Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes by Maurice Leblanc - HTML preview

 

CHAPTER VIII.
 THE SHIPWRECK.

“That’s what I don’t like, Wilson,” said Herlock Sholmes, after he had read Arsène Lupin’s message; “that is what exasperates me in this affair—to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me everywhere. He sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my inmost thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. Ah! he is possessed of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive woman, yes, surpassing even that of Herlock Sholmes himself. Nothing escapes him. I resemble an actor whose every step and movement are directed by a stage-manager; who says this and does that in obedience to a superior will. That is my position. Do you understand, Wilson?”

Certainly Wilson would have understood if his faculties had not been deadened by the profound slumber of a man whose temperature varies between one hundred and one hundred and three degrees. But whether he heard or not was a matter of no consequence to Herlock Sholmes, who continued:

“I have to concentrate all my energy and bring all my resources into action in order to make the slightest progress. And, fortunately for me, those petty annoyances are like so many pricks from a needle and serve only to stimulate me. As soon as the heat of the wound is appeased and the shock to my vanity has subsided I say to myself: ‘Amuse yourself, my dear fellow, but remember that he who laughs last laughs best. Sooner or later you will betray yourself.’ For you know, Wilson, it was Lupin himself, who, by his first dispatch and the observation that it suggested to little Henriette, disclosed to me the secret of his correspondence with Alice Hemun. Have you forgotten that circumstance, dear boy?”

But Wilson was asleep; and Sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his speech:

“And, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps, but the light is creeping in. In the first place, I must learn all about Monsieur Bresson. Ganimard and I will visit the bank of the river, at the spot where Bresson threw away the package, and the particular rôle of that gentleman will be known to me. After that the game will be played between me and Alice Demun. Rather a light-weight opponent, hein, Wilson? And do you not think that I will soon know the phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and what the isolated letters—the ‘C’ and the ‘H’—mean? That is all I want to know, Wilson.”

Mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing Sholmes gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner:

“Monsieur Sholmes, I must scold you if you waken my patient. It isn’t nice of you to disturb him. The doctor has ordered absolute rest.”

He looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at her wonderful self-possession.

“Why do you look at me so, Monsieur Sholmes?... You seem to be trying to read my thoughts.... No?... Then what is it?”

She questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face and in her frank blue eyes. A smile played upon her lips; and she displayed so much unaffected candor that the Englishman almost lost his temper. He approached her and said, in a low voice:

“Bresson killed himself last night.”

She affected not to understand him; so he repeated:

“Bresson killed himself yesterday....”

She did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did not concern or interest her in any way.

“You have been informed,” said Sholmes, displaying his annoyance. “Otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. Ah! you are stronger than I expected. But what’s the use of your trying to conceal anything from me?”

He picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said:

“Will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent to Bresson four days before the theft of the Jewish lamp?”

“The order?... Bresson?... the theft of the Jewish lamp?”

She repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. He continued:

“Yes. Here are the letters employed ... on this bit of paper.... What did you say to Bresson?”

“The letters employed ... what did I say....”

Suddenly she burst into laughter:

“Ah! that is it! I understand! I am an accomplice in the crime! There is a Monsieur Bresson who stole the Jewish lamp and who has now committed suicide. And I am the friend of that gentleman. Oh! how absurd you are!”

“Whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in the avenue des Ternes?”

“Who? My modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais. Do you suppose that my modiste and my friend Monsieur Bresson are the same person?”

Despite all he knew, Sholmes was now in doubt. A person can feign terror, joy, anxiety, in fact all emotions; but a person cannot feign absolute indifference or light, careless laughter. Yet he continued to question her:

“Why did you accost me the other evening at the Northern Railway station? And why did you entreat me to leave Paris immediately without investigating this theft?”

“Ah! you are too inquisitive, Monsieur Sholmes,” she replied, still laughing in the most natural manner. “To punish you I will tell you nothing, and, besides, you must watch the patient while I go to the pharmacy on an urgent message. Au revoir.”

She left the room.

“I am beaten ... by a girl,” muttered Sholmes. “Not only did I get nothing out of her but I exposed my hand and put her on her guard.”

And he recalled the affair of the blue diamond and his first interview with Clotilde Destange. Had not the blonde Lady met his question with the same unruffled serenity, and was he not once more face to face with one of those creatures who, under the protection and influence of Arsène Lupin, maintain the utmost coolness in the face of a terrible danger?

“Sholmes ... Sholmes....”

It was Wilson who called him. Sholmes approached the bed, and, leaning over, said:

“What’s the matter, Wilson? Does your wound pain you?”

Wilson’s lips moved, but he could not speak. At last, with a great effort, he stammered:

“No ... Sholmes ... it is not she ... that is impossible——”

“Come, Wilson, what do you know about it? I tell you that it is she! It is only when I meet one of Lupin’s creatures, prepared and instructed by him, that I lose my head and make a fool of myself.... I bet you that within an hour Lupin will know all about our interview. Within an hour? What am I saying?... Why, he may know already. The visit to the pharmacy ... urgent message. All nonsense!... She has gone to telephone to Lupin.”

Sholmes left the house hurriedly, went down the avenue de Messine, and was just in time to see Mademoiselle enter a pharmacy. Ten minutes later she emerged from the shop carrying some small packages and a bottle wrapped in white paper. But she had not proceeded far, when she was accosted by a man who, with hat in hand and an obsequious air, appeared to be asking for charity. She stopped, gave him something, and proceeded on her way.

“She spoke to him,” said the Englishman to himself.

If not a certainty, it was at least an intuition, and quite sufficient to cause him to change his tactics. Leaving the girl to pursue her own course, he followed the suspected mendicant, who walked slowly to the avenue des Ternes and lingered for a long time around the house in which Bresson had lived, sometimes raising his eyes to the windows of the second floor and watching the people who entered the house.

At the end of an hour he climbed to the top of a tramcar going in the direction of Neuilly. Sholmes followed and took a seat behind the man, and beside a gentleman who was concealed behind the pages of a newspaper. At the fortifications the gentleman lowered the paper, and Sholmes recognized Ganimard, who thereupon whispered, as he pointed to the man in front:

“It is the man who followed Bresson last night. He has been watching the house for an hour.”

“Anything new in regard to Bresson?” asked Sholmes.

“Yes, a letter came to his address this morning.”

“This morning? Then it was posted yesterday before the sender could know of Bresson’s death.”

“Exactly. It is now in the possession of the examining magistrate. But I read it. It says: He will not accept any compromise. He wants everything—the first thing as well as those of the second affair. Otherwise he will proceed.”

“There is no signature,” added Ganimard. “It seems to me those few lines won’t help us much.”

“I don’t agree with you, Monsieur Ganimard. To me those few lines are very interesting.”

“Why so? I can’t see it.”

“For reasons that are personal to me,” replied Sholmes, with the indifference that he frequently displayed toward his colleague.

The tramcar stopped at the rue de Château, which was the terminus. The man descended and walked away quietly. Sholmes followed at so short a distance that Ganimard protested, saying:

“If he should turn around he will suspect us.”

“He will not turn around.”

“How do you know?”

“He is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin, and the fact that he walks in that manner, with his hands in his pockets, proves, in the first place, that he knows he is being followed and, in the second place, that he is not afraid.”

“But I think we are keeping too close to him.”

“Not too close to prevent his slipping through our fingers. He is too sure of himself.”

“Ah! Look there! In front of that café there are two of the bicycle police. If I summon them to our assistance, how can the man slip through our fingers?”

“Well, our friend doesn’t seem to be worried about it. In fact, he is asking for their assistance himself.”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Ganimard, “he has a nerve.”

The man approached the two policemen just as they were mounting their bicycles. After a few words with them he leaped on a third bicycle, which was leaning against the wall of the café, and rode away at a fast pace, accompanied by the two policemen.

“Hein! one, two, three and away!” growled Sholmes. “And through, whose agency, Monsieur Ganimard? Two of your colleagues.... Ah! but Arsène Lupin has a wonderful organization! Bicycle policemen in his service!... I told you our man was too calm, too sure of himