur le Préfet de Police. M. Delaume, will you explain to M. Lenormand . . . ?
"Oh, M. Lenormand knows quite well how the matter stands," said the prefect, in a tone which showed but little good-will toward his subordinate. "We have talked it over already and I have told him what I thought of his improper conduct at the Palace Hotel. People are generally indignant."
M. Lenormand rose, took a paper from his pocket and laid it on the table.
"What is this?" asked Valenglay.
"My resignation, Monsieur le Président du Conseil."
Valenglay gave a jump:
"What! Your resignation! For a well-meaning remark which Monsieur le Préfet thinks fit to address to you and to which, for that matter, he attaches no importance whatever—do you, Delaume? No importance whatever—and there you go, taking offence! You must confess, my dear Lenormand, that you're devilish touchy! Come, put that bit of paper back in your pocket and let's talk seriously."
The chief detective sat down again, and Valenglay, silencing the prefect, who made no attempt to conceal his dissatisfaction, said:
"In two words, Lenormand, the thing is that Lupin's reappearance upon the scene annoys us. The brute has defied us long enough. It used to be funny, I confess, and I, for my part, was the first to laugh at it. But it's no longer a question of that. It's a question of murder now. We could stand Lupin, as long as he amused the gallery. But, when he takes to killing people, no!"
"Then what is it that you ask, Monsieur le Président?"
"What we ask? Oh, it's quite simple! First, his arrest and then his head!"
"I can promise you his arrest, some day or another, but not his head."
"What! If he's arrested, it means trial for murder, a verdict of guilty, and the scaffold."
"No!"
"And why not?"
"Because Lupin has not committed murder."
"Eh? Why, you're mad, Lenormand! The corpses at the Palace Hotel are so many inventions, I suppose! And the three murders were never committed!"
"Yes, but not by Lupin."
The chief spoke these words very steadily, with impressive calmness and conviction. The attorney and the prefect protested.
"I presume, Lenormand," said Valenglay, "that you do not put forward that theory without serious reasons?"
"It is not a theory."
"What proof have you?"
"There are two, to begin with, two proofs of a moral nature, which I at once placed before Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction and which the newspapers have laid stress upon. First and foremost, Lupin does not kill people. Next, why should he have killed anybody, seeing that the object which he set out to achieve, the theft, was accomplished and that he had nothing to fear from an adversary who was gagged and bound?"
"Very well. But the facts?"
"Facts are worth nothing against reason and logic; and, moreover, the facts also are on my side. What would be the meaning of Lupin's presence in the room in which the cigarette-case was discovered? On theother hand, the black clothes which were found and which evidently belonged to the murderer are not in the least of a size to fit Lupin."
"You know him, then, do you?"
"I? No. But Edwards saw him, Gourel saw him; and the man whom they saw is not the man whom the chambermaid saw, on the servants' staircase, dragging Chapman by the hand."
"Then your idea . . ."
"You mean to say, the truth, M. le Président. Here it is, or, at least, here is the truth as far as I know it. On Tuesday, the 16th of April, a man—-Lupin—broke into Mr. Kesselbach's room at about two o'clock in the afternoon. . . ."
M. Lenormand was interrupted by a burst of laughter. It came from the prefect of police.
"Let me tell you, M. Lenormand, that you are in rather too great a hurry to state your precise facts. It has been shown that, at three o'clock on that day, Mr. Kesselbach walked into the Crédit Lyonnais and went down to the safe deposit. His signature in the register proves it."
M. Lenormand waited respectfully until his superior had finished speaking. Then, without even troubling to reply directly to the attack, he continued:
"At about two o'clock in the afternoon, Lupin, assisted by an accomplice, a man named Marco, bound Mr. Kesselbach hand and foot, robbed him of all the loose cash which he had upon him and compelled him to reveal the cypher of his safe at the Crédit Lyonnais. As soon as the secret was told, Marco left. He joined another accomplice, who, profiting by a certain resemblance to Mr. Kesselbach—a resemblance which he accentuated that day by wearing clothes similarto Mr. Kesselbach's and putting on a pair of gold spectacles—entered the Crédit Lyonnais, imitated Mr. Kesselbach's signature, emptied the safe of its contents and walked off, accompanied by Marco. Marco at once telephoned to Lupin. Lupin, as soon as he was sure that Mr. Kesselbach had not deceived him and that the object of his expedition was attained, went away."
Valenglay seemed to waver in his mind:
"Yes, yes . . . we'll admit that. . . . But what surprises me is that a man like Lupin should have risked so much for such a paltry profit: a few bank-notes and the hypothetical contents of a safe."
"Lupin was after more than that. He wanted either the morocco envelope which was in the traveling-bag, or else the ebony box which was in the safe. He had the ebony box, because he has sent it back empty. Therefore, by this time, he knows, or is in a fair way for knowing, the famous scheme which Mr. Kesselbach was planning, and which he was discussing with his secretary a few minutes before his death."
"What was the scheme?"
"I don't exactly know. The manager of Barbareux's agency, to whom he had opened his mind about it, has told me that Mr. Kesselbach was looking for a man who went by the name of Pierre Leduc, a man who had lost caste, it appears. Why and how the discovery of this person was connected with the success of his scheme, I am unable to say."
"Very well," said Valenglay. "So much for Arsène Lupin. His part is played. Mr. Kesselbach is bound hand and foot, robbed, but alive! . . . What happens up to the time when he is found dead?"
"Nothing, for several hours, nothing until night. But, during the night, some one made his way in."
"How?"
"Through room 420, one of the rooms reserved by Mr. Kesselbach. The person in question evidently possessed a false key."
"But," exclaimed the prefect of police, "all the doors between that room and Mr. Kesselbach's flat were bolted; and there were five of them!"
"There was always the balcony."
"The balcony!"
"Yes; the balcony runs along the whole floor, on the Rue de Judée side."
"And what about the spaces in between?"
"An active man can step across them. Our man did. I have found marks."
"But all the windows of the suite were shut; and it was ascertained, after the crime, that they were still shut."
"All except one, the secretary's window, Chapman's, which was only pushed to. I tried it myself."
This time the prime minister seemed a little shaken, so logical did M. Lenormand's version seem, so precise and supported by such sound facts. He asked, with growing interest:
"But what was the man's object in coming?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, you don't know!"
"Any more than I know his name."
"But why did he kill Mr. Kesselbach?"
"I don't know. This all remains a mystery. The utmost that we have the right to suppose is that he did not come with the intention of killing, but with the intention, he too, of taking the documents contained in the morocco note-case and the ebony box; and that, finding himself by accident in the presence of the enemy reduced to a state of helplessness, he killed him."
Valenglay muttered:
"Yes, strictly speaking, that is possible. . . . And, according to you, did he find the documents?"
"He did not find the box, because it was not there; but he found the black morocco note-case. So that Lupin and . . . the other are in the same position. Each knows as much as the other about the Kesselbach scheme."
"That means," remarked the premier, "that they will fight."
"Exactly. And the fight has already begun. The murderer, finding a card of Arsène Lupin's, pinned it to the corpse. All the appearances would thus be against Arsène Lupin . . . therefore, Arsène Lupin would be the murderer."
"True . . . true," said Valenglay. "The calculation seemed pretty accurate."
"And the stratagem would have succeeded," continued M. Lenormand, "if in consequence of another and a less favorable accident, the murderer had not, either in coming or going, dropped his cigarette-case in room 420, and if the floor-waiter, Gustave Beudot, had not picked it up. From that moment, knowing himself to be discovered, or on the point of being discovered . . ."
"How did he know it?"
"How? Why, through M. Formerie, the examining-magistrate, himself! The investigation took place with open doors. It is certain that the murderer was concealed among the people, members of the hotelstaff and journalists, who were present when Gustave Beudot was giving his evidence; and when the magistrate sent Gustave Beudot to his attic to fetch the cigarette-case, the man followed and struck the blow. Second victim!"
No one protested now. The tragedy was being reconstructed before their eyes with a realism and a probable accuracy which were equally striking.
"And the third victim?" asked Valenglay.
