WHEN the race was over, a crowd
of people, streaming toward the exit from the grand
stand, pushed against Nicolas Dugrival. He brought his
hand smartly to the inside pocket of his jacket.
"What's the matter?" asked his wife.
"I still feel nervous . . . with that
money on me! I'm afraid of some nasty accident."
She muttered:
"And I can't understand you. How can
you think of carrying such a sum about with you? Every
farthing we possess! Lord knows, it cost us trouble
enough to earn!"
"Pooh!" he said. "No one would guess
that it is here, in my pocket-book."
"Yes, yes," she grumbled. "That young
manservant whom we discharged last week knew all about
it, didn't he, Gabriel?"
"Yes, aunt," said a youth standing
beside her.
Nicolas Dugrival, his wife and his
nephew Gabriel were well-known figures at the
race-meetings, where
the regular frequenters saw them almost every day:
Dugrival, a big, fat, red-faced man, who looked as if
he knew how to enjoy life; his wife, also built on
heavy lines, with a coarse, vulgar face, and always
dressed in a plum-coloured silk much the worse for
wear; the nephew, quite young, slender, with pale
features, dark eyes and fair and rather curly hair.
As a rule, the couple remained seated
throughout the afternoon. It was Gabriel who betted for
his uncle, watching the horses in the paddock, picking
up tips to right and left among the jockeys and
stable-lads, running backward and forward between the
stands and the pari-mutuel.
Luck had favoured them that day, for,
three times, Dugrival's neighbours saw the young man
come back and hand him money.
The fifth race was just finishing.
Dugrival lit a cigar. At that moment, a gentleman in a
tight-fitting brown suit, with a face ending in a
peaked gray beard, came up to him and asked, in a
confidential whisper:
"Does this happen to belong to you,
sir?"
And he displayed a gold watch and
chain.
Dugrival gave a start:
"Why, yes . . . it's mine. . . . Look,
here are my initials, N.G.: Nicolas Dugrival!
And he at once, with a movement of terror,
clapped
his hand to his jacket-pocket. The note-case was still
there.
"Ah," he said, greatly relieved,
"that's a piece of luck! . . . But, all the same, how
on earth was it done? . . . Do you know the scoundrel?"
"Yes, we've got him locked up. Pray
come with me and we'll soon look into the matter."
"Whom have I the honour . . . ?"
"M. Delangle, detective-inspector. I
have sent to let M. Marquenne, the magistrate, know."
Nicolas Dugrival went out with the
inspector; and the two of them started for the
commissary's office, some distance behind the grand
stand. They were within fifty yards of it, when the
inspector was accosted by a man who said to him,
hurriedly:
"The fellow with the watch has blabbed;
we are on the tracks of a whole gang. M. Marquenne
wants you to wait for him at the pari-mutuel and
to keep a look-out near the fourth booth."
There was a crowd outside the
betting-booths and Inspector Delangle muttered:
"It's an absurd arrangement. . . . Whom
am I to look out for? . . . That's just like M.
Marquenne! . . ."
He pushed aside a group of people who
were crowding too close upon him:
"By Jove, one has to use one's elbows
here and
keep a tight hold on one's purse. That's the way you
got your watch pinched, M. Dugrival!"
"I can't understand. . . ."
"Oh, if you knew how those gentry go to
work! One never guesses what they're up to next. One of
them treads on your foot, another gives you a poke in
the eye with his stick and the third picks your pocket
before you know where you are. . . . I've been had that
way myself." He stopped and then continued, angrily.
"But, bother it, what's the use of hanging about here!
What a mob! It's unbearable! . . . Ah, there's M.
Marquenne making signs to us! . . . One moment, please
. . . and be sure and wait for me here."
He shouldered his way through the
crowd. Nicolas Dugrival followed him for a moment with
his eyes. Once the inspector was out of sight, he stood
a little to one side, to avoid being hustled.
A few minutes passed. The sixth race
was about to start, when Dugrival saw his wife and
nephew looking for him. He explained to them that
Inspector Delangle was arranging matters with the
magistrate.
"Have you your money still?" asked his
wife.
"Why, of course I have!" he replied.
"The inspector and I took good care, I assure you, not
to let the crowd jostle us."
He felt his jacket, gave a stifled cry,
thrust his hand into his pocket and began to stammer
inarticulate syllables, while Mme. Dugrival gasped, in
dismay:
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"Stolen!" he moaned. "The pocket-book .
. . the fifty notes! . . ."
"It's not true!" she screamed. "It's
not true!"
"Yes, the inspector . . . a common
sharper . . . he's the man. . . ."
She uttered absolute yells:
"Thief! Thief! Stop thief! . . . My
husband's been robbed! . . . Fifty thousand francs!
are . . . Thief! Thief . . ."
In a moment they were surrounded by
policemen and taken to the commissary's office.
