The Confessions of Arsène Lupin Read online

  The battle began at break of day.

  It lasted four hours.

  In those four hours, the thirteen acres of land within the walls were searched, explored, gone over in every direction by a score of men who beat the bushes with sticks, trampled over the tall grass, rummaged in the hollows of the trees and scattered the heaps of dry leaves. And old Trainard remained invisible.

  “Well, this is a bit thick!” growled Goussot.

  “Beats me altogether,” retorted the sergeant.

  And indeed there was no explaining the phenomenon. For, after all, apart from a few old clumps of laurels and spindle-trees, which were thoroughly beaten, all the trees were bare. There was no building, no shed, no stack, nothing, in short, that could serve as a hiding-place.

  As for the wall, a careful inspection convinced even the sergeant that it was physically impossible to scale it.

  In the afternoon, the investigations were begun all over again in the presence of the examining-magistrate and the public-prosecutor’s deputy. The results were no more successful. Nay, worse, the officials looked upon the matter as so suspicious that they could not restrain their ill-humour and asked:

  “Are you quite sure, Farmer Goussot, that you and your sons haven’t been seeing double?”

  “And what about my wife?” retorted the farmer, red with anger. “Did she see double when the scamp had her by the throat? Go and look at the marks, if you doubt me!”

  “Very well. But then where is the scamp?”

  “Here, between those four walls.”

  “Very well. Then ferret him out. We give it up. It’s quite clear, that if a man were hidden within the precincts of this farm, we should have found him by now.”

  “I swear I’ll lay hands on him, true as I stand here!” shouted Farmer Goussot. “It shall not be said that I’ve been robbed of six thousand francs. Yes, six thousand! There were three cows I sold; and then the wheat-crop; and then the apples. Six thousand-franc notes, which I was just going to take to the bank. Well, I swear to Heaven that the money’s as good as in my pocket!”

  “That’s all right and I wish you luck,” said the examining-magistrate, as he went away, followed by the deputy and the gendarmes.

  The neighbours also walked off in a more or less facetious mood. And, by the end of the afternoon, none remained but the Goussots and the two farm-labourers.

  Old Goussot at once explained his plan. By day, they were to search. At night, they were to keep an incessant watch. It would last as long as it had to. Hang it, old Trainard was a man like other men; and men have to eat and drink! Old Trainard must needs, therefore, come out of his earth to eat and drink.

  “At most,” said Goussot, “he can have a few crusts of bread in his pocket, or even pull up a root or two at night. But, as far as drink’s concerned, no go. There’s only the spring. And he’ll be a clever dog if he gets near that.”

  He himself, that evening, took up his stand near the spring. Three hours later, his eldest son relieved him. The other brothers and the farm-hands slept in the house, each taking his turn of the watch and keeping all the lamps and candles lit, so that there might be no surprise.

  So it went on for fourteen consecutive nights. And for fourteen days, while two of the men and Mother Goussot remained on guard, the five others explored the Héberville ground.

  At the end of that fortnight, not a sign.

  The farmer never ceased storming. He sent for a retired detective-inspector who lived in the neighbouring town. The inspector stayed with him for a whole week. He found neither old Trainard nor the least clue that could give them any hope of finding old Trainard.

  “It’s a bit thick!” repeated Farmer Goussot. “For he’s there, the rascal! As far as being anywhere goes, he’s there. So …”

  Planting himself on the threshold, he railed at the enemy at the top of his voice:

  “You blithering idiot, would you rather croak in your hole than fork out the money? Then croak, you pig!”

  And Mother Goussot, in her turn, yelped, in her shrill voice:

  “Is it prison you’re afraid of? Hand over the notes and you can hook it!”

  But old Trainard did not breathe a word; and the husband and wife tired their lungs in vain.

  Shocking days passed. Farmer Goussot could no longer sleep, lay shivering with fever. The sons became morose and quarrelsome and never let their guns out of their hands, having no other idea but to shoot the tramp.

  It was the one topic of conversation in the village; and the Goussot story, from being local at first, soon went the round of the press. Newspaper-reporters came from the assize-town, from Paris itself, and were rudely shown the door by Farmer Goussot.

  “Each man his own house,” he said. “You mind your business. I mind mine. It’s nothing to do with any one.”

  “Still, Farmer Goussot …”

  “Go to blazes!”

  And he slammed the door in their face.

  Old Trainard had now been hidden within the walls of Héberville for something like four weeks. The Goussots continued their search as doggedly and confidently as ever, but with daily decreasing hope, as though they were confronted with one of those mysterious obstacles which discourage human effort. And the idea that they would never see their money again began to take root in them.

  One fine morning, at about ten o’clock, a motor-car, crossing the village square at full speed, broke down and came to a dead stop.

  The driver, after a careful inspection, declared that the repairs would take some little time, whereupon the owner of the car resolved to wait at the inn and lunch. He was a gentleman on the right side of forty, with close-cropped side-whiskers and a pleasant expression of face; and he soon made himself at home with the people at the inn.

  Of course, they told him the story of the Goussots. He had not heard it before, as he had been abroad; but it seemed to interest him greatly. He made them give him all the details, raised objections, discussed various theories with a number of people who were eating at the same table and ended by exclaiming:

  “Nonsense! It can’t be so intricate as all that. I have had some experience of this sort of thing. And, if I were on the premises …”

  “That’s easily arranged,” said the inn-keeper. “I know Farmer Goussot … He won’t object …”

  The request was soon made and granted. Old Goussot was in one of those frames of mind when we are less disposed to protest against outside interference. His wife, at any rate, was very firm:

  “Let the gentleman come, if he wants to.”

  The gentleman paid his bill and instructed his driver to try the car on the high-road as soon as the repairs were finished:

  “I shall want an hour,” he said, “no more. Be ready in an hour’s time.”

  Then he went to Farmer Goussot’s.

  He did not say much at the farm. Old Goussot, hoping against hope, was lavish with information, took his visitor along the walls down to the little door opening on the fields, produced the key and gave minute details of all the searches that had been made so far.

  Oddly enough, the stranger, who hardly spoke, seemed not to listen either. He merely looked, with a rather vacant gaze. When they had been round the estate, old Goussot asked, anxiously:

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Do you think you know?”

  The visitor stood for a moment without answering. Then he said:

  “No, nothing.”

  “Why, of course not!” cried the farmer, throwing up his arms. “How should you know! It’s all hanky-panky. Shall I tell you what I think? Well, that old Trainard has been so jolly clever that he’s lying dead in his hole … and the bank-notes are rotting with him. Do you hear? You can take my word for it.”

  The gentleman said, very calmly:

  “There’s only one thing that interests me. The tramp, all said and done, was free at night and able to feed on what he could pick up. But how about drinking?”

 
; “Out of the question!” shouted the farmer. “Quite out of the question! There’s no water except this; and we have kept watch beside it every night.”

  “It’s a spring. Where does it rise?”

  “Here, where we stand.”

  “Is there enough pressure to bring it into the pool of itself?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where does the water go when it runs out of the pool?”

  “Into this pipe here, which goes under ground and carries it to the house, for use in the kitchen. So there’s no way of drinking, seeing that we were there and that the spring is twenty yards from the house.”

  “Hasn’t it rained during the last four weeks?”

  “Not once: I’ve told you that already.”

  The stranger went to the spring and examined it. The trough was formed of a few boards of wood joined together just above the ground; and the water ran through it, slow and clear.

  “The water’s not more than a foot deep, is it?” he asked.

  In order to measure it, he picked up from the grass a straw which he dipped into the pool. But, as he was stooping, he suddenly broke off and looked around him.

  “Oh, how funny!” he said, bursting into a peal of laughter.

  “Why, what’s the matter?” spluttered old Goussot, rushing toward the pool, as though a man could have lain hidden between those narrow boards.

  And Mother Goussot clasped her hands.

  “What is it? Have you seen him? Where is he?”

  “Neither in it nor under it,” replied the stranger, who was still laughing.

  He made for the house, eagerly followed by the farmer, the old woman and the four sons. The inn-keeper was there also, as were the people from the inn who had been watching the stranger’s movements. And there was a dead silence, while they waited for the extraordinary disclosure.

  “It’s as I thought,” he said, with an amused expression. “The old chap had to quench his thirst somewhere; and, as there was only the spring …”

  “Oh, but look here,” growled Farmer Goussot, “we should have seen him!”

  “It was at night.”

  “We should have heard him … and seen him too, as we were close by.”

  “So was he.”

  “And he drank the water from the pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “From a little way off.”

  “With what?”

  “With this.”

  And the stranger showed the straw which he had picked up:

  “There, here’s the straw for the customer’s long drink. You will see, there’s more of it than usual: in fact, it is made of three straws stuck into one another. That was the first thing I noticed: those three straws fastened together. The proof is conclusive.”

  “But, hang it all, the proof of what?” cried Farmer Goussot, irritably.

  The stranger took a shotgun from the rack.

  “Is it loaded?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the youngest of the brothers. “I use it to kill the sparrows with, for fun. It’s small shot.”

  “Capital! A peppering where it won’t hurt him will do the trick.”

  His face suddenly assumed a masterful look. He gripped the farmer by the arm and rapped out, in an imperious tone:

  “Listen to me, Farmer Goussot. I’m not here to do policeman’s work; and I won’t have the poor beggar locked up at any price. Four weeks of starvation and fright is good enough for anybody. So you’ve got to swear to me, you and your sons, that you’ll let him off without hurting him.”

  “He must hand over the money!”

  “Well, of course. Do you swear?”

  “I swear.”

  The gentleman walked back to the door-sill, at the entrance to the orchard. He took a quick aim, pointing his gun a little in the air, in the direction of the cherry tree which overhung the spring. He fired. A hoarse cry rang from the tree; and the scarecrow which had been straddling the main branch for a month past came tumbling to the ground, only to jump up at once and make off as fast as its legs could carry it.

  There was a moment’s amazement, followed by outcries. The sons darted in pursuit and were not long in coming up with the runaway, hampered as he was by his rags and weakened by privation. But the stranger was already protecting him against their wrath:

  “Hands off there! This man belongs to me. I won’t have him touched … I hope I haven’t stung you up too much, Trainard?”

  Standing on his straw legs wrapped round with strips of tattered cloth, with his arms and his whole body clad in the same materials, his head swathed in linen, tightly packed like a sausage, the old chap still had the stiff appearance of a lay-figure. And the whole effect was so ludicrous and so unexpected that the onlookers screamed with laughter.

  The stranger unbound his head; and they saw a veiled mask of tangled gray beard encroaching on every side upon a skeleton face lit up by two eyes burning with fever.

  The laughter was louder than ever.

  “The money! The six notes!” roared the farmer.

  The stranger kept him at a distance:

  “One moment … we’ll give you that back, sha’n’t we, Trainard?”

  And, taking his knife and cutting away the straw and cloth, he jested, cheerily:

  “You poor old beggar, what a guy you look! But how on earth did you manage to pull off that trick? You must be confoundedly clever, or else you had the devil’s own luck … So, on the first night, you used the breathing-time they left you to rig yourself in these togs! Not a bad idea. Who could ever suspect a scarecrow? … They were so accustomed to seeing it stuck up in its tree! But, poor old daddy, how uncomfortable you must have felt, lying flat up there on your stomach, with your arms and legs dangling down! All day long, like that! The deuce of an attitude! And how you must have been put to it, when you ventured to move a limb, eh? And how you must have funked going to sleep! … And then you had to eat! And drink! And you heard the sentry and felt the barrel of his gun within a yard of your nose! Brrrr! … But the trickiest of all, you know, was your bit of straw! … Upon my word, when I think that, without a sound, without a movement so to speak, you had to fish out lengths of straw from your toggery, fix them end to end, let your apparatus down to the water and suck up the heavenly moisture drop by drop … Upon my word, one could scream with admiration … Well done, Trainard …” And he added, between his teeth, “Only you’re in a very unappetizing state, my man. Haven’t you washed yourself all this month, you old pig? After all, you had as much water as you wanted! … Here, you people, I hand him over to you. I’m going to wash my hands, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Farmer Goussot and his four sons grabbed at the prey which he was abandoning to them:

  “Now then, come along, fork out the money.”

  Dazed as he was, the tramp still managed to simulate astonishment.

  “Don’t put on that idiot look,” growled the farmer. “Come on. Out with the six notes …”

  “What? … What do you want of me?” stammered old Trainard.

  “The money … on the nail …”

  “What money?”

  “The bank-notes.”

  “The bank-notes?”

  “Oh, I’m getting sick of you! Here, lads …”

  They laid the old fellow flat, tore off the rags that composed his clothes, felt and searched him all over.

  There was nothing on him.

  “You thief and you robber!” yelled old Goussot. “What have you done with it?”

  The old beggar seemed more dazed than ever. Too cunning to confess, he kept on whining:

  “What do you want of me? … Money? I haven’t three sous to call my own …”

  But his eyes, wide with wonder, remained fixed upon his clothes; and he himself seemed not to understand.

  The Goussots’ rage could no longer be restrained. They rained blows upon him, which did not improve matters. But the farmer was convinced that Trainard had hidden th
e money before turning himself into the scarecrow:

  “Where have you put it, you scum? Out with it! In what part of the orchard have you hidden it?”

  “The money?” repeated the tramp with a stupid look.

  “Yes, the money! The money which you’ve buried somewhere … Oh, if we don’t find it, your goose is cooked! … We have witnesses, haven’t we? … All of you, friends, eh? And then the gentleman …”

  He turned, with the intention of addressing the stranger, in the direction of the spring, which was thirty or forty steps to the left. And he was quite surprised not to see him washing his hands there:

  “Has he gone?” he asked.

  Some one answered:

  “No, he lit a cigarette and went for a stroll in the orchard.”

  “Oh, that’s all right!” said the farmer. “He’s the sort to find the notes for us, just as he found the man.”

  “Unless …” said a voice.

  “Unless what?” echoed the farmer. “What do you mean? Have you something in your head? Out with it, then! What is it?”

  But he interrupted himself suddenly, seized with a doubt; and there was a moment’s silence. The same idea dawned on all the country-folk. The stranger’s arrival at Héberville, the breakdown of his motor, his manner of questioning the people at the inn and of gaining admission to the farm: were not all these part and parcel of a put-up job, the trick of a cracksman who had learnt the story from the papers and who had come to try his luck on the spot? …

  “Jolly smart of him!” said the inn-keeper. “He must have taken the money from old Trainard’s pocket, before our eyes, while he was searching him.”

  “Impossible!” spluttered Farmer Goussot. “He would have been seen going out that way … by the house … whereas he’s strolling in the orchard.”

  Mother Goussot, all of a heap, suggested:

  “The little door at the end, down there? …”

  “The key never leaves me.”

  “But you showed it to him.”

  “Yes; and I took it back again … Look, here it is.”

  He clapped his hand to his pocket and uttered a cry:

  “Oh, dash it all, it’s gone! … He’s sneaked it! …”

  He at once rushed away, followed and escorted by his sons and a number of the villagers.