The Confessions of Arsène Lupin Page 14

“Yes, of course we are, but separately.”

  “In that case, let us go at once.”

  “Listen to me, doctor,” said Lupin, in a steady voice, “and let us waste no time in useless words. Above all, we must defeat any attempt to watch us. You will therefore go straight home and not come out again until you are quite certain that you have not been followed. You will then make for the walls of the property, keeping to the left, till you come to the little door of the kitchen-garden. Here is the key. When the church clock strikes eleven, open the door very gently and walk right up to the terrace at the back of the house. The fifth window is badly fastened. You have only to climb over the balcony. As soon as you are inside Mlle. Darcieux’s room, bolt the door and don’t budge. You quite understand, don’t budge, either of you, whatever happens. I have noticed that Mlle. Darcieux leaves her dressing-room window ajar, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, it’s a habit which I taught her.”

  “That’s the way they’ll come.”

  “And you?”

  “That’s the way I shall come also.”

  “And do you know who the villain is?”

  Lupin hesitated and then replied:

  “No, I don’t know … And that is just how we shall find out. But, I implore you, keep cool. Not a word, not a movement, whatever happens!”

  “I promise you.”

  “I want more than that, doctor. You must give me your word of honour.”

  “I give you my word of honour.”

  The doctor went away. Lupin at once climbed a neighbouring mound from which he could see the windows of the first and second floor. Several of them were lighted.

  He waited for some little time. The lights went out one by one. Then, taking a direction opposite to that in which the doctor had gone, he branched off to the right and skirted the wall until he came to the clump of trees near which he had hidden his motor-cycle on the day before.

  Eleven o’clock struck. He calculated the time which it would take the doctor to cross the kitchen-garden and make his way into the house.

  “That’s one point scored!” he muttered. “Everything’s all right on that side. And now, Lupin to the rescue? The enemy won’t be long before he plays his last trump … and, by all the gods, I must be there! …”

  He went through the same performance as on the first occasion, pulled down the branch and hoisted himself to the top of the wall, from which he was able to reach the bigger boughs of the tree.

  Just then he pricked up his ears. He seemed to hear a rustling of dead leaves. And he actually perceived a dark form moving on the level thirty yards away:

  “Hang it all!” he said to himself. “I’m done: the scoundrel has smelt a rat.”

  A moonbeam pierced through the clouds. Lupin distinctly saw the man take aim. He tried to jump to the ground and turned his head. But he felt something hit him in the chest, heard the sound of a report, uttered an angry oath and came crashing down from branch to branch, like a corpse.

  Meanwhile, Doctor Guéroult, following Arsène Lupin’s instructions, had climbed the ledge of the fifth window and groped his way to the first floor. On reaching Jeanne’s room, he tapped lightly, three times, at the door and, immediately on entering, pushed the bolt:

  “Lie down at once,” he whispered to the girl, who had not taken off her things. “You must appear to have gone to bed. Brrrr, it’s cold in here! Is the window open in your dressing-room?”

  “Yes … would you like me to …?”

  “No, leave it as it is. They are coming.”

  “They are coming!” spluttered Jeanne, in affright.

  “Yes, beyond a doubt.”

  “But who? Do you suspect any one?”

  “I don’t know who … I expect that there is some one hidden in the house … or in the park.”

  “Oh, I feel so frightened!”

  “Don’t be frightened. The sportsman who’s looking after you seems jolly clever and makes a point of playing a safe game. I expect he’s on the look-out in the court.”

  The doctor put out the night-light, went to the window and raised the blind. A narrow cornice, running along the first story, prevented him from seeing more than a distant part of the courtyard; and he came back and sat down by the bed.

  Some very painful minutes passed, minutes that appeared to them interminably long. The clock in the village struck; but, taken up as they were with all the little noises of the night, they hardly noticed the sound. They listened, listened, with all their nerves on edge:

  “Did you hear?” whispered the doctor.

  “Yes … yes,” said Jeanne, sitting up in bed.

  “Lie down … lie down,” he said, presently. “There’s some one coming.”

  There was a little tapping sound outside, against the cornice. Next came a series of indistinct noises, the nature of which they could not make out for certain. But they had a feeling that the window in the dressing-room was being opened wider, for they were buffeted by gusts of cold air.

  Suddenly, it became quite clear: there was some one next door.

  The doctor, whose hand was trembling a little, seized his revolver. Nevertheless, he did not move, remembering the formal orders which he had received and fearing to act against them.

  The room was in absolute darkness; and they were unable to see where the adversary was. But they felt his presence.

  They followed his invisible movements, the sound of his footsteps deadened by the carpet; and they did not doubt but that he had already crossed the threshold of the room.

  And the adversary stopped. Of that they were certain. He was standing six steps away from the bed, motionless, undecided perhaps, seeking to pierce the darkness with his keen eyes.

  Jeanne’s hand, icy-cold and clammy, trembled in the doctor’s grasp.

  With his other hand, the doctor clutched his revolver, with his finger on the trigger. In spite of his pledged word, he did not hesitate. If the adversary touched the end of the bed, the shot would be fired at a venture.

  The adversary took another step and then stopped again. And there was something awful about that silence, that impassive silence, that darkness in which those human beings were peering at one another, wildly.

  Who was it looming in the murky darkness? Who was the man? What horrible enmity was it that turned his hand against the girl and what abominable aim was he pursuing?

  Terrified though they were, Jeanne and the doctor thought only of that one thing: to see, to learn the truth, to gaze upon the adversary’s face.

  He took one more step and did not move again. It seemed to them that his figure stood out, darker, against the dark space and that his arm rose slowly, slowly …

  A minute passed and then another minute …

  And, suddenly, beyond the man, on the right a sharp click … A bright light flashed, was flung upon the man, lit him full in the face, remorselessly.

  Jeanne gave a cry of affright. She had seen—standing over her, with a dagger in his hand—she had seen … her father!

  Almost at the same time, though the light was already turned off, there came a report: the doctor had fired.

  “Dash it all, don’t shoot!” roared Lupin.

  He threw his arms round the doctor, who choked out:

  “Didn’t you see? … Didn’t you see? … Listen! … He’s escaping! …”

  “Let him escape: it’s the best thing that could happen.”

  He pressed the spring of his electric lantern again, ran to the dressing-room, made certain that the man had disappeared and, returning quietly to the table, lit the lamp.

  Jeanne lay on her bed, pallid, in a dead faint.

  The doctor, huddled in his chair, emitted inarticulate sounds.

  “Come,” said Lupin, laughing, “pull yourself together. There is nothing to excite ourselves about: it’s all over.”

  “Her father! … Her father!” moaned the old doctor.

  “If you please, doctor, Mlle. Darcieux is ill. Look after her.”


  Without more words, Lupin went back to the dressing-room and stepped out on the window-ledge. A ladder stood against the ledge. He ran down it. Skirting the wall of the house, twenty steps farther, he tripped over the rungs of a rope-ladder, which he climbed and found himself in M. Darcieux’s bedroom. The room was empty.

  “Just so,” he said. “My gentleman did not like the position and has cleared out. Here’s wishing him a good journey … And, of course, the door is bolted? … Exactly! … That is how our sick man, tricking his worthy medical attendant, used to get up at night in full security, fasten his rope-ladder to the balcony and prepare his little games. He’s no fool, is friend Darcieux!”

  He drew the bolts and returned to Jeanne’s room. The doctor, who was just coming out of the doorway, drew him to the little dining-room:

  “She’s asleep, don’t let us disturb her. She has had a bad shock and will take some time to recover.”

  Lupin poured himself out a glass of water and drank it down. Then he took a chair and, calmly:

  “Pooh! She’ll be all right by to-morrow.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I say that she’ll be all right by to-morrow.”

  “Why?”

  “In the first place, because it did not strike me that Mlle. Darcieux felt any very great affection for her father.”

  “Never mind! Think of it: a father who tries to kill his daughter! A father who, for months on end, repeats his monstrous attempt four, five, six times over again! … Well, isn’t that enough to blight a less sensitive soul than Jeanne’s for good and all? What a hateful memory!”

  “She will forget.”

  “One does not forget such a thing as that.”

  “She will forget, doctor, and for a very simple reason …”

  “Explain yourself!”

  “She is not M. Darcieux’s daughter!”

  “Eh?”

  “I repeat, she is not that villain’s daughter.”

  “What do you mean? M. Darcieux …”

  “M. Darcieux is only her step-father. She had just been born when her father, her real father, died. Jeanne’s mother then married a cousin of her husband’s, a man bearing the same name, and she died within a year of her second wedding. She left Jeanne in M. Darcieux’s charge. He first took her abroad and then bought this country-house; and, as nobody knew him in the neighbourhood, he represented the child as being his daughter. She herself did not know the truth about her birth.”

  The doctor sat confounded. He asked:

  “Are you sure of your facts?”

  “I spent my day in the town-halls of the Paris municipalities. I searched the registers, I interviewed two solicitors, I have seen all the documents. There is no doubt possible.”

  “But that does not explain the crime, or rather the series of crimes.”

  “Yes, it does,” declared Lupin. “And, from the start, from the first hour when I meddled in this business, some words which Mlle. Darcieux used made me suspect that direction which my investigations must take. ‘I was not quite five years old when my mother died,’ she said. ‘That was sixteen years ago.’ Mlle. Darcieux, therefore, was nearly twenty-one, that is to say, she was on the verge of attaining her majority. I at once saw that this was an important detail. The day on which you reach your majority is the day on which your accounts are rendered. What was the financial position of Mlle. Darcieux, who was her mother’s natural heiress? Of course, I did not think of the father for a second. To begin with, one can’t imagine a thing like that; and then the farce which M. Darcieux was playing … helpless, bedridden, ill …”

  “Really ill,” interrupted the doctor.

  “All this diverted suspicion from him … the more so as I believe that he himself was exposed to criminal attacks. But was there not in the family some person who would be interested in their removal? My journey to Paris revealed the truth to me: Mlle. Darcieux inherits a large fortune from her mother, of which her step-father draws the income. The solicitor was to have called a meeting of the family in Paris next month. The truth would have been out. It meant ruin to M. Darcieux.”

  “Then he had put no money by?”

  “Yes, but he had lost a great deal as the result of unfortunate speculations.”

  “But, after all, Jeanne would not have taken the management of her fortune out of his hands!”

  “There is one detail which you do not know, doctor, and which I learnt from reading the torn letter. Mlle. Darcieux is in love with the brother of Marceline, her Versailles friend; M. Darcieux was opposed to the marriage; and—you now see the reason—she was waiting until she came of age to be married.”

  “You’re right,” said the doctor, “you’re right … It meant his ruin.”

  “His absolute ruin. One chance of saving himself remained, the death of his step-daughter, of whom he is the next heir.”

  “Certainly, but on condition that no one suspected him.”

  “Of course; and that is why he contrived the series of accidents, so that the death might appear to be due to misadventure. And that is why I, on my side, wishing to bring things to a head, asked you to tell him of Mlle. Darcieux’s impending departure. From that moment, it was no longer enough for the would-be sick man to wander about the grounds and the passages, in the dark, and execute some leisurely thought-out plan. No, he had to act, to act at once, without preparation, violently, dagger in hand. I had no doubt that he would decide to do it. And he did.”

  “Then he had no suspicions?”

  “Of me, yes. He felt that I would return to-night, and he kept a watch at the place where I had already climbed the wall.”

  “Well?”

  “Well,” said Lupin, laughing, “I received a bullet full in the chest … or rather my pocket-book received a bullet … Here, you can see the hole … So I tumbled from the tree, like a dead man. Thinking that he was rid of his only adversary, he went back to the house. I saw him prowl about for two hours. Then, making up his mind, he went to the coach-house, took a ladder and set it against the window. I had only to follow him.”

  The doctor reflected and said:

  “You could have collared him earlier. Why did you let him come up? It was a sore trial for Jeanne … and unnecessary.”

  “On the contrary, it was indispensable! Mlle. Darcieux would never have accepted the truth. It was essential that she should see the murderer’s very face. You must tell her all the circumstances when she wakes. She will soon be well again.”

  “But … M. Darcieux?”

  “You can explain his disappearance as you think best … a sudden journey … a fit of madness … There will be a few inquiries … And you may be sure that he will never be heard of again.”

  The doctor nodded his head:

  “Yes … that is so … that is so … you are right. You have managed all this business with extraordinary skill; and Jeanne owes you her life. She will thank you in person … But now, can I be of use to you in any way? You told me that you were connected with the detective-service … Will you allow me to write and praise your conduct, your courage?”

  Lupin began to laugh:

  “Certainly! A letter of that kind will do me a world of good. You might write to my immediate superior, Chief-inspector Ganimard. He will be glad to hear that his favourite officer, Paul Daubreuil, of the Rue de Surène, has once again distinguished himself by a brilliant action. As it happens, I have an appointment to meet him about a case of which you may have heard: the case of the red scarf … How pleased my dear M. Ganimard will be!”

  VII. A TRAGEDY IN THE FOREST OF MORGUES

  The village was terror-stricken.

  It was on a Sunday morning. The peasants of Saint-Nicolas and the neighbourhood were coming out of church and spreading across the square, when, suddenly, the women who were walking ahead and who had already turned into the high-road fell back with loud cries of dismay.

  At the same moment, an enormous motor-car, looking like some appalling monster, c
ame tearing into sight at a headlong rate of speed. Amid the shouts of the madly scattering people, it made straight for the church, swerved, just as it seemed about to dash itself to pieces against the steps, grazed the wall of the presbytery, regained the continuation of the national road, dashed along, turned the corner and disappeared, without, by some incomprehensible miracle, having so much as brushed against any of the persons crowding the square.

  But they had seen! They had seen a man in the driver’s seat, wrapped in a goat-skin coat, with a fur cap on his head and his face disguised in a pair of large goggles, and, with him, on the front of that seat, flung back, bent in two, a woman whose head, all covered with blood, hung down over the bonnet …

  And they had heard! They had heard the woman’s screams, screams of horror, screams of agony …

  And it was all such a vision of hell and carnage that the people stood, for some seconds, motionless, stupefied.

  “Blood!” roared somebody.

  There was blood everywhere, on the cobblestones of the square, on the ground hardened by the first frosts of autumn; and, when a number of men and boys rushed off in pursuit of the motor, they had but to take those sinister marks for their guide.

  The marks, on their part, followed the high-road, but in a very strange manner, going from one side to the other and leaving a zigzag track, in the wake of the tires, that made those who saw it shudder. How was it that the car had not bumped against that tree? How had it been righted, instead of smashing into that bank? What novice, what madman, what drunkard, what frightened criminal was driving that motor-car with such astounding bounds and swerves?

  One of the peasants declared:

  “They will never do the turn in the forest.”

  And another said:

  “Of course they won’t! She’s bound to upset!”

  The Forest of Morgues began at half a mile beyond Saint-Nicolas; and the road, which was straight up to that point, except for a slight bend where it left the village, started climbing, immediately after entering the forest, and made an abrupt turn among the rocks and trees. No motor-car was able to take this turn without first slackening speed. There were posts to give notice of the danger.