"He himself gave the ruffian his opportunity. When Beudot did not return, Chapman, curious to see the cigarette-case for himself, went upstairs with the manager of the hotel. He was surprised by the murderer, dragged away by him, taken to one of the bedrooms and murdered in his turn."
"But why did he allow himself to be dragged away like that and to be led by a man whom he knew to be the murderer of Mr. Kesselbach and of Gustave Beudot?"
"I don't know, any more than I know the room in which the crime was committed, or the really miraculous way in which the criminal escaped."
"Something has been said about two blue labels."
"Yes, one was found on the box which Lupin sent back; and the other was found by me and doubtless came from the morocco note-case stolen by the murderer."
"Well?"
"I don't think that they mean anything. What does mean something is the number 813, which Mr. Kesselbach wrote on each of them. His handwriting has been recognized."
"And that number 813?"
"It's a mystery."
"Then?"
"I can only reply again that I don't know."
"Have you no suspicions?"
"None at all. Two of my men are occupying one of the rooms in the Palace Hotel, on the floor where Chapman's body was found. I have had all the people in the hotel watched by these two men. The criminal is not one of those who have left."
"Did no one telephone while the murders were being committed?"
"Yes, some one telephoned from the outside to Major Parbury, one of the four persons who occupied rooms on the first-floor passage."
"And this Major Parbury?"
"I am having him watched by my men. So far, nothing has been discovered against him."
"And in which direction do you intend to seek?"
"Oh, in a very limited direction. In my opinion, the murderer must be numbered among the friends or connections of Mr. and Mrs. Kesselbach. He followed their scent, knew their habits, the reason of Mr. Kesselbach's presence in Paris; and he at least suspected the importance of Mr. Kesselbach's plans."
"Then he was not a professional criminal?"
"No, no, certainly not! The murder was committed with extraordinary cleverness and daring, but it was due to circumstances. I repeat, we shall have to look among the people forming the immediate circle of Mr. and Mrs. Kesselbach. And the proof is that Mr. Kesselbach's murderer killed Gustave Beudot for the sole reason that the waiter had the cigarette-case in his possession; and Chapman for the sole reason that the secretary knew of its existence. Remember Chapman's excitement: at the mere description of the cigarette-case, Chapman received a sudden insightinto the tragedy. If he had seen the cigarette-case, we should have been fully informed. The man, whoever he may be, was well aware of that: and he put an end to Chapman. And we know nothing, nothing but the initials L and M."
He reflected for a moment and said:
"There is another proof, which forms an answer to one of your questions, Monsieur le Président: Do you believe that Chapman would have accompanied that man along the passages and staircases of the hotel if he did not already know him?"
The facts were accumulating. The truth or, at least, the probable truth was gaining strength. Many of the points at issue, the most interesting, perhaps, remained obscure. But what a light had been thrown upon the subject! Short of the motives that inspired them, how clearly Lenormand's hearers now perceived the sequence of acts performed on that tragic morning!
There was a pause. Every one was thinking, seeking for arguments, for objections. At last, Valenglay exclaimed:
"My dear Lenormand, this is all quite excellent. You have convinced me. . . . But, taking one thing with another, we are no further than we were."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. The object of our meeting is not to clear up a portion of the mystery, which, one day, I am sure, you will clear up altogether, but to satisfy the public demand as fully as we possibly can. Now whether the murderer is Lupin or another; whether there are two criminals, or three, or only one: all this gives us neither the criminal's name nor his arrest. And the public continues under the disastrous impression that the law is powerless."
"What can I do?"
"Give the public the definite satisfaction which it demands."
"But it seems to me that this explanation ought to be enough. . . ."
"Words! The public wants deeds! One thing alone will satisfy it: an arrest."
"Hang it all! Hang it all! We can't arrest the first person that comes along!"
"Even that would be better than arresting nobody," said Valenglay, with a laugh. "Come, have a good look round! Are you sure of Edwards, Kesselbach's servant?"
"Absolutely sure. Besides . . . No, Monsieur le Président, it would be dangerous and ridiculous; and I am sure that Mr. Attorney-General himself . . . There are only two people whom we have the right to arrest: the murderer—I don't know who he is—and Arsène Lupin."
"Well?"
"There is no question of arresting Arsène Lupin, or, at least, it requires time, a whole series of measures, which I have not yet had the leisure to contrive, because I looked upon Lupin as settled down . . . or dead."
Valenglay stamped his foot with the impatience of a man who likes to see his wishes realized on the spot:
"And yet . . . and yet, my dear Lenormand, something must be done . . . if only for your own sake. You know as well as I do that you have powerful enemies . . . and that, if I were not there . . . In short, Lenormand, you can't be allowed to get out of it like this. What are you doing about the accomplices? There are others besides Lupin. There is Marco;and there's the rogue who impersonated Mr. Kesselbach in order to visit the cellars of the Crédit Lyonnais."
"Would you be satisfied if you got him, Monsieur le Président?"
"Would I be satisfied? Heavens alive, I should think I would!"
"Well, give me seven days."
"Seven days! Why, it's not a question of days, my dear Lenormand! It's a question of hours!"
"How many will you give me, Monsieur le Président?"
Valenglay took out his watch and chuckled:
"I will give you ten minutes, my dear Lenormand!"
The chief took out his, and emphasizing each syllable, said calmly:
"That is four minutes more than I want, Monsieur le Président."
Valenglay looked at him in amazement.
"Four minutes more than you want? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, Monsieur le Président, that the ten minutes which you allow me are superfluous. I want six, and not one minute more."
"Oh, but look here, Lenormand . . . if you imagine that this is the time for joking . . ."
The chief detective went to the window and beckoned to two men who were walking round the courtyard.
Then he returned:
"Mr. Attorney-General, would you have the kindness to sign a warrant for the arrest of Auguste Maximin Philippe Daileron, aged forty-seven? You might leave the profession open."
He went to the door:
"Come in, Gourel. You, too, Dieuzy."
Gourel entered, accompanied by Inspector Dieuzy.
"Have you the handcuffs, Gourel?"
"Yes, chief."
M. Lenormand went up to Valenglay:
"Monsieur le Président, everything is ready. But I entreat you most urgently to forego this arrest. It upsets all my plans; it may render them abortive; and, for the sake of what, after all, is a very trifling satisfaction, it exposes us to the risk of jeopardizing the whole business."
"M. Lenormand, let me remark that you have only eighty seconds left."
The chief suppressed a gesture of annoyance, strode across the room and, leaning on his stick, sat down angrily, as though he had decided not to speak. Then, suddenly making up his mind:
"Monsieur le Président, the first person who enters this room will be the man whose arrest you asked for . . . against my wish, as I insist on pointing out to you."
"Fifteen seconds, Lenormand!"
"Gourel . . . Dieuzy . . . the first person, do you understand? . . . Mr. Attorney, have you signed the warrant?"
"Ten seconds, Lenormand!"
"Monsieur le Président, would you be so good as to ring the bell?"
Valenglay rang.
The messenger appeared in the doorway and waited.
Valenglay turned to the chief:
"Well, Lenormand, he's waiting for your orders. Whom is he to show in?"
"No one."
"But the rogue whose arrest you promised us? The six minutes are more than past."
"Yes, but the rogue is here!"
"Here? I don't understand. No one has entered the room!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Oh, I say. . . . Look here, Lenormand, you're making fun of us. I tell you again that no one has entered the room."
"There were six of us in this room, Monsieur le Président; there are seven now. Consequently, some one has entered the room."
Valenglay started:
"Eh! But this is madness! . . . What! You mean to say . . ."
The two detectives had slipped between the messenger and the door. M. Lenormand walked up to the messenger, clapped his hand on his shoulder and, in a loud voice:
"In the name of the law, Auguste Maximin Philippe Daileron, chief messenger at the Ministry of the Interior, I arrest you."
Valenglay burst out laughing.
"Oh, what a joke! What a joke! That infernal Lenormand! Of all the first-rate notions! Well done, Lenormand! It's long since I enjoyed so good a laugh."
M. Lenormand turned to the attorney-general:
"Mr. Attorney, you won't forget to fill in Master Daileron's profession on the warrant, will you? Chief messenger at the Ministry of the Interior."
"Oh, good! . . . Oh, capital! . . . Chief messenger at the Ministry of the Interior!" spluttered Valenglay, holding his sides. "Oh, this wonderful Lenormand gets hold of ideas that would never occur to anybody else! The public is clamoring for an arrest. . . . Whoosh, he flings at its head my chiefmessenger . . . Auguste . . . the model servant! Well, Lenormand, my dear fellow, I knew you had a certain gift of imagination, but I never suspected that it would go so far as this! The impertinence of it!"
From the commencement of this scene, Auguste had not stirred a limb and seemed to understand nothing of what was going on around him. His face, the typical face of a good, loyal, faithful serving-man, seemed absolutely bewildered. He looked at the gentlemen turn and turn about, with a visible effort to catch the meaning of their words.
M. Lenormand said a few words to Gourel, who went out. Then, going up to Auguste and speaking with great decision, he said:
"There's no way out of it. You're caught. The best thing to do, when the game is lost, is to throw down your cards. What were you doing on Tuesday?"
"I? Nothing. I was here."
"You lie. You were off duty. You went out for the day."
"Oh, yes . . . I remember . . . I had a friend to see me from the country. . . . We went for a walk in the Bois."
"Your friend's name was Marco. And you went for a walk in the cellars of the Crédit Lyonnais."
"I? What an idea! . . . Marco! . . . I don't know any one by that name."
"And these? Do you know these?" cried the chief, thrusting a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles under his nose.
"No . . . certainly not. . . . I don't wear spectacles. . . ."
"Yes, you do; you wear them when you go to the Crédit Lyonnais and when you pass yourself off asMr. Kesselbach. These come from your room, the room which you occupy, under the name of M. Jérôme, at No. 50 Rue du Colisee."
"My room?Myroom? I sleep here, at the office."
"But you change your clothes over there, to play your parts in Lupin's gang."
A blow in the chest made him stagger back. Auguste reached the window at a bound, climbed over the balcony and jumped into the courtyard.
"Dash it all!" shouted Valenglay. "The scoundrel!"
He rang the bell, ran to the window, wanted to call out. M. Lenormand, with the greatest calm, said:
"Don't excite yourself, Monsieur le Président . . ."
"But that blackguard of an Auguste . . ."
"One second, please. . . . I foresaw this ending . . . in fact, I allowed for it. . . . It's the best confession we could have. . . ."
Yielding in the presence of this coolness, Valenglay resumed his seat. In a moment, Gourel entered, with his hand on the collar of Master Auguste Maximin Philippe Daileron,aliasJérôme, chief messenger at the Ministry of the Interior.
"Bring him, Gourel!" said M. Lenormand, as who should say, "Fetch it! Bring it!" to a good retriever carrying the game in its jaws. "Did he come quietly?"
"He bit me a little, but I held tight," replied the sergeant, showing his huge, sinewy hand.
"Very well, Gourel. And now take this chap off to the Dépôt in a cab. Good-bye for the present, M. Jérôme."
Valenglay was immensely amused. He rubbed his hands and laughed. The idea that his chief messenger was one of Lupin's accomplices struck him as a most delightfully ludicrous thing.
"Well done, my dear Lenormand; this is wonderful! But how on earth did you manage it?"
"Oh, in the simplest possible fashion. I knew that Mr. Kesselbach was employing the Barbareux agency and that Lupin had called on him, pretending to come from the agency. I hunted in that direction and discovered that, when the indiscretion was committed to the prejudice of Mr. Kesselbach and of Barbareux, it could only have been to the advantage of one Jérôme, a friend of one of the clerks at the agency. If you had not ordered me to hustle things, I should have watched the messenger and caught Marco and then Lupin."
"You'll catch them, Lenormand, you'll catch them, I assure you. And we shall be assisting at the most exciting spectacle in the world: the struggle between Lupin and yourself. I shall bet on you."
The next morning the newspapers published the following letter: