"We are authoritatively informed that M. Lenormand's disappearance has roused Arsène Lupin into taking action. After a brief enquiry and following on his proposal to clear up the Kesselbach case, Arsène Lupin has decided that he will find M. Lenormand, alive or dead, and that he will deliver the author or authors of that heinous series of crimes to justice."
"We are authoritatively informed that M. Lenormand's disappearance has roused Arsène Lupin into taking action. After a brief enquiry and following on his proposal to clear up the Kesselbach case, Arsène Lupin has decided that he will find M. Lenormand, alive or dead, and that he will deliver the author or authors of that heinous series of crimes to justice."
"This authoritative pronouncement comes from you, my dear prince, of course?"
"Yes, it comes from me."
"Therefore, I was right: it means war."
"Yes."
Altenheim gave Sernine a chair, sat down himself and said, in a conciliatory tone:
"Well, no, I cannot allow that. It is impossible that two men like ourselves should fight and injure each other. We have only to come to an explanation, to seek the means: you and I were made to understand each other."
"I think, on the contrary, that two men like ourselves are not made to understand each other."
The baron suppressed a movement of impatience and continued:
"Listen to me, Lupin. . . . By the way, do you mind my calling you Lupin?"
"What shall I call you? Altenheim, Ribeira, or Parbury?"
"Oho! I see that you are even better posted than I thought! . . . Hang it all, but you're jolly smart! . . . All the more reason why we should agree."And, bending toward him, "Listen, Lupin, and ponder my words well; I have weighed them carefully, every one. Look here. . . . We two are evenly matched. . . . Does that make you smile? You are wrong: it may be that you possess resources which I do not; but I have others of which you know nothing. Moreover, as you are aware, I have few scruples, some skill and a capacity for changing my personality which an expert like yourself ought to appreciate. In short, the two adversaries are each as good as the other. But one question remains unanswered: why are we adversaries? We are pursuing the same object, you will say? And what then? Do you know what will come of our rivalry? Each of us will paralyze the efforts and destroy the work of the other; and we shall both miss our aim! And for whose benefit? Some Lenormand or other, a third rogue! . . . It's really too silly."
"It's really too silly, as you say," Sernine admitted. "But there is a remedy."
"What is that?"
"For you to withdraw."
"Don't chaff. I am serious. The proposal which I am going to make is not one to be rejected without examination. Here it is, in two words: let's be partners!"
"I say!"
"Of course, each of us will continue free where his own affairs are concerned. But, for the business in question, let us combine our efforts. Does that suit you? Hand in hand and share alike."
"What do you bring?"
"I?"
"Yes, you know what I'm worth; I've delivered my proofs. In the alliance which you are proposing, youknow the figure, so to speak of my marriage-portion. What's yours?"
"Steinweg."
"That's not much."
"It's immense. Through Steinweg, we learn the truth about Pierre Leduc. Through Steinweg, we get to know what the famous Kesselbach plan is all about."
Sernine burst out laughing:
"And you need me for that?"
"I don't understand."
"Come, old chap, your offer is childish. You have Steinweg in your hands. If you wish for my collaboration, it is because you have not succeeded in making him speak. But for that fact, you would do without my services."
"Well, what of it?"
"I refuse."
The two men stood up to each other once more, violent and implacable.
"I refuse," said Sernine. "Lupin requires nobody, in order to act. I am one of those who walk alone. If you were my equal, as you pretend, the idea of a partnership would never have entered your head. The man who has the stature of a leader commands. Union implies obedience. I do not obey."
"You refuse? You refuse?" repeated Altenheim, turning pale under the insult.
"All that I can do for you, old chap, is to offer you a place in my band. You'll be a private soldier, to begin with. Under my orders, you shall see how a general wins a battle . . . and how he pockets the booty, by himself and for himself. Does that suit you . . . Tommy?"
Altenheim was beside himself with fury. He gnashed his teeth:
"You are making a mistake, Lupin," he mumbled, "you are making a mistake. . . . I don't want anybody either; and this business gives me no more difficulty than plenty of others which I have pulled off. . . . What I said was said in order to effect our object more quickly and without inconveniencing each other."
"You're not inconveniencing me," said Lupin, scornfully.
"Look here! If we don't combine, only one of us will succeed."
"That's good enough for me."
"And he will only succeed by passing over the other's body. Are you prepared for that sort of duel, Lupin? A duel to the death, do you understand? . . . The knife is a method which you despise; but suppose you received one, Lupin, right in the throat?"
"Aha! So, when all is said, that's what you propose?"
"No, I am not very fond of shedding blood. . . . Look at my fists: I strike . . . and my man falls. . . . I have special blows of my own. . . . Butthe other onekills . . . remember . . . the little wound in the throat. . . . Ah, Lupin, beware of him, beware of that one! . . . He is terrible, he is implacable. . . . Nothing stops him."
He spoke these words in a low voice and with such excitement that Sernine shuddered at the hideous thought of the unknown murderer:
"Baron," he sneered, "one would think you were afraid of your accomplice!"
"I am afraid for the others, for those who bar ourroad, for you, Lupin. Accept, or you are lost. I shall act myself, if necessary. The goal is too near . . . I have my hand on it. . . . Get out of my way, Lupin!"
He was all energy and exasperated will. He spoke forcibly and so brutally that he seemed ready to strike his enemy then and there.
Sernine shrugged his shoulders:
"Lord, how hungry I am!" he said, yawning. "What a time to lunch at!"
The door opened.
"Lunch is served, sir," said the butler.
"Ah, that's good hearing!"
In the doorway, Altenheim caught Sernine by the arm and, disregarding the servant's presence:
"If you take my advice . . . accept. This is a serious moment in your life . . . and you will do better, I swear to you, you will do better . . . to accept. . . ."
"Caviare!" cried Sernine. "Now, that's too sweet of you. . . . You remembered that you were entertaining a Russian prince!"
They sat down facing each other, with the baron's greyhound, a large animal with long, silver hair, between them.
"Let me introduce Sirius, my most faithful friend."
"A fellow-countryman," said Sernine. "I shall never forget the one which the Tsar was good enough to give me when I had the honor to save his life."
"Ah, you had that honor . . . a terrorist conspiracy, no doubt?"
"Yes, a conspiracy got up by myself. You must know, this dog—its name, by the way, was Sebastopol. . . ."