Dugrival went like a lamb, absolutely bewildered. His
wife continued to shriek at the top of her voice,
piling up explanations, railing against the inspector:
"Have him looked for! . . . Have him
found! . . . A brown suit. . . . A pointed beard. . . .
Oh, the villain, to think what he's robbed us of! . . .
Fifty thousand francs! . . . Why . . . why, Dugrival,
what are you doing?"
With one bound, she flung herself upon
her husband. Too late! He had pressed the barrel
of a revolver against his temple. A shot rang out.
Dugrival fell. He was dead.
. . . . . . . . . .
The reader cannot have forgotten the
commotion made by the newspapers in connection with
this case, nor how they jumped at the opportunity once
more to accuse the police of carelessness and
blundering. Was it conceivable that a pick-pocket could
play the part of an inspector like that, in broad
daylight and in a public place, and rob a respectable
man with impunity?
Nicolas Dugrival's widow kept the
controversy alive, thanks to her jeremiads and to the
interviews which she granted on every hand. A reporter
had secured a snapshot of her in front of her husband's
body, holding up her hand and swearing to revenge his
death. Her nephew Gabriel was standing beside her, with
hatred pictured in his face. He, too, it appeared, in a
few words uttered in a whisper, but in a tone of fierce
determination, had taken an oath to pursue and catch
the murderer.
The accounts described the humble
apartment which they occupied at the Batignolles; and,
as they had been robbed of all their means, a
sporting-paper opened a subscription on their behalf.
As for the mysterious Delangle, he
remained undiscovered. Two men were arrested, but had
to be released forthwith. The police took up a
number of clues, which were at once abandoned; more
than one name was mentioned; and, lastly, they accused
Arsène Lupin, an action which provoked the
famous burglar's celebrated cable, dispatched from New
York six days after the incident:
"Protest indignantly against calumny
invented by baffled police. Send my condolences to
unhappy victims. Instructing my bankers to remit them
fifty thousand francs.
"LUPIN."
True enough, on the day after the
publication of the cable, a stranger rang at Mme.
Dugrival's door and handed her an envelope. The
envelope contained fifty thousand-franc notes.
This theatrical stroke was not at all
calculated to allay the universal comment. But an event
soon occurred which provided any amount of additional
excitement. Two days later, the people living in the
same house as Mme. Dugrival and her nephew were
awakened, at four o'clock in the morning, by horrible
cries and shrill calls for help. They rushed to the
flat. The porter succeeded in opening the door. By the
light of a lantern carried by one of the neighbours, he
found Gabriel stretched at full-length in his bedroom,
with his wrists and ankles bound and a gag forced into
his
mouth, while, in the next room, Mme. Dugrival lay with
her life's blood ebbing away through a great gash in
her breast. She whispered: "The money. . . . I've been
robbed. . . . All the notes gone. . . ."
And she fainted away.
I've been robbed.
What had happened? Gabriel said
and, as soon as she was able to speak, Mme. Dugrival
completed her nephew's story that he was
startled from his sleep by finding himself attacked by
two men, one of whom gagged him, while the other
fastened him down. He was unable to see the men in the
dark, but he heard the noise of the struggle between
them and his aunt. It was a terrible struggle, Mme.
Dugrival declared. The ruffians, who obviously knew
their way about, guided by some intuition, made
straight for the little cupboard containing the money
and, in spite of her resistance and outcries, laid
hands upon the bundle of banknotes. As they left, one
of them, whom she had bitten in the arm, stabbed her
with a knife, whereupon the men had both fled.
"Which way?" she was asked.
"Through the door of my bedroom and
afterward, I suppose, through the hall-door."
"Impossible! The porter would have
noticed them."
For the whole mystery lay in this: how
had the ruffians entered the house and how did they
manage to leave it? There was no outlet open to them.
Was it one of the tenants? A careful inquiry proved the
absurdity of such a supposition.
What then?
Chief-inspector Ganimard, who was
placed in special charge of the case, confessed that he
had never known anything more bewildering:
"It's very like Lupin," he said, "and
yet it's not Lupin. . . No, there's more in it than
meets the eye, something very doubtful and suspicious.
. . . Besides, if it were Lupin, why should he take
back the fifty thousand francs which he sent? There's
another question that puzzles me: what is the
connection between the second robbery and the first,
the one on the race-course? The whole thing is
incomprehensible and I have a sort of feeling which is
very rare with me that it is no use hunting. For
my part, I give it up."
The examining-magistrate threw himself
into the case with heart and soul. The reporters united
their efforts with those of the police. A famous
English sleuth-hound crossed the Channel. A wealthy
American, whose head had been turned by
detective-stories, offered a big reward to whosoever
should supply the first information leading to the
discovery of the truth. Six weeks later,
no one was any the wiser. The public adopted Ganimard's
view; and the examining-magistrate himself grew tired
of struggling in a darkness which only became denser as
time went on.
And life continued as usual with
Dugrival's widow. Nursed by her nephew, she soon
recovered from her wound. In the mornings, Gabriel
settled her in an easy-chair at the dining-room window,
did the rooms and then went out marketing. He cooked
their lunch without even accepting the proffered
assistance of the porter's wife.
Worried by the police investigations
and especially by the requests for interviews, the aunt
and nephew refused to see anybody. Not even the
portress, whose chatter disturbed and wearied Mme.
Dugrival, was admitted. She fell back upon Gabriel,
whom she accosted each time that he passed her room:
"Take care, M. Gabriel, you're both of
you being spied upon. There are men watching you. Why,
only last night, my husband caught a fellow staring up
at your windows."
"Nonsense!" said Gabriel. "It's all
right. That's the police, protecting us."
One afternoon, at about four o'clock,
there was a violent altercation between two
costermongers at the bottom of the street. The porter's
wife at once left her room to listen to the invectives
which the adversaries were hurling at each other's
heads.
Her back was no sooner turned than a man, young, of
medium height and dressed in a gray suit of
irreproachable cut, slipped into the house and ran up
the staircase.
When he came to the third floor, he
rang the bell. Receiving no answer, he rang again. At
the third summons, the door opened.
"Mme. Dugrival?" he asked, taking off
his hat.
"Mme. Dugrival is still an invalid and
unable to see any one," said Gabriel, who stood in the
hall.
"It's most important that I should
speak to her."
"I am her nephew and perhaps I could
take her a message . . ."
"Very well," said the man. "Please tell
Mme. Dugrival that an accident has supplied me with
valuable information concerning the robbery from which
she has suffered and that I should like to go over the
flat and ascertain certain particulars for myself. I am
accustomed to this sort of inquiry; and my call is sure
to be of use to her."
Gabriel examined the visitor for a
moment, reflected and said:
"In that case, I suppose my aunt will
consent. . . Pray come in."
He opened the door of the dining-room
and stepped back to allow the other to pass. The
stranger walked to the threshold, but, at the moment
when he was
crossing it, Gabriel raised his arm and, with a swift
movement, struck him with a dagger over the right
shoulder.
A burst of laughter rang through the
room:
"Got him!" cried Mme. Dugrival, darting
up from her chair. "Well done, Gabriel! But, I say, you
haven't killed the scoundrel, have you?"
"I don't think so, aunt. It's a small
blade and I didn't strike him too hard."
The man was staggering, with his hands
stretched in front of him and his face deathly pale.
"You fool!" sneered the widow. "So
you've fallen into the trap . . . and a good job too I
We've been looking out for you a long time. Come, my
fine fellow, down with you! You don't care about it, do
you? But you can't help yourself, you see. That's
right: one knee on the ground, before the missus . . .
now the other knee . . . How well we've been brought
up! . . . Crash, there we go on the floor! Lord, if my
poor Dugrival could only see him like that! . . . And
now, Gabriel, to work!"
She went to her bedroom and opened one
of the doors of a hanging wardrobe filled with dresses.
Pulling these aside, she pushed open another door which
formed the back of the wardrobe and led to a room in
the next house:
"Help me carry him, Gabriel. And you'll
nurse
him as well as you can, won't you? For the present,
he's worth his weight in gold to us, the artist! . . ."
. . . . . . . . . .
The hours succeeded one another. Days
passed.
One morning, the wounded man regained a
moment's consciousness. He raised his eyelids and
looked around him.
He was lying in a room larger than that
in which he had been stabbed, a room sparsely
furnished, with thick curtains hanging before the
windows from top to bottom. There was light enough,
however, to enable him to see young Gabriel Dugrival
seated on a chair beside him and watching him.
"Ah, it's you, youngster!" he murmured.
"I congratulate you, my lad. You have a sure and pretty
touch with the dagger."
And he fell asleep again.
That day and the following days, he
woke up several times and, each time, he saw the
stripling's pale face, his thin lips and his dark eyes,
with the hard look in them:
"You frighten me," he said. "If you
have sworn to do for me, don't stand on ceremony. But
cheer up, for goodness' sake. The thought of death has
always struck me as the most humorous thing in the
world. Whereas, with you, old chap, it simply becomes
lugubrious. I prefer to go to sleep. Good-night!"
Still, Gabriel, in obedience to Mme.
Dugrival's orders, continued to nurse him with the
utmost care and attention. The patient was almost free
from fever and was beginning to take beef-tea and milk.
He gained a little strength and jested:
"When will the convalescent be allowed
his first drive? Is the bath-chair there? Why, cheer
up, stupid! You look like a weeping-willow
contemplating a crime. Come, just one little smile for
daddy!"
One day, on waking, he had a very
unpleasant feeling of constraint. After a few efforts,
he perceived that, during his sleep, his legs, chest
and arms had been fastened to the bedstead with thin
wire strands that cut into his flesh at the least
movements.
"Ah," he said to his keeper, "this time
it's the great performance! The chicken's going to be
bled. Are you operating, Angel Gabriel? If so, see that
your razor's nice and clean, old chap! The antiseptic
treatment, if you please!"
But he was interrupted by the sound of
a key ,grating in the lock. The door opposite opened
and Mme. Dugrival appeared.
She approached slowly, took a chair
and, producing a revolver from her pocket, cocked it
and laid it on the table by the bedside.
"Brrrrr!" said the prisoner. "We might
be
at the Ambigu! . . . Fourth act: the Traitor's Doom.
And the fair sex to do the deed. . . The hand of the
Graces . . . What an honour! . . . Mme. Dugrival, I
rely on you not to disfigure me."
"Hold your tongue, Lupin."
"Ah, so you know? . . . By Jove, how
clever we are!"
"Hold your tongue, Lupin."
There was a solemn note in her voice
that impressed the captive and compelled him to
silence. He watched his two gaolers in turns. The
bloated features and red complexion of Mme. Dugrival
formed a striking contrast with her nephew's refined
face; but they both wore the same air of implacable
resolve.
The widow leant forward and said:
"Are you prepared to answer my
questions?"
"Why not?"
"Then listen to me. How did you know
that Dugrival carried all his money in his pocket?"
"Servants' gossip. . . ."
"A young man-servant whom we had in our
employ: was that it?"
"Yes."
"And did you steal Dugrival's watch in
order to give it back to him and inspire him with
confidence?"
"Yes."
She suppressed a movement of fury:
"You fool! You fool! . . . What! You
rob my man, you drive him to kill himself and, instead
of making tracks to the uttermost ends of the earth and
hiding yourself, you go on playing Lupin in the heart
of Paris! . . . Did you forget that I swore, on my dead
husband's head, to find his murderer?"
"That's what staggers me," said Lupin.
"How did you come to suspect me?"
"How? Why, you gave yourself away!"
"I did? . . . "
"Of course . . . The fifty thousand
francs. . ."
"Well, what about it? A present. . ."
"Yes, a present which you gave cabled
instructions to have sent to me, so as to make believe
that you were in America on the day of the races. A
present, indeed! What humbug! The fact is, you didn't
like to think of the poor fellow whom you had murdered.
So you restored the money to the widow, publicly, of
course, because you love playing to the gallery and
ranting and posing, like the mountebank that you are.
That was all very nicely thought out. Only, my fine
fellow, you ought not to have sent me the selfsame
notes that were stolen from Dugrival! Yes, you silly
fool, the selfsame notes and no others! We knew the
numbers, Dugrival and I did. And you were stupid enough
to send the bundle to me. Now do you understand your
folly?"
Lupin began to laugh:
"It was a pretty blunder, I confess.
I'm not responsible; I gave different orders. But, all
the same I can't blame any one except myself."
"Ah, so you admit it! You signed your
theft and you signed your ruin at the same time. There
was nothing left to be done but to find you. Find you?
No, better than that. Sensible people don't find Lupin:
they make him come to them! That was a masterly notion.
It belongs to my young nephew, who loathes you as much
as I do, if possible, and who knows you thoroughly,
through reading all the books that have been written
about you. He knows your prying nature, your need to be
always plotting, your mania for hunting in the dark and
unravelling what others have failed to unravel. He also
knows that sort of sham kindness of yours, the
drivelling sentimentality that makes you shed crocodile
tears over the people you victimize; and he planned the whole farce! He
invented the story of the two burglars, the second
theft of fifty thousand francs! Oh, I swear to you,
before Heaven, that the stab which I gave myself with
my own hands never hurt me! And I swear to you, before
Heaven, that we spent a glorious time waiting for you,
the boy and I, peeping out at your confederates
who prowled under our windows, taking their bearings!
And there was no mistake about it: you were bound to
come! Seeing that you had restored the Widow Dugrival's
fifty thousand francs, it was, out of the question that
you should allow the Widow Dugrival to be robbed of her
fifty thousand francs! You were bound to come,
attracted by the scent of the mystery. You were bound
to come, for swagger, out of vanity! And you come!"
The widow gave a strident laugh:
"Well played, wasn't it? The Lupin of
Lupins, the master of masters, inaccessible and
invisible, caught in a trap by a woman and a boy! . . .
Here he is in flesh and bone . . . here he is with
hands and feet tied, no more dangerous than a sparrow .
. . here is he . . . here he is! . . ."
She shook with joy and began to pace
the room, throwing sidelong glances at the bed, like a
wild beast that does not for a moment take its eyes
from its victim. And never had Lupin beheld greater
hatred and savagery in any human being.
"Enough of this prattle," she said.
Suddenly restraining herself, she
stalked back to him and, in a quite different tone, in
a hollow voice, laying stress on every syllable:
"Thanks to the papers in your pocket,
Lupin, I have made good use of the last twelve days. I
know all your affairs, all your schemes, all your
assumed names, all the organization of your band, all
the lodgings which you possess in Paris and elsewhere.
I have even visited one of them, the most secret, the
one where you hide your papers, your ledgers and the
whole story of your financial operations. The result of
my investigations is very satisfactory. Here are four
cheques, taken from four cheque-books and corresponding
with four accounts which you keep at four different
banks under four different names. I have filled in each
of them for ten thousand francs. A larger figure would
have been too risky. And, now, sign."
"By Jove!" said Lupin, sarcastically.
"This is blackmail, my worthy Mme. Dugrival."
"That takes your breath away, what?"
"It takes my breath away, as you say."
"And you find an adversary who is a
match for you?"
"The adversary is far beyond me. So the
trap let us call it infernal the infernal
trap into which I have fallen was laid not merely by a
widow thirsting for revenge, but also by a first-rate
business woman anxious to increase her capital?"
"Just so."
"My congratulations. And, while I think
of it, used M. Dugrival perhaps to . . . ?"
"You have hit it, Lupin. After all, why
conceal the fact? It will relieve your conscience. Yes,
Lupin, Dugrival used to work on the same lines as
yourself. Oh, not on the same scale! . . . We were
modest people: a louis here, a louis there . . . a
purse or two which we trained Gabriel to pick up at the
races . . . And, in this way, we had made our little
pile . . . just enough to buy a small place in the
country."
"I prefer it that way," said Lupin.
"That's all right! I'm only telling you,
so that you may know that I am not a beginner and that
you have nothing to hope for. A rescue? No. The room in
which we now are communicates with my bedroom. It has a
private outlet of which nobody knows. It was Dugrival's
special apartment. He used to see his friends here. He
kept his implements and tools here, his disguises . . .
his telephone even, as you perceive. So there's no
hope, you see. Your accomplices have given up looking
for you here. I have sent them off on another track.
Your goose is cooked. Do you begin to realize the
position?"
"Yes."
"Then sign the cheques."
"And, when I have signed them, shall I
be free?"
"I must cash them first."
"And after that?"
"After that, on my soul, as I hope to be
saved, you will be free."
"I don't trust you."
"Have you any choice?"
"That's true. Hand me the cheques."
She unfastened Lupin's right hand, gave
him a pen and said:
"Don't forget that the four cheques
require four different signatures and that the
handwriting has to be altered in each case."
"Never fear."
He signed the cheques.
"Gabriel," said the widow, "it is ten
o'clock. If I am not back by twelve, it will mean that
this scoundrel has played me one of his tricks. At
twelve o'clock, blow out his brains. I am leaving you
the revolver with which your uncle shot himself. There
are five bullets left out of the six. That will be
ample."
She left the room, humming a tune as she
went.
Lupin mumbled
"I wouldn't give twopence for my life."
He shut his eyes for an instant and
then, suddenly, said to Gabriel:
"How much?"
And, when the other did not appear to
understand, he grew irritated:
"I mean what I say. How much? Answer me,
can't you? We drive the same trade, you and I. I steal,
thou stealest, we steal. So we ought
to come to terms: that's what we are here for. Well? Is
it a bargain? Shall we clear out together. I will give
you a post in my gang, an easy, well-paid post. How
much do you want for yourself? Ten thousand? Twenty
thousand? Fix your own price; don't be shy. There's
plenty to be had for the asking."
An angry shiver passed through his frame
as he saw the impassive face of his keeper:
"Oh, the beggar won't even answer! Why,
you can't have been so fond of old Dugrival as all
that! Listen to me: if you consent to release me. . ."
But he interrupted himself. The young
man's eyes wore the cruel expression which he knew so
well. What was the use of trying to move him?
"Hang it all!" he snarled. "I'm not
going to croak here, like a dog! Oh, if I could only. .
."
Stiffening all his muscles, he tried to
burst his bonds, making a violent effort that drew a
cry of pain from him; and he fell back upon his bed,
exhausted.
"Well, well," he muttered, after a
moment, "it's as the widow said: my goose is cooked.
Nothing to be done. De profundis, Lupin."
A quarter of an hour passed, half an
hour. . .
Gabriel, moving closer to Lupin, saw
that his eyes were shut and that his breath came
evenly, like that of a man sleeping. But Lupin said:
"Don't imagine that I'm asleep,
youngster. No, people don't sleep at a moment like
this. Only I am consoling myself. Needs must, eh? . . .
And then I am thinking of what is to come after . . .
Exactly. I have a little theory of my own about that.
You wouldn't think it, to look at me, but I believe in
metempsychosis, in the transmigration of souls. It
would take too long to explain, however . . . I say,
boy . . . suppose we shook hands before we part? You
won't? Then good-bye. Good health and a long life to
you, Gabriel! . . ."
He closed his eyelids and did not stir
again before Mme. Dugrival's return.
The widow entered with a lively step, at
a few minutes before twelve. She seemed greatly
excited:
"I have the money," she said to her
nephew. "Run away. I'll join you in the motor down
below."
"But . . ."
"I don't want your help to finish him
off. I can do that alone. Still, if you feel like
seeing the sort of a face a rogue can pull. . . . Pass
me the weapon."
Gabriel handed her the revolver and the
widow continued:
"Have you burnt our papers?"
"Yes."
"Then to work. And, as soon as he's done
for,
be off. The shots may bring the neighbours. They must
find both the flats empty."
She went up to the bed:
"Are you ready, Lupin?
"Ready's not the word: I'm burning with
impatience."
"Have you any request to make of me?"
"None."
"Then . . ."
"One word, though."
"What is it?"
"If I meet Dugrival in the next world,
what message am I to give him from you?"
She shrugged her shoulders and put the
barrel of the revolver to Lupin's temple.
"That's it," he said, "and be sure your
hand doesn't shake, my dear lady. It won't hurt you, I
swear. Are you ready? At the word of command, eh? One .
. . two . . . three . . . ."
The widow pulled the trigger. A shot
rang out.
"Is this death?" said Lupin. "That's
funny! I should have thought it was something much more
different from life!"
There was a second shot. Gabriel
snatched the weapon from his aunt's hands and examined
it:
"Ah," he exclaimed, "the bullets have
been removed! . . . There are only the percussion-caps
left! . . ."
His aunt and he stood motionless, for a
moment, and confused:
"Impossible!" she blurted out. "Who
could have done it? . . . An inspector? . . . The
examining-magistrate?"
She stopped and, in a low voice:
"Hark . . . . I hear a noise. . . ."
They listened and the widow went into
the hall. She returned, furious, exasperated by her
failure and by the scare which she had received:
"There's nobody there. . . . It must
have been the neighbours going out. . . . We have
plenty of time. . . . Ah, Lupin, you were beginning to
make merry! . . . The knife, Gabriel."
"It's in my room."
"Go and fetch it."
Gabriel hurried away. The widow stamped
with rage:
"I've sworn to do it! . . . You've got
to suffer my fine fellow! . . . I swore to Dugrival
that I would do it and I have repeated my oath every
morning and evening since. . . . I have taken it on my
knees, yes, on my knees, before Heaven that listens to
me! It's my duty and my right to revenge my dead
husband! . . . By the way, Lupin, you don't look quite
as merry as you did! . . . Lord, one would almost think
you were afraid! . . . He's afraid! He's afraid! I can
see
it in his eyes! . . . Come along, Gabriel, my boy! . .
. Look at his eyes! . . . Look at his lips! . . . He's
trembling! . . . Give me the knife, so that I may dig
it into his heart while he's shivering. . . . Oh, you
coward! . . . Quick, quick, Gabriel, the knife! . .
."
"I can't find it anywhere," said the
young man, running back in dismay. "It has gone from my
room! I can't make it out!"
"Never mind!" cried the Widow Dugrival,
half demented. "All the better! I will do the business
myself."
She seized Lupin by the throat, clutched
him with her ten fingers, digging her nails into his
flesh, and began to squeeze with all her might. Lupin
uttered a hoarse rattle and gave himself up for lost.
Suddenly, there was a crash at the
window. One of the panes was smashed to pieces.
"What's that? What is it?" stammered the
widow, drawing herself erect, in alarm.
Gabriel, who had turned even paler than
usual, murmured:
"I don't know. . . . I can't think. . .
."
"Who can have done it?" said the widow.
She dared not move, waiting for what
would come next. And one thing above all terrified her
the fact that there was no missile on the floor around
them, although the pane of glass, as was clearly
visible, had given way before the crash of a heavy and
fairly large object, a stone, probably.
After a while, she looked under the bed,
under the chest of drawers:
"Nothing," she said.
"No," said her nephew, who was also
looking. And, resuming her seat, she said:
"I feel frightened . . . my arms fail
me. . . . you finish him off. . . ."
Gabriel confessed:
"I'm frightened also."
"Still . . . still," she stammered,
"it's got to be done. . . . I swore it. . . ."
Making one last effort, she returned to
Lupin and gasped his neck with her stiff fingers. But
Lupin, who was watching her pallid face, received a
very dear sensation that she would not have the courage
to kill him. To her he was becoming something sacred,
invulnerable. A mysterious power was protecting him
against every attack, a power which had already saved
him three times by inexplicable means and which would
find other means to protect him against the wiles of
death.
She said to him, in a hoarse voice:
"How you must be laughing at me!"
"Not at all, upon my word. I should feel
frightened myself, in your place."
"Nonsense, you scum of the earth! You
imagine that you will be rescued . . . that your
friends are waiting outside? It's out of the question,
my fine fellow."
"I know. It's not they defending me . .
. nobody's defending me. . . ."
"Well, then? . . ."
"Well, all the same, there's something
strange at the bottom of it, something fantastic and
miraculous that makes your flesh creep, my fine lady."
"You villain! . . . You'll be laughing
on the other side of your mouth before long."
"I doubt it."
"You wait and see."
She reflected once more and said to her
nephew:
"What would you do?"
"Fasten his arm again and let's be off,"
he replied.
A hideous suggestion! It meant
condemning Lupin to the most horrible of all deaths,
death by starvation.
"No," said the widow. "He might still
find a means of escape. I know something better than
that."
She took down the receiver of the
telephone, waited and asked:
"Number 822.48, please."
And, after a second or two:
"Hullo! . . . Is that the Criminal
Investigation Department? . . . Is Chief-inspector
Ganimard there? . . . In twenty minutes, you say? . . .
I'm sorry! . . . However! . . . When he comes, give him
this message from Mme. Dugrival. . . . Yes, Mme.
Nicolas Dugrival . . . . Ask him to come to my flat.
Tell him to open the looking-glass door of my wardrobe;
and, when he has done so, he will see that the wardrobe
hides an outlet which makes my bedroom communicate with
two other rooms. In one of these, he will find a man
bound hand and foot. It is the thief, Dugrival's
murderer . . . . You don't believe me? . . . Tell M.
Ganimard; he'll believe me right enough . . . . Oh, I
was almost forgetting to give you the man's name:
Arsène Lupin!"
And, without another word, she replaced
the receiver.
"There, Lupin, that's done. After all, I
would just as soon have my revenge this way. How I
shall hold my sides when I read the reports of the
Lupin trial! . . . Are you coming, Gabriel?"
"Yes, aunt."
"Good-bye, Lupin. You and I sha'n't see
each other again, I expect, for we are going abroad.
But I promise to send you some sweets while you're in
prison."
"Chocolates, mother! We'll eat them
together!"
"Good-bye."
"Au revoir."
The widow went out with her nephew,
leaving Lupin fastened down to the bed.
He at once moved his free arm and tried
to release himself; but he realized, at the first
attempt, that he would never have the strength to break
the wire strands that bound him. Exhausted with fever
and pain, what could he do in the twenty minutes or so
that were left to him before Ganimard's arrival?
Nor did he count upon his friends. True,
he had been thrice saved from death; but this was
evidently due to an astounding series of accidents and
not to any interference on the part of his allies.
Otherwise they would not have contented themselves with
these extraordinary manifestations, but would have
rescued him for good and all.
No, he must abandon all hope. Ganimard
was coming. Ganimard would find him there. It was
inevitable. There was no getting away from the fact.
And the prospect of what was coming
irritated him singularly. He already heard his old
enemy's gibes ringing in his ears. He foresaw the roars
of laughter with which the incredible news would
be greeted on the morrow. To be arrested in action, so
to speak, on the battlefield, by an imposing detachment
of adversaries, was one thing: but to be arrested, or
rather picked up, scraped up, gathered up, in such
condition, was really too silly. And Lupin, who had so
often scoffed at others, felt all the ridicule that was
falling to his share in this ending of the Dugrival
business, all the bathos of allowing himself to be
caught in the widow's infernal trap and finally of
being "served up" to the police like a dish of game,
roasted to a turn and nicely seasoned.
"Blow the widow!" he growled. "I had
rather she had cut my throat and done with it."
He pricked up his ears. Some one was
moving in the next room. Ganimard! No. Great as his
eagerness would be, he could not be there yet. Besides,
Ganimard would not have acted like that, would not have
opened the door as gently as that other person was
doing. What other person? Lupin remembered the three
miraculous interventions to which he owed his life. Was
it possible that there was really somebody who had
protected him against the widow, and that that somebody
was now attempting to rescue him? But, if so, who?
Unseen by Lupin, the stranger stooped
behind the bed. Lupin heard the sound of the pliers
attacking
the wire strands and releasing him little by little.
First his chest was freed, then his arms, then his
legs.
And a voice said to him:
"You must get up and dress."
Feeling very weak, he half-raised
himself in bed at the moment when the stranger rose
from her stooping posture.
"Who are you?" he whispered. "Who are
you?"
And a great surprise over came him.
By his side stood a woman, a woman
dressed in black, with a lace shawl over her head,
covering part of her face. And the woman, as far as he
could judge, was young and of a graceful and slender
stature.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"You must come now," said the woman.
"There's no time to lose."
"Can I?" asked Lupin, making a desperate
effort. "I doubt if I have the strength."
"Drink this."
She poured some milk into a cup; and, as
she handed it to him, her lace opened, leaving the face
uncovered.
"You!" he stammered. "It's you! . . .
It's you who . . . it was you who were . . ."
He stared in amazement at this woman
whose
features presented so striking a resemblance to
Gabriel's, whose delicate, regular face had the same
pallor, whose mouth wore the same hard and forbidding
expression. No sister could have borne so great a
likeness to her brother. There was not a doubt
possible: it was the identical person. And, without
believing for a moment that Gabriel had concealed
himself in a woman's clothes, Lupin, on the contrary,
received the distinct impression that it was a woman
standing beside him and that the stripling who had
pursued him with his hatred and struck him with the
dagger was in very deed a woman. In order to follow
their trade with greater ease, the Dugrival pair had
accustomed her to disguise herself as a boy.
"You . . . you . . . he repeated. "Who
would have suspected . . . ?"
She emptied the contents of a phial into
the cup:
"Drink this cordial," she said.
He hesitated, thinking of poison.
She added:
"It was I who saved you."
"Of course, of course," he said. "It was
you who removed the bullets from the revolver?"
"Yes."
"And you who hid the knife?
"Here it is, in my pocket."
"And you who smashed the window-pane
while your aunt was throttling me?"
"Yes, it was I, with the paper-weight on
the table: I threw it into the street."
"But why? Why?" he asked, in utter
amazement.
"Drink the cordial."
"Didn't you want me to die? But then why
did you stab me to begin with?"
"Drink the cordial."
He emptied the cup at a draught, without
quite knowing the reason of his sudden confidence.
"Dress yourself . . . quickly," she
commanded, retiring to the window.
He obeyed and she came back to him, for
he had dropped into a chair, exhausted.
"We must go now, we must, we have only
just time. . . . Collect your strength."
She bent forward a little, so that he
might lean on her shoulder, and turned toward the door
and the staircase.
And Lupin walked as one walks in a
dream, one of those queer dreams in which the most
inconsequent things occur, a dream that was the happy
sequel of the terrible nightmare in which he had lived
for the past fortnight.
A thought struck him, however. He began
to laugh:
"Poor Ganimard! Upon my word, the fellow
has no luck, I would give twopence to see him coming to
arrest me."
After descending the staircase with the
aid of his companion, who supported him with incredible
vigour, he found himself in the street, opposite a
motor-car into which she helped him to mount.
"Right away," she said to the driver.
Lupin, dazed by the open air and the
speed at which they were travelling, hardly took stock
of the drive and of the incidents on the road. He
recovered all his consciousness when he found himself
at home in one of the flats which he occupied, looked
after by his servant, to whom the girl gave a few rapid
instructions.
"You can go," he said to the man.
But, when the girl turned to go as well,
he held her back by a fold of her dress.
"No . . . no . . . you must first
explain. . . . Why did you save me? Did you return
unknown to your aunt? But why did you save me? Was it
from pity?"
She did not answer. With her figure
drawn up and her head flung back a little, she retained
her hard and impenetrable air. Nevertheless, he thought
he noticed that the lines of her mouth showed not so
much cruelty as bitterness. Her eyes, her beautiful
dark eyes, revealed melancholy. And Lupin,
without as yet understanding, received a vague
intuition of what was passing within her. He seized her
hand. She pushed him away, with a start of revolt in
which he felt hatred, almost repulsion. And, when he
insisted, she cried:
"Let me be, will you? . . . Let me be!
. . . Can't you see that I detest you?"
They looked at each other for a moment,
Lupin disconcerted, she quivering and full of
uneasiness, her pale face all flushed with unwonted
colour.
He said to her, gently:
"If you detested me, you should have let
me die . . . . It was simple enough. . . . Why didn't
you?"
"Why? . . . Why? . . . How do I know? .
. ."
Her face contracted. With a sudden
movement, she hid it in her two hands; and he saw tears
trickle between her fingers.
Greatly touched, he thought of
addressing her in fond words, such as one would use to
a little girl whom one wished to console, and of giving
her good advice and saving her, in his turn, and
snatching her from the bad life which she was leading,
perhaps against her better nature.
But such words would have sounded
ridiculous, coming from his lips, and he did not know
what to say, now that he understood the whole story and
was able to picture the young woman sitting beside
his sick-bed, nursing the man whom she had wounded,
admiring his pluck and gaiety, becoming attached to
him, falling in love with him and thrice over, probably
in spite of herself, under a sort of instinctive
impulse, amid fits of spite and rage, saving him from
death.
And all this was so strange, so
unforeseen; Lupin was so much unmanned by his
astonishment, that, this time, he did not try to
retain her when she made for the door,
backward, without taking her eyes from him.
She lowered her head, smiled for an
instant and disappeared.
He rang the bell, quickly:
"Follow that woman," he said to his man.
"Or no, stay where you are. . . . After all, it is
better so. . . ."
He sat brooding for a while, possessed
by the girl's image. Then he revolved in his mind all
that curious, stirring and tragic adventure, in which
he had been so very near succumbing; and, taking a
hand-glass from the table, he gazed for a long time and
with a certain self-complacency at his features, which
illness and pain had not succeeded in impairing to any
great extent:
"Good looks count for something, after
all!" he muttered.
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