The Confessions of Arsène Lupin Read online

  “But I mustn’t!” moaned the portress, running after him. “Besides, I haven’t the key … the doctor …”

  They climbed the three flights, one behind the other. On the landing, Lupin took a tool from his pocket and, disregarding the woman’s protests, inserted it in the lock. The door yielded almost immediately. We went in.

  At the back of a small dark room we saw a streak of light filtering through a door that had been left ajar. Lupin ran across the room and, on reaching the threshold, gave a cry:

  “Too late! Oh, hang it all!”

  The portress fell on her knees, as though fainting.

  I entered the bedroom, in my turn, and saw a man lying half-dressed on the carpet, with his legs drawn up under him, his arms contorted and his face quite white, an emaciated, fleshless face, with the eyes still staring in terror and the mouth twisted into a hideous grin.

  “He’s dead,” said Lupin, after a rapid examination.

  “But why?” I exclaimed. “There’s not a trace of blood!”

  “Yes, yes, there is,” replied Lupin, pointing to two or three drops that showed on the chest, through the open shirt. “Look, they must have taken him by the throat with one hand and pricked him to the heart with the other. I say, ‘pricked,’ because really the wound can’t be seen. It suggests a hole made by a very long needle.”

  He looked on the floor, all round the corpse. There was nothing to attract his attention, except a little pocket-mirror, the little mirror with which M. Lavernoux had amused himself by making the sunbeams dance through space.

  But, suddenly, as the portress was breaking into lamentations and calling for help, Lupin flung himself on her and shook her:

  “Stop that! … Listen to me … you can call out later … Listen to me and answer me. It is most important. M. Lavernoux had a friend living in this street, had he not? On the same side, to the right? An intimate friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “A friend whom he used to meet at the café in the evening and with whom he exchanged the illustrated papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the friend an Englishman?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Mr. Hargrove.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “At No. 92 in this street.”

  “One word more: had that old doctor been attending him long?”

  “No. I did not know him. He came on the evening when M. Lavernoux was taken ill.”

  Without another word, Lupin dragged me away once more, ran down the stairs and, once in the street, turned to the right, which took us past my flat again. Four doors further, he stopped at No. 92, a small, low-storied house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by the proprietor of a dram-shop, who stood smoking in his doorway, next to the entrance-passage. Lupin asked if Mr. Hargrove was at home.

  “Mr. Hargrove went out about half-an-hour ago,” said the publican. “He seemed very much excited and took a taxi-cab, a thing he doesn’t often do.”

  “And you don’t know …”

  “Where he was going? Well, there’s no secret about it He shouted it loud enough! ‘Prefecture of Police’ is what he said to the driver …”

  Lupin was himself just hailing a taxi, when he changed his mind; and I heard him mutter:

  “What’s the good? He’s got too much start of us …”

  He asked if any one called after Mr. Hargrove had gone.

  “Yes, an old gentleman with a grey beard and spectacles. He went up to Mr. Hargrove’s, rang the bell, and went away again.”

  “I am much obliged,” said Lupin, touching his hat.

  He walked away slowly without speaking to me, wearing a thoughtful air. There was no doubt that the problem struck him as very difficult, and that he saw none too clearly in the darkness through which he seemed to be moving with such certainty.

  He himself, for that matter, confessed to me:

  “These are cases that require much more intuition than reflection. But this one, I may tell you, is well worth taking pains about.”

  We had now reached the boulevards. Lupin entered a public reading-room and spent a long time consulting the last fortnight’s newspapers. Now and again, he mumbled:

  “Yes … yes … of course … it’s only a guess, but it explains everything … Well, a guess that answers every question is not far from being the truth …”

  It was now dark. We dined at a little restaurant and I noticed that Lupin’s face became gradually more animated. His gestures were more decided. He recovered his spirits, his liveliness. When we left, during the walk which he made me take along the Boulevard Haussmann, towards Baron Repstein’s house, he was the real Lupin of the great occasions, the Lupin who had made up his mind to go in and win.

  We slackened our pace just short of the Rue de Courcelles. Baron Repstein lived on the left-hand side, between this street and the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, in a three-storied private house of which we could see the front, decorated with columns and caryatides.

  “Stop!” said Lupin, suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  “Another proof to confirm my supposition …”

  “What proof? I see nothing.”

  “I do … That’s enough …”

  He turned up the collar of his coat, lowered the brim of his soft hat and said:

  “By Jove, it’ll be a stiff fight! Go to bed, my friend. I’ll tell you about my expedition to-morrow … if it doesn’t cost me my life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I know what I’m saying! I’m risking a lot. First of all, getting arrested, which isn’t much. Next, getting killed, which is worse. But …” He gripped my shoulder. “But there’s a third thing I’m risking, which is getting hold of two millions … And, once I possess a capital of two millions, I’ll show people what I can do! Good-night, old chap, and, if you never see me again …” He spouted Musset’s lines:

  “Plant a willow by my grave,

  The weeping willow that I love …”

  I walked away. Three minutes later—I am continuing the narrative as he told it to me next day—three minutes later, Lupin rang at the door of the Hôtel Repstein.