The lunch continued merrily. Altenheim had recovered his good humor and the two men vied with each other in wit and politeness. Sernine told anecdotes which the baron capped with others; and it was a succession of stories of hunting, sport and travel, in which the oldest names in Europe were constantly cropping up: Spanish grandees, English lords, Hungarian magyars, Austrian archdukes.
"Ah," said Sernine, "what a fine profession is ours! It brings us into touch with all the best people. Here, Sirius, a bit of this truffled chicken!"
The dog did not take his eyes off him, and snapped at everything that Sernine gave it.
"A glass of Chambertin, prince?"
"With pleasure, baron."
"I can recommend it. It comes from King Leopold's cellar."
"A present?"
"Yes, a present I made myself."
"It's delicious. . . . What a bouquet! . . . With thispâté de foie gras, it's simply wonderful! . . . I must congratulate you, baron; you have a first-rate chef."
"My chef is a woman-cook, prince. I bribed her with untold gold to leave Levraud, the socialist deputy. I say, try this hot chocolate-ice; and let me call your special attention to the little dry cakes that go with it. They're an invention of genius, those cakes."
"The shape is charming, in any case," said Sernine, helping himself. "If they taste as good as they look. . . . Here, Sirius, you're sure to like this. Locusta herself could not have done better."
He took one of the cakes and gave it to the dog. Sirius swallowed it at a gulp, stood motionless for twoor three seconds, as though dazed, then turned in a circle and fell to the floor dead.
Sernine started back from his chair, lest one of the footmen should fall upon him unawares. Then he burst out laughing:
"Look here, baron, next time you want to poison one of your friends, try to steady your voice and to keep your hands from shaking. . . . Otherwise, people suspect you. . . . But I thought you disliked murder?"
"With the knife, yes," said Altenheim, quite unperturbed. "But I have always had a wish to poison some one. I wanted to see what it was like."
"By Jove, old chap, you choose your subjects well! A Russian prince!"
He walked up to Altenheim and, in a confidential tone, said:
"Do you know what would have happened if you had succeeded, that is to say, if my friends had not seen me return at three o'clock at the latest? Well, at half-past three the prefect of police would have known exactly all that there was to know about the so-called Baron Altenheim; and the said baron would have been copped before the day was out and clapped into jail."
"Pooh!" said Altenheim. "Prison one escapes from . . . whereas one does not come back from the kingdom where I was sending you."
"True, but you would have to send me there first; and that's not so easy."
"I only wanted a mouthful of one of those cakes."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Try."
"One thing's certain, my lad: you haven't the stuff yet which great adventurers are made of; and I doubtif you'll ever have it, considering the sort of traps you lay for me. A man who thinks himself worthy of leading the life which you and I have the honor to lead must also be fit to lead it, and, for that, must be prepared for every eventuality: he must even be prepared not to die if some ragamuffin or other tries to poison him. . . . An undaunted soul in an unassailable body: that is the ideal which he must set before himself . . . and attain. Try away, old chap. As for me, I am undaunted and unassailable. Remember King Mithridates!"
He went back to his chair:
"Let's finish our lunch. But as I like proving the virtues to which I lay claim, and as, on the other hand, I don't want to hurt your cook's feelings, just pass me that plate of cakes."
He took one of them, broke it in two and held out one half to the baron:
"Eat that!"
The other gave a movement of recoil.
"Funk!" said Sernine.
And, before the wondering eyes of the baron and his satellites, he began to eat the first and then the second half of the cake, quietly, conscientiously, as a man eats a dainty of which he would hate to miss the smallest morsel.
They met again.
That same evening, Prince Sernine invited Baron Altenheim to dinner at the Cabaret Vatel, with a party consisting of a poet, a musician, a financier and two pretty actresses, members of the Théâtre Français.
The next day, they lunched together in the Bois and, at night, they met at the Opéra.
They saw each other every day for a week. One would have thought that they could not do without each other and that they were united by a great friendship, built up of mutual confidence, sympathy and esteem.
They had a capital time, drinking good wine, smoking excellent cigars, and laughing like two madmen.
In reality, they were watching each other fiercely. Mortal enemies, separated by a merciless hatred, each feeling sure of winning and longing for victory with an unbridled will, they waited for the propitious moment: Altenheim to do away with Sernine; and Sernine to hurl Altenheim into the pit which he was digging for him.
Each knew that the catastrophe could not be long delayed. One or other of them must meet with his doom; and it was a question of hours, or, at most, of days.
It was an exciting tragedy, and one of which a man like Sernine was bound to relish the strange and powerful zest. To know your adversary and to live by his side; to feel that death is waiting for you at the least false step, at the least act of thoughtlessness: what a joy, what a delight!
One evening, they were alone together in the garden of the Rue Cambon Club, to which Altenheim also belonged. It was the hour before dusk, in the month of June, at which men begin to dine before the members come in for the evening's card-play. They were strolling round a little lawn, along which ran a wall lined with shrubs. Beyond the shrubs was a small door. Suddenly, while Altenheim was speaking, Sernine received the impression that his voice became less steady, that it was almost trembling. He watched him out of the corner of his eye. Altenheim had his hand in the pocket of his jacket; and Serninesawthat hand, through the cloth, clutch the handle of a dagger, hesitating, wavering, resolute and weak by turns.
O exquisite moment! Was he going to strike? Which would gain the day: the timid instinct that dare not, or the conscious will, intense upon the act of killing?
His chest flung out, his arms behind his back, Sernine waited, with alternate thrills of pleasure and of pain. The baron had ceased talking; and they now walked on in silence, side by side.
"Well, why don't you strike?" cried the prince, impatiently. He had stopped and, turning to his companion: "Strike!" he said. "This is the time or never. There is no one to see you. You can slip out through that little door; the key happens to be hanging on the wall; and good-bye, baron . . . unseen and unknown! . . . But, of course, all this was arranged . . . you brought me here. . . . And you're hesitating! Why on earth don't you strike?"
He looked him straight in the eyes. The other was livid, quivering with impotent strength.
"You milksop!" Sernine sneered. "I shall never make anything of you. Shall I tell you the truth? Well, you're afraid of me. Yes, old chap, you never feel quite sure what may happen to you when you're face to face with me. You want to act, whereas it's my acts, my possible acts that govern the situation. No, it's quite clear that you're not the man yet to put out my star!"
He had not finished speaking when he felt himselfseized round the throat and dragged backward. Some one hiding in the shrubbery, near the little door, had caught him by the head. He saw a hand raised, armed with a knife with a gleaming blade. The hand fell; the point of the knife caught him right in the throat.
At the same moment Altenheim sprang upon him to finish him off; and they rolled over into the flower-borders. It was a matter of twenty or thirty seconds at most. Powerful and experienced wrestler as he was, Altenheim yielded almost immediately, uttering a cry of pain. Sernine rose and ran to the little door, which had just closed upon a dark form. It was too late. He heard the key turn in the lock. He was unable to open it.
"Ah, you scoundrel!" he said. "The day on which I catch you will be the day on which I shed my first blood! That I swear to God! . . ."
He went back, stooped and picked up the pieces of the knife, which had broken as it struck him.
Altenheim was beginning to move. Sernine asked:
"Well, baron, feeling better? You didn't know that blow, eh? It's what I call the direct blow in the solar plexus; that is to say, it snuffs out your vital sun like a candle. It's clean, quick, painless . . . and infallible. Whereas a blow with a dagger . . . ? Pooh! A man has only to wear a little steel-wove gorget, as I do, and he can set the whole world at defiance, especially your little pal in black, seeing that he always strikes at the throat, the silly monster! . . . Here, look at his favorite plaything . . . smashed to atoms!"
He offered him his hand:
"Come, get up, baron. You shall dine with me.And do please remember the secret of my superiority: an undaunted soul in an unassailable body."
He went back to the club rooms, reserved a table for two, sat down on a sofa, and while waiting for dinner, soliloquized, under his breath:
"It's certainly an amusing game, but it's becoming dangerous. I must get it over . . . otherwise those beggars will send me to Paradise earlier than I want to go. The nuisance is that I can't do anything before I find old Steinweg, for, when all is said, old Steinweg is the only interesting factor in the whole business; and my one reason for sticking to the baron is that I keep on hoping to pick up some clue or other. What the devil have they done with him? Altenheim is in daily communication with him: that is beyond a doubt; it is equally beyond a doubt that he is doing his utmost to drag out of him what he knows about the Kesselbach scheme. But where does he see him? Where has he got him shut up? With friends? In his own house, at 29, Villa Dupont?"
He reflected for some time, then lit a cigarette, took three puffs at it and threw it away. This was evidently a signal, for two young men came and sat down beside him. He did not seem to know them, but he conversed with them by stealth. It was the brothers Doudeville, got up that day like men of fashion.
"What is it, governor?"
"Take six of our men, go to 29, Villa Dupont and make your way in."
"The devil! How?"
"In the name of the law. Are you not detective-inspectors? A search. . . ."
"But we haven't the right. . . ."
"Take it."
"And the servants? If they resist?"
"There are only four of them."
"If they call out?"
"They won't call out."
"If Altenheim returns?"
"He won't return before ten o'clock. I'll see to it. That gives you two hours and a half, which is more than you require to explore the house from top to bottom. If you find old Steinweg, come and tell me."
Baron Altenheim came up. Sernine went to meet him:
"Let's have some dinner, shall we? That little incident in the garden has made me feel hungry. By the way, my dear baron, I have a few bits of advice to give you. . . ."
They sat down to table.
After dinner, Sernine suggested a game of billiards. Altenheim accepted. When the game was over, they went to the baccarat-room. The croupier was just shouting:
"There are fifty louis in the bank. Any bids?"
"A hundred louis," said Altenheim.
Sernine looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. The Doudevilles had not returned. The search, therefore, had been fruitless.
"Banco," he said.
Altenheim sat down and dealt the cards:
"I give."
"No."
"Seven."
"Six. I lose," said Sernine. "Shall I double the stakes?"
"Very well," said the baron.
He dealt out the cards.
"Eight," said Sernine.
"Nine," said the baron, laying his cards down.
Sernine turned on his heels, muttering:
"That costs me three hundred louis, but I don't mind; it fixes him here."
Ten minutes later his motor set him down in front of 29, Villa Dupont; and he found the Doudevilles and their men collected in the hall:
"Have you hunted out the old boy?"
"No."
"Dash it! But he must be somewhere or other. Where are the four servants?"
"Over there, in the pantry, tied up, with the cook as well."
"Good. I would as soon they did not see me. Go all you others. Jean, stay outside and keep watch: Jacques, show me over the house."
He quickly ran through the cellar, the ground floor, the first and second floors and the attic. He practically stopped nowhere, knowing that he would not discover in a few minutes what his men had not been able to discover in three hours. But he carefully noted the shape and the arrangement of the rooms, and looked for some little detail which would put him on the scent.
When he had finished, he returned to a bedroom which Doudeville had told him was Altenheim's, and examined it attentively:
"This will do," he said, raising a curtain that concealed a dark closet, full of clothes. "From here I can see the whole of the room."
"But if the baron searches the house?"
"Why should he?"
"He will know that we have been here, through his servants."
"Yes, but he will never dream that one of us is putting up here for the night. He will think that the attempt failed, that is all, so I shall stay."
"And how will you get out?"
"Oh, that's asking me more than I can tell you! The great thing was to get in. Here I am, and here I stay. Go, Doudeville, and shut the doors as you go."
He sat down on a little box at the back of the cupboard. Four rows of hanging clothes protected him. Except in the case of a close investigation, he was evidently quite safe.
Two hours passed. He heard the dull sound of a horse's hoofs and the tinkling of a collar-bell. A carriage stopped, the front door slammed and almost immediately he heard voices, exclamations, a regular outcry that increased, probably, as each of the prisoners was released from his gag.
"They are explaining the thing to him," he thought. "The baron must be in a tearing rage. He now understands the reason for my conduct at the club to-night and sees that I have dished him nicely. . . . Dished? That depends. . . . After all, I haven't got Steinweg yet. . . . That is the first thing that he will want to know: did they get Steinweg? To find this out, he will go straight to the hiding-place. If he goes up, it means that the hiding-place is upstairs. If he goes down, then it is in the basement."
He listened. The sound of voices continued in the rooms on the ground floor, but it did not seem as if any one were moving. Altenheim must be cross-examining his confederates. It was half an hour before Sernine heard steps mounting the staircase.
"Then it must be upstairs," he said to himself. "But why did they wait so long?"
"Go to bed, all of you," said Altenheim's voice.
The baron entered his room with one of his men and shut the door:
"And I am going to bed, too, Dominique. We should be no further if we sat arguing all night."
"My opinion is," said the other, "that he came to fetch Steinweg."
"That is my opinion, too; and that's why I'm really enjoying myself, seeing that Steinweg isn't here."
"But where is he, after all? What have you done with him?"
"That's my secret; and you know I keep my secrets to myself. All that I can tell you is that he is in safe keeping, and that he won't get out before he has spoken."
"So the prince is sold?"
"Sold is the word. And he has had to fork out to attain this fine result! Oh, I've had a good time to-night! . . . Poor prince!"
"For all that," said the other, "we shall have to get rid of him."
"Make your mind easy, old man; that won't take long. Before a week's out you shall have a present of a pocket-book made out of Lupin-skin. But let me go to bed now. I'm dropping with sleep."
There was a sound of the door closing. Then Sernine heard the baron push the bolt, empty his pockets, wind up his watch and undress. He seemed in a gay mood, whistling and singing, and even talking aloud:
"Yes, a Lupin-skin pocket-book . . . in less than a week . . . in less than four days! . . . Otherwise he'll eat us up, the bully! . . . No matter, he missed his shot to-night. . . . Hiscalculation was right enough, though . . . Steinweg was bound to be here. . . . Only, there you are! . . ."
He got into bed and at once switched off the light.
Sernine had come forward as far as the dividing curtain, which he now lifted slightly, and he saw the vague light of the night filtering through the windows, leaving the bed in profound darkness.
He hesitated. Should he leap out upon the baron, take him by the throat and obtain from him by force and threats what he had not been able to obtain by craft? Absurd? Altenheim would never allow himself to be intimidated.
"I say, he's snoring now," muttered Sernine. "Well, I'm off. At the worst, I shall have wasted a night."
He did not go. He felt that it would be impossible for him to go, that he must wait, that chance might yet serve his turn.
With infinite precautions, he took four or five coats and great-coats from their hooks, laid them on the floor, made himself comfortable and, with his back to the wall, went peacefully to sleep.
The baron was not an early riser. A clock outside was striking nine when he got out of bed and rang for his servant.
He read the letters which his man brought him, splashed about in his tub, dressed without saying a word and sat down to his table to write, while Dominique was carefully hanging up the clothes of the previous day in the cupboard and Sernine asking himself, with his fists ready to strike:
"I wonder if I shall have to stave in this fellow's solar plexus?"
At ten o'clock the baron was ready:
"Leave me," said he to the servant.
"There's just this waistcoat. . . ."
"Leave me, I say. Come back when I ring . . . not before."
He shut the door himself, like a man who does not trust others, went to a table on which a telephone was standing and took down the receiver:
"Hullo! . . . Put me on to Garches, please, mademoiselle. . . . Very well, I'll wait till you ring me up. . . ."
He sat down to the instrument.
The telephone-bell rang.
"Hullo!" said Altenheim. "Is that Garches? . . . Yes, that's right. . . . Give me number 38, please, mademoiselle. . . ."
A few seconds later, in a lower voice, as low and as distinct as he could make it, he began:
"Are you 38? . . . It's I speaking; no useless words. . . . Yesterday? . . . Yes, you missed him in the garden. . . . Another time, of course; but the thing's becoming urgent. . . . He had the house searched last night. . . . I'll tell you about it. . . . Found nothing, of course. . . . What? . . . Hullo! . . . No, old Steinweg refuses to speak. . . . Threats, promises, nothing's any good. . . . Hullo! . . . Yes, of course, he sees that we can do nothing. . . . We know just a part of the Kesselbach scheme and of the story of Pierre Leduc. . . . He's the only one who has the answer to the riddle. . . . Oh, he'll speak all right; that I'll answer for . . . this very night, too . . . If not . . . What? . . . Well, what can we do? Anything rather than let him escape! Do you wantthe prince to bag him from us? As for the prince, we shall have to cook his goose in three days from now. . . . You have an idea? . . . Yes, that's a good idea. . . . Oh, oh, excellent! I'll see to it. . . . When shall we meet? Will Tuesday do? Right you are. I'll come on Tuesday . . . at two o'clock. . . . Good-bye."
He replaced the receiver and went out.
A few hours later, while the servants were at lunch, Prince Sernine strolled quietly out of the Villa Dupont, feeling rather faint in the head and weak in the knees, and, while making for the nearest restaurant, he thus summed up the situation:
"So, on Tuesday next, Altenheim and the Palace Hotel murderer have an appointment at Garches, in a house with the telephone number 38. On Tuesday, therefore, I shall hand over the two criminals to the police and set M. Lenormand at liberty. In the evening, it will be old Steinweg's turn; and I shall learn, at last, whether Pierre Leduc is the son of a pork-butcher or not and whether he will make a suitable husband for Geneviève. So be it!"
At eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning Valenglay, the prime minister, sent for the prefect of police and M. Weber, the deputy-chief of the detective-service, and showed them an express letter which he had just received:
"Monsieur le Président du Conseil,"Knowing the interest which you take in M. Lenormand, I am writing to inform you of certain facts which chance has revealed to me."M. Lenormand is locked up in the cellars of the Villa des Glycines at Garches, near the House of Retreat."The ruffians of the Palace Hotel have resolved to murder him at two o'clock to-day."If the police require my assistance, they will find me at half-past one in the garden of the House of Retreat, or at the garden-house occupied by Mrs. Kesselbach, whose friend I have the honor to be."I am, Monsieur le Président du Conseil,"Your obedient servant,"Prince Sernine."
"Monsieur le Président du Conseil,
"Knowing the interest which you take in M. Lenormand, I am writing to inform you of certain facts which chance has revealed to me.
"M. Lenormand is locked up in the cellars of the Villa des Glycines at Garches, near the House of Retreat.
"The ruffians of the Palace Hotel have resolved to murder him at two o'clock to-day.
"If the police require my assistance, they will find me at half-past one in the garden of the House of Retreat, or at the garden-house occupied by Mrs. Kesselbach, whose friend I have the honor to be.
"I am, Monsieur le Président du Conseil,
"Your obedient servant,
"Prince Sernine."
"This is an exceedingly grave matter, my dear M. Weber," said Valenglay. "I may add that we can have every confidence in the accuracy of Prince Sernine's statements. I have often met him at dinner. He is a serious, intelligent man. . . ."
"Will you allow me, Monsieur le Président," asked the deputy-chief detective, "to show you another letter which I also received this morning?"
"About the same case?"
"Yes."
"Let me see it."
He took the letter and read:
"Sir,"This is to inform you that Prince Paul Sernine, who calls himself Mrs. Kesselbach's friend, is really Arsène Lupin."One proof will be sufficient:Paul Sernineis the anagram ofArsène Lupin. Not a letter more, not a letter less."L. M."
"Sir,
"This is to inform you that Prince Paul Sernine, who calls himself Mrs. Kesselbach's friend, is really Arsène Lupin.
"One proof will be sufficient:Paul Sernineis the anagram ofArsène Lupin. Not a letter more, not a letter less.
"L. M."
And M. Weber added, while Valenglay stood amazed:
"This time, our friend Lupin has found an adversary who is a match for him. While he denounces the other, the other betrays him to us. And the fox is caught in the trap."
"What do you propose to do?"
"Monsieur le Président, I shall take two hundred men with me!"
A quarter past twelve, in a restaurant near the Madeleine. The prince is at lunch. Two young men sit down at the next table. He bows to them and begins to speak to them, as to friends whom he has met by chance.
"Are you going on the expedition, eh?"
"Yes."
"How many men altogether?"
"Six, I think. Each goes down by himself. We're to meet M. Weber at a quarter to two, near the House of Retreat."
"Very well, I shall be there."
"What?"
"Am I not leading the expedition? And isn't it my business to find M. Lenormand, seeing that I've announced it publicly?"
"Then you believe that M. Lenormand is not dead, governor?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Do you know anything?"
"Yes, since yesterday I know for certain that Altenheim and his gang took M. Lenormand and Gourel to the bridge at Bougival and heaved them overboard. Gourel sank, but M. Lenormand managed to save himself. I shall furnish all the necessary proofs when the time comes."
"But, then, if he's alive, why doesn't he show himself?"
"Because he's not free."
"Is what you said true, then? Is he in the cellars of the Villa des Glycines?"
"I have every reason to think so."
"But how do you know? . . . What clue? . . ."
"That's my secret. I can tell you one thing: the revelation will be—what shall I say—sensational. Have you finished?"
"Yes."
"My car is behind the Madeleine. Join me there."
At Garches, Sernine sent the motor away, and they walked to the path that led to Geneviève's school. There he stopped:
"Listen to me, lads. This is of the highest importance. You will ring at the House of Retreat. As inspectors, you have your right of entry, have you not? You will then go to the Pavillon Hortense, the empty one. There you will run down to the basement and you will find an old shutter, which you have only to lift to see the opening of a tunnel which I discovered lately and which forms a direct communication with the Villa des Glycines. It was by means of this that Gertrude and Baron Altenheim used to meet. And it was this way that M. Lenormand passed, only to end by falling into the hands of his enemies."
"You think so, governor?"
"Yes, I think so. And now the point is this: you must go and make sure that the tunnel is exactly in the condition in which I left it last night; that the two doors which bar it are open; and that there is still, in a hole near the second door, a parcel wrapped in a piece of black cloth which I put there myself."
"Are we to undo the parcel?"
"No, that's not necessary. It's a change of clothes. Go; and don't let yourselves be seen more than you can help. I will wait for you."
Ten minutes later, they were back:
"The two doors are open," said one of the Doudevilles.
"And the black cloth parcel?"
"In its place near the second door."
"Capital! It is twenty-five past one. Weber will be arriving with his champions. They are to watch the villa. They will surround it as soon as Altenheim is inside. I have arranged with Weber that I shall ring the bell; the door will be opened; and I shall have my foot inside the citadel. Once there, I have my plan. Come, I've an idea that we shall see some fun."
And Sernine, after dismissing them, walked down the path to the school, soliloquizing as he went:
"All bodes well. The battle will be fought on the ground chosen by myself. I am bound to win. I shall get rid of my two adversaries and I shall find myself alone engaged in the Kesselbach case . . . alone, with two whacking trump-cards: Pierre Leduc and Steinweg. . . . Besides the king . . . that is to say, Bibi. Only, there's one thing: what is Altenheim up to? Obviously, he has a plan of attack of his own. On which side does he mean to attack me? And how does it come that he has not attacked me yet? It's rather startling. Can he have denounced me to the police?"
He went along the little playground of the school. The pupils were at their lessons. He knocked at the door.
"Ah, is that you?" said Mme. Ernemont, opening the door. "So you have left Geneviève in Paris?"
"For me to do that, Geneviève would have to be in Paris," he replied.
"So she has been, seeing that you sent for her."
"What's that?" he exclaimed catching hold of her arm.
"Why, you know better than I!"
"I know nothing. . . . I know nothing. . . . Speak! . . ."
"Didn't you write to Geneviève to meet you at the Gare Saint-Lazare?"
"And did she go?"
"Why, of course. . . . You were to lunch together at the Hôtel Ritz."
"The letter. . . . Show me the letter."
She went to fetch it and gave it to him.
"But, wretched woman, couldn't you see that it was a forgery? The handwriting is a good imitation . . . but it's a forgery. . . . Any one can see that." He pressed his clenched hands to his temples with rage. "That's the move I was wondering about. Oh, the dirty scoundrel! He's attacking me through her . . . . But how does he know? No, he does not know. . . . He's tried it on twice now . . . and it's because of Geneviève, because he's taken a fancy to her. . . . Oh, not that! Never! Listen, Victoire, are you sure that she doesn't love him? . . . Oh, I'm losing my head! . . . Wait . . . wait! . . . I must think . . . this isn't the moment. . . ."
He looked at his watch:
"Twenty-five minutes to two. . . . I have time. . . . Idiot that I am! Time to do what? How do I know where she is?"
He walked up and down like a madman; and his old nurse seemed astounded at seeing him so excited, with so little control of himself:
"After all," she said, "there is nothing to prove that she did not suspect the trap at the last moment. . . ."
"Where could she be?"
"I don't know . . . perhaps at Mrs. Kesselbach's."
"That's true . . . that's true. . . . You're right," he cried, filled with sudden hope.
And he set out at a run for the House of Retreat.
On the way, near the gate, he met the brothers Doudeville, who were entering the porter's lodge. The lodge looked out on the road; and this enabled them to watch the approaches to the Villa des Glycines. Without stopping, he went straight to the Pavillon de l'Impératrice, called Suzanne and told her to take him to Mrs. Kesselbach.
"Geneviève?" he asked.
"Geneviève?"
"Yes; hasn't she been here?"
"No, not for several days. . . ."
"But she is to come, is she not?"
"Do you think so?"
"Why, I'm certain of it. Where do you think she is? Can you remember? . . ."
"It's no use my trying. I assure you that Geneviève and I had made no arrangement to see each other." And, suddenly alarmed: "But you're not anxious, are you? Has anything happened to Geneviève?"
"No, nothing."
He had already left the room. An idea had occurred to him. Suppose Altenheim were not at the Villa des Glycines? Suppose the hour of the meeting had been changed!
"I must see him," he said to himself. "I must, at all costs."
And he ran along with a disordered air, indifferent to everything. But, in front of the lodge, he at once recovered his composure: he had caught sight of the deputy-chief of the detective-service talking to the brothers Doudeville in the garden.
Had he commanded his usual acute discernment, he would have perceived the little start which M. Weber gave as he approached; but he saw nothing:
"M. Weber, I believe?" he asked.
"Yes. . . . To whom have I the honor . . . ?"
"Prince Sernine."
"Ah, very good! Monsieur le Préfet de Police has told me of the great service which you are doing us, monsieur."
"That service will not be complete until I have handed the ruffians over to you."
"That won't take long. I believe that one of those ruffians has just gone in; a powerful-looking man, with a swarthy complexion. . . ."
"Yes, that's Baron Altenheim. Are your men here, M. Weber?"
"Yes, concealed along the road, at two hundred yards from this."
"Well, M. Weber, it seems to me that you might collect them and bring them to this lodge. From here we will go to the villa. As Baron Altenheim knows me, I presume they will open the door to me and I will go in . . . with you."
"It is an excellent plan," said M. Weber. "I shall come back at once."
He left the garden and walked down the road, in the opposite direction to the Villa des Glycines.
Sernine quickly took one of the brothers Doudeville by the arm:
"Run after him, Jacques . . . keep him engaged . . . long enough for me to get inside the Glycines. . . . And then delay the attack as long as you can. . . . Invent pretexts. . . . I shall want ten minutes. . . . Let the villa be surrounded . . . but not entered. And you, Jean, go and post yourself in the Pavillon Hortense, at the entrance to the underground passage. If the baron tries to go out that way, break his head."
The Doudevilles moved away, as ordered. The prince slipped out and ran to a tall gate, barred with iron, which was the entrance to the Glycines.
Should he ring? . . .
There was no one in sight. With one bound, he leapt upon the gate, placing his foot on the lock; and, hanging on to the bars, getting a purchase with his knees and hoisting himself up with his wrists, he managed, at the risk of falling on the sharp points of the bars, to climb over the gate and jump down.
He found a paved courtyard, which he crossed briskly, and mounted the steps of a pillared peristyle, on which the windows looked out. These were all closed to the very top, with full shutters. As he stood thinking how he should make his way into the house, the door was half opened, with a noise of iron that reminded him of the door in the Villa Dupont, and Altenheim appeared:
"I say, prince, is that the way you trespass on private property? I shall be forced to call in the gendarmes, my dear fellow!"
Sernine caught him by the throat and, throwing him down on a bench:
"Geneviève? . . . Where is Geneviève? Ifyou don't tell me what you've done with her, you villain. . . ."
"Please observe," stammered the baron, "that you are making it impossible for me to speak."
Sernine released his hold of him:
"To the point! . . . And look sharp! . . . Answer. . . . Geneviève?"
"There is one thing," replied the baron, "which is much more urgent, especially where fellows like you and me are concerned, and that is to feel one's self at home. . . ."
And he carefully closed the front door, which he barricaded with bolts. Then, leading Sernine to the adjoining drawing-room, a room without furniture or curtains, he said:
"Now I'm your man. What can I do for you, prince?"
"Geneviève?"
"She is in perfect health."
"Ah, so you confess . . . ?"
"Of course! I may even tell you that your imprudence in this respect surprised me. Why didn't you take a few precautions? It was inevitable. . . ."
"Enough! Where is she?"
"You are not very polite."
"Where is she?"
"Between four walls, free. . . ."
"Free?"
"Yes, free to go from one wall to another."
"Where? Where?"
"Come, prince, do you think I should be fool enough to tell you the secret by which I hold you? You love the little girl . . ."
"Hold your tongue!" shouted Sernine, beside himself. "I forbid you. . . ."
"What next? Is there anything to be ashamed of? I love her myself and I have risked . . ."
He did not complete his sentence, frightened by the terrific anger of Sernine, a restrained, dumb anger that distorted the prince's features.
They looked at each other for a long time, each of them seeking for the adversary's weak point. At last, Sernine stepped forward and, speaking very distinctly, like a man who is threatening rather than proposing a compact:
"Listen to me," he said. "You remember the offer of partnership which you made me? The Kesselbach business for the two of us . . . we were to act together . . . we were to share the profits. . . . I refused. . . . To-day, I accept. . . ."
"Too late."
"Wait! I accept more than that: I give the whole business up. . . . I shall take no further part in it. . . . You shall have it all. . . . If necessary, I'll help you."
"What is the condition?"
"Tell me where Geneviève is."
The baron shrugged his shoulders:
"You're driveling, Lupin. I'm sorry for you . . . at your age. . . ."
There was a fresh silence between the two enemies, a terrible silence. Then the baron sneered:
"All the same, it's a holy joy to see you like that, sniveling and begging. I say, it seems to me that the private soldier is giving his general a sound beating!"
"You ass!" muttered Sernine.
"Prince, I shall send you my seconds this evening . . . if you are still in this world."
"You ass!" repeated Sernine, with infinite contempt.
"You would rather settle the matter here and now? As you please, prince: your last hour has struck. You can commend your soul to God. You smile! That's a mistake. I have one immense advantage over you! I kill . . . when it's necessary. . . ."
"You ass!" said Sernine once more. He took out his watch. "It is two o'clock, baron. You have only a few minutes left. At five past two, ten past at the very latest, M. Weber and half-a-dozen sturdy men, without a scruple amongst them, will lay hands on you. . . . Don't you smile, either. The outlet on which you're reckoning is discovered; I know it: it is guarded. So you are thoroughly caught. It means the scaffold, old chap."
Altenheim turned livid. He stammered:
"You did this? . . . You have had the infamy . . ."
"The house is surrounded. The assault is at hand. Speak . . . and I will save you."
"How?"
"The men watching the outlet in the Pavillon Hortense belong to me. I have only to give you a word for them and you are saved. Speak!"
Altenheim reflected for a few seconds and seemed to hesitate; but, suddenly, resolutely, declared:
"This is all bluff. You would never have been simple enough to rush into the lion's mouth."
"You're forgetting Geneviève. But for her, do you think I should be here? Speak!"
"No."
"Very well. Let us wait," said Sernine. "A cigarette?"
"Thank you."
A few seconds passed.
"Do you hear?" asked Sernine.
"Yes . . . yes . . ." said Altenheim, rising.
Blows rang against the gate. Sernine observed:
"Not even the usual summons . . . no preliminaries. . . . Your mind is still made up?"
"More so than ever."
"You know that, with the tools they carry, they won't take long?"
"If they were inside this room I should still refuse."
The gate yielded. They heard it creak on its hinges.
"To allow one's self to get nabbed," said Sernine, "is admissible. But to hold out one's own hands to the handcuffs is too silly. Come, don't be obstinate. Speak . . . and bolt!"
"And you?"
"I shall remain. What have I to be afraid of?"
"Look!"
The baron pointed to a chink between the shutters. Sernine put his eye to it and jumped back with a start:
"Oh, you scoundrel, so you have denounced me, too! It's not ten men that Weber's bringing, but fifty men, a hundred, two hundred. . . ."
The baron laughed open-heartedly:
"And, if there are so many of them, it's because they're after Lupin; that's obvious! Half-a-dozen would have been enough for me."
"You informed the police?"
"Yes."
"What proof did you give?"
"Your name:Paul Sernine, that is to say,Arsène Lupin."
"And you found that out all by yourself, did you? . . . A thing which nobody else thought of? . . . Nonsense! It was the other one. Admit it!"
He looked out through the chink. Swarms of policemen were spreading round the villa; and the blows were now sounding on the door. He must, however, think of one of two things: either his escape, or else the execution of the plan which he had contrived. But to go away, even for a moment, meant leaving Altenheim; and who could guarantee that the baron had not another outlet at his disposal to escape by? This thought paralyzed Sernine. The baron free! The baron at liberty to go back to Geneviève and torture her and make her subservient to his odious love!
Thwarted in his designs, obliged to improvise a new plan on the very second, while subordinating everything to the danger which Geneviève was running, Sernine passed through a moment of cruel indecision. With his eyes fixed on the baron's eyes, he would have liked to tear his secret from him and to go away; and he no longer even tried to convince him, so useless did all words seem to him. And, while pursuing his own thoughts, he asked himself what the baron's thoughts could be, what his weapons, what his hope of safety?
The hall-door, though strongly bolted, though sheeted with iron, was beginning to give way.
The two men stood behind that door, motionless. The sound of voices, the sense of words reached them.
"You seem very sure of yourself," said Sernine.
"I should think so!" cried the other, suddenly tripping him to the floor and running away.
Sernine sprang up at once, dived through a little door under the staircase, through which Altenheim had disappeared, and ran down the stone steps to the basement. . . .
A passage led to a large, low, almost pitch-dark room,where he found the baron on his knees, lifting the flap of a trap-door.
"Idiot!" shouted Sernine, flinging himself upon him. "You know that you will find my men at the end of this tunnel and that they have orders to kill you like a dog. . . . Unless . . . unless you have an outlet that joins on to this. . . . Ah, there, of course, I've guessed it! . . . And you imagine . . ."
The fight was a desperate one. Altenheim, a real colossus, endowed with exceptional muscular force, had caught his adversary round the arms and body and was pressing him against his own chest, numbing his arms and trying to smother him.
"Of course . . . of course," Sernine panted, with difficulty, "of course . . . that's well thought out. . . . As long as I can't use my arms to break some part of you, you will have the advantage . . . Only . . . can you . . . ?"
He gave a shudder. The trap-door, which had closed again and on the flap of which they were bearing down with all their weight, the trap-door seemed to move beneath them. He felt the efforts that were being made to raise it; and the baron must have felt them too, for he desperately tried to shift the ground of the contest so that the trap-door might open.
"It's 'the other one'!" thought Sernine, with the sort of unreasoning terror which that mysterious being caused him. "It's the other one. . . . If he gets through, I'm done for."
By dint of imperceptible movements, Altenheim had succeeded in shifting his own position; and he tried to drag his adversary after him. But Sernine clung with his legs to the baron's legs and, at the same time, very gradually, tried to release one of his hands.
Above their heads great blows resounded, like the blows of a battering-ram. . . .
"I have five minutes," thought Sernine. "In one minute this fellow will have to . . ." Then, speaking aloud, "Look out, old chap. Stand tight!"
He brought his two knees together with incredible force. The baron yelled, with a twisted thigh. Then Sernine, taking advantage of his adversary's pain, made an effort, freed his right arm and seized him by the throat:
"That's capital! . . . We shall be more comfortable like this. . . . No, it's not worth while getting out your knife. . . . If you do, I'll wring your neck like a chicken's. You see, I'm polite and considerate. . . . I'm not pressing too hard . . . just enough to keep you from even wanting to kick about."
While speaking he took from his pocket a very thin cord and, with one hand, with extreme skill, fastened his wrists. For that matter, the baron, now at his last gasp, offered not the least resistance. With a few accurate movements, Sernine tied him up firmly:
"How well you're behaving! What a good thing! I should hardly know you. Here, in case you were thinking of escaping, I have a roll of wire that will finish off my little work. . . . The wrists first. . . . Now the ankles. . . . That's it! . . . By Jove, how nice you look!"
The baron had gradually come to himself again. He spluttered:
"If you give me up, Geneviève will die."
"Really? . . . And how? . . . Explain yourself."
"She is locked up. No one knows where she is. If I'm put away, she will die of starvation."
Sernine shuddered. He retorted:
"Yes, but you will speak."
"Never!"
"Yes, you will speak. Not now; it's too late. But to-night." He bent down over him and, whispering in his ear, said, "Listen, Altenheim, and understand what I say. You'll be caught presently. To-night, you'll sleep at the Dépôt. That is fatal, irrevocable. I myself can do nothing to prevent it now. And, to-morrow, they will take you to the Santé; and later, you know where. . . . Well, I'm giving you one more chance of safety. To-night, you understand, I shall come to your cell, at the Dépôt, and you shall tell me where Geneviève is. Two hours later, if you have told the truth, you shall be free. If not . . . it means that you don't attach much value to your head."
The other made no reply. Sernine stood up and listened. There was a great crash overhead. The entrance-door yielded. Footsteps beat the flags of the hall and the floor of the drawing room. M. Weber and his men were searching.
"Good-bye, baron. Think it over until this evening. The prison-cell is a good counsellor."
He pushed his prisoner aside, so as to uncover the trap-door, and lifted it. As he expected, there was no longer any one below on the steps of the staircase.
He went down, taking care to leave the trap-door open behind him, as though he meant to come back.
There were twenty steps, at the bottom of which began the passage through which M. Lenormand and Gourel had come in the opposite direction. He entered it and gave an exclamation. He thought he felt somebody's presence there.
He lit his pocket-lantern. The passage was empty.
Then he cocked his revolver and said aloud:
"All right. . . . I'm going to fire."
No reply. Not a sound.
"It's an illusion, no doubt," he thought. "That creature is becoming an obsession. . . . Come, if I want to pull off my stroke and win the game, I must hurry. . . . The hole in which I hid the parcel of clothes is not far off. I shall take the parcel . . . and the trick is done. . . . And what a trick! One of Lupin's best! . . ."
He came to a door that stood open and at once stopped. To the right was an excavation, the one which M. Lenormand had made to escape from the rising water. He stooped and threw his light into the opening:
"Oh!" he said, with a start. "No, it's not possible . . . Doudeville must have pushed the parcel farther along."
But, search and pry into the darkness as he might, the parcel was gone; and he had no doubt but that it was once more the mysterious being who had taken it.
"What a pity! The thing was so neatly arranged! The adventure would have resumed its natural course, and I should have achieved my aim with greater certainty. . . . As it is, I must push along as fast as I can. . . . Doudeville is at the Pavillon Hortense. . . . My retreat is insured. . . . No more nonsense. . . . I must hurry and set things straight again, if I can. . . . And we'll attend to 'him' afterward. . . . Oh, he'd better keep clear of my claws, that one!"
But an exclamation of stupor escaped his lips; he had come to the other door; and this door, the last before the garden-house, was shut. He flung himself upon it. What was the good? What could he do?
"This time," he muttered, "I'm badly done!"
And, seized with a sort of lassitude, he sat down. He had a sense of his weakness in the face of the mysterious being. Altenheim hardly counted. But the other, that person of darkness and silence, the other loomed up before him, upset all his plans and exhausted him with his cunning and infernal attacks.
He was beaten.
Weber would find him there, like an animal run to earth, at the bottom of his cave.
"Ah, no!" he cried, springing up with a bound. "No! If there were only myself, well and good! . . . But there is Geneviève, Geneviève, who must be saved to-night. . . . After all, the game is not yet lost. . . . If the other one vanished just now, it proves that there is a second outlet somewhere near. . . . Come, come, Weber and his merry men haven't got me yet. . . ."
He had already begun to explore the tunnel and, lantern in hand, was examining the bricks of which the horrible walls were formed, when a yell reached his ears, a dreadful yell that made his flesh creep with anguish.
It came from the direction of the trap-door. And he suddenly remembered that he had left the trap-door open, at the time when he intended to return to the Villa des Glycines.
He hurried back and passed through the first door. His lantern went out on the road; and he felt something, or rather somebody, brush past his knees, somebody crawl along the wall. And, at that same moment, he had a feeling that this being was disappearing, vanishing, he knew not which way.
Just then his foot knocked against a step.
"This is the outlet," he thought, "the second outlet through which 'he' passes."
Overhead, the cry sounded again, less loud, followed by moans, by a hoarse gurgling. . . .
He ran up the stairs, came out in the basement room, and rushed to the baron.
Altenheim lay dying, with the blood streaming from his throat! His bonds were cut, but the wire that fastened his wrists and ankles was intact.His accomplice, being unable to release him, had cut his throat.
Sernine gazed upon the sight with horror. An icy perspiration covered his whole body. He thought of Geneviève, imprisoned, helpless, abandoned to the most awful of deaths, because the baron alone knew where she was hidden.
He distinctly heard the policemen open the little back door in the hall. He distinctly heard them come down the kitchen stairs.
There was nothing between him and them save one door, that of the basement room in which he was. He bolted the door at the very moment when the aggressors were laying hold of the handle.
The trap-door was open beside him; it meant possible safety, because there remained the second outlet.
"No," he said to himself, "Geneviève first. Afterward, if I have time, I will think of myself."
He knelt down and put his hand on the baron's breast. The heart was still beating.
He stooped lower still:
"You can hear me, can't you?"
The eyelids flickered feebly.
The dying man was just breathing. Was there anything to be obtained from this faint semblance of life?
The policemen were attacking the door, the last rampart.
Sernine whispered.
"I will save you. . . . I have infallible remedies. . . . One word only . . . Geneviève? . . ."
It was as though this word of hope revived the man's strength. Altenheim tried to utter articulate sounds.
"Answer," said Sernine, persisting. "Answer, and I will save you. . . . Answer. . . . It means your life to-day . . . your liberty to-morrow. . . . Answer! . . ."
The door shook under the blows that rained upon it.
The baron gasped out unintelligible syllables. Leaning over him, affrighted, straining all his energy, all his will to the utmost, Sernine panted with anguish. He no longer gave a thought to the policemen, his inevitable capture, prison. . . . But Geneviève. . . . Geneviève dying of hunger, whom one word from that villain could set free! . . .
"Answer! . . . You must! . . ."
He ordered and entreated by turns. Altenheim stammered, as though hypnotized and defeated by that indomitable imperiousness:
"Ri . . . Rivoli. . . ."
"Rue de Rivoli, is that it? You have locked her up in a house in that street . . . eh? Which number?"
A loud din . . . followed by shouts of triumph. . . . The door was down.
"Jump on him, lads!" cried M. Weber. "Seize him . . . seize both of them!"
And Sernine, on his knees:
"The number . . . answer. . . . If you love her, answer. . . . Why keep silence now?"