  “Is monsieur le baron at home?”

  “Yes,” replied the butler, examining the intruder with an air of surprise, “but monsieur le baron does not see people as late as this.”

  “Does monsieur le baron know of the murder of M. Lavernoux, his land-agent?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, please tell monsieur le baron that I have come about the murder and that there is not a moment to lose.”

  A voice called from above:

  “Show the gentleman up, Antoine.”

  In obedience to this peremptory order, the butler led the way to the first floor. In an open doorway stood a gentleman whom Lupin recognized from his photograph in the papers as Baron Repstein, husband of the famous baroness and owner of Etna, the horse of the year.

  He was an exceedingly tall, square-shouldered man. His clean-shaven face wore a pleasant, almost smiling expression, which was not affected by the sadness of his eyes. He was dressed in a well-cut morning-coat, with a tan waistcoat and a dark tie fastened with a pearl pin, the value of which struck Lupin as considerable.

  He took Lupin into his study, a large, three-windowed room, lined with book-cases, sets of pigeonholes, an American desk and a safe. And he at once asked, with ill-concealed eagerness:

  “Do you know anything?”

  “Yes, monsieur le baron.”

  “About the murder of that poor Lavernoux?”

  “Yes, monsieur le baron, and about madame le baronne also.”

  “Do you really mean it? Quick, I entreat you …”

  He pushed forward a chair. Lupin sat down and began:

  “Monsieur le baron, the circumstances are very serious. I will be brief.”

  “Yes, do, please.”

  “Well, monsieur le baron, in a few words
, it amounts to this: five or six hours ago, Lavernoux, who, for the last fortnight, had been kept in a sort of enforced confinement by his doctor, Lavernoux—how shall I put it?—telegraphed certain revelations by means of signals which were partly taken down by me and which put me on the track of this case. He himself was surprised in the act of making this communication and was murdered.”

  “But by whom? By whom?”

  “By his doctor.”

  “Who is this doctor?”

  “I don’t know. But one of M. Lavernoux’s friends, an Englishman called Hargrove, the friend, in fact, with whom he was communicating, is bound to know and is also bound to know the exact and complete meaning of the communication, because, without waiting for the end, he jumped into a motor-cab and drove to the Prefecture of Police.”

  “Why? Why? … And what is the result of that step?”

  “The result, monsieur le baron, is that your house is surrounded. There are twelve detectives under your windows. The moment the sun rises, they will enter in the name of the law and arrest the criminal.”

  “Then is Lavernoux’s murderer concealed in my house? Who is he? One of the servants? But no, for you were speaking of a doctor! …”

  “I would remark, monsieur le baron, that when this Mr. Hargrove went to the police to tell them of the revelations made by his friend Lavernoux, he was not aware that his friend Lavernoux was going to be murdered. The step taken by Mr Hargrove had to do with something else …”

  “With what?”

  “With the disappearance of madame la baronne, of which he knew the secret, thanks to the communication made by Lavernoux.”

  “What! They know at last! They have found the baroness! Where is she? And the jewels? And the money she robbed me of?”

  Baron Repstein was talking in a great state of excitement. He rose and, almost shouting at Lupin, cried:

  “Finish your story, sir! I can’t endure this suspense!”

  Lupin continued, in a slow and hesitating voice:

  “The fact is … you see … it is rather difficult to explain … for you and I are looking at the thing from a totally different point of view.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And yet you ought to understand, monsieur le baron … We begin by saying—I am quoting the newspapers—by saying, do we not, that Baroness Repstein knew all the secrets of your business and that she was able to open not only that safe over there, but also the one at the Crédit Lyonnais in which you kept your securities locked up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, one evening, a fortnight ago, while you were at your club, Baroness Repstein, who, unknown to yourself, had converted all those securities into cash, left this house with a travelling-bag, containing your money and all the Princesse de Berny’s jewels?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, since then, she has not been seen?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there is an excellent reason why she has not been seen.”

  “What reason?”

  “This, that Baroness Repstein has been murdered …”

  “Murdered! … The baroness! … But you’re mad!”

  “Murdered … and probably that same evening.”

  “I tell you again, you are mad! How can the baroness have been murdered, when the police are following her tracks, so to speak, step by step?”

  “They are following the tracks of another woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “The murderer’s accomplice.”

  “And who is the murderer?”

  “The same man who, for the last fortnight, knowing that Lavernoux, through the situation which he occupied in this house, had discovered the truth, kept him imprisoned, forced him to silence, threatened him, terrorized him; the same man who, finding Lavernoux in the act of communicating with a friend, made away with him in cold blood by stabbing him to the heart.”

  “The doctor, therefore?”

  “Yes.”

  “But who is this doctor? Who is this malevolent genius, this infernal being who appears and disappears, who slays in the dark and whom nobody suspects?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No.”

  “And do you want to know?”

  “Do I want to know? … Why, speak, man, speak! … You know where he is hiding?”

  “Yes.”

  “In this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it is he whom the police are after?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “You!”

  “I! …”

  Lupin had not been more than ten minutes with the baron; and the duel was commencing. The accusation was hurled, definitely, violently, implacably.

  Lupin repeated:

  “You yourself, got up in a false beard and a pair of spectacles, bent in two, like an old man. In short, you, Baron Repstein; and it is you for a very good reason, of which nobody has thought, which is that, if it was not you who contrived the whole plot, the case becomes inexplicable. Whereas, taking you as the criminal, you as murdering the baroness in order to get rid of her and run through those millions with another woman, you as murdering Lavernoux, your agent, in order to suppress an unimpeachable witness, oh, then the whole case is explained! Well, is it pretty clear? And are not you yourself convinced?”

  The baron, who, throughout this conversation, had stood bending over his visitor, waiting for each of his words with feverish avidity, now drew himself up and looked at Lupin as though he undoubtedly had to do with a madman. When Lupin had finished speaking, the baron stepped back two or three paces, seemed on the point of uttering words which he ended by not saying, and then, without taking his eyes from his strange visitor, went to the fireplace and rang the bell.

  Lupin did not make a movement. He waited smiling.

  The butler entered. His master said:

  “You can go to bed, Antoine. I will let this gentleman out.”

  “Shall I put out the lights, sir?”

  “Leave a light in the hall.”

  Antoine left the room and the baron, after taking a revolver from his desk, at once came back to Lupin, put the weapon in his pocket and said, very calmly:

  “You must excuse this little precaution, sir. I am obliged to take it in case you should be mad, though that does not seem likely. No, you are not mad. But you have come here with an object which I fail to grasp; and you have sprung upon me an accusation of so astounding a character that I am curious to know the reason. I have experienced so much disappointment and undergone so much suffering that an outrage of this kind leaves me indifferent. Continue, please.”

  His voice shook with emotion and his sad eyes seemed moist with tears.

  Lupin shuddered. Had he made a mistake? Was the surmise which his intuition had suggested to him and which was based upon a frail groundwork of slight facts, was this surmise wrong?

  His attention was caught by a detail: through the opening in the baron’s waistcoat he saw the point of the pin fixed in the tie and was thus able to realize the unusual length of the pin. Moreover, the gold stem was triangular and formed a sort of miniature dagger, very thin and very delicate, yet formidable in an expert hand.

  And Lupin had no doubt but that the pin attached to that magnificent pearl was the weapon which had pierced the heart of the unfortunate M. Lavernoux.

  He muttered:

  “You’re jolly clever, monsieur le baron!”

  The other, maintaining a rather scornful gravity, kept silence, as though he did not understand and as though waiting for the explanation to which he felt himself entitled. And, in spite of everything, this impassive attitude worried Arsène Lupin. Nevertheless, his conviction was so profound and, besides, he had staked so much on the adventure that he repeated:

  “Yes, jolly clever, for it is evident that the baroness only obeyed your orders in realizing your securities and also in borrowing th
e princess’s jewels on the pretence of buying them. And it is evident that the person who walked out of your house with a bag was not your wife, but an accomplice, that chorus-girl probably, and that it is your chorus-girl who is deliberately allowing herself to be chased across the continent by our worthy Ganimard. And I look upon the trick as marvellous. What does the woman risk, seeing that it is the baroness who is being looked for? And how could they look for any other woman than the baroness, seeing that you have promised a reward of two hundred thousand francs to the person who finds the baroness? … Oh, that two hundred thousand francs lodged with a solicitor: what a stroke of genius! It has dazzled the police! It has thrown dust in the eyes of the most clear-sighted! A gentleman who lodges two hundred thousand francs with a solicitor is a gentleman who speaks the truth … So they go on hunting the baroness! And they leave you quietly to settle your affairs, to sell your stud and your two houses to the highest bidder and to prepare your flight! Heavens, what a joke!”

  The baron did not wince. He walked up to Lupin and asked, without abandoning his imperturbable coolness:

  “Who are you?”

  Lupin burst out laughing.

  “What can it matter who I am? Take it that I am an emissary of fate, looming out of the darkness for your destruction!”

  He sprang from his chair, seized the baron by the shoulder and jerked out:

  “Yes, for your destruction, my bold baron! Listen to me! Your wife’s three millions, almost all the princess’s jewels, the money you received to-day from the sale of your stud and your real estate: it’s all there, in your pocket, or in that safe. Your flight is prepared. Look, I can see the leather of your portmanteau behind that hanging. The papers on your desk are in order. This very night, you would have done a guy. This very night, disguised beyond recognition, after taking all your precautions, you would have joined your chorus-girl, the creature for whose sake you have committed murder, that same Nelly Darbal, no doubt, whom Ganimard arrested in Belgium. But for one sudden, unforeseen obstacle: the police, the twelve detectives who, thanks to Lavernoux’s revelations, have been posted under your windows. They’ve cooked your goose, old chap! … Well, I’ll save you. A word through the telephone; and, by three or four o’clock in the morning, twenty of my friends will have removed the obstacle, polished off the twelve detectives, and you and I will slip away quietly. My conditions? Almost nothing; a trifle to you: we share the millions and the jewels. Is it a bargain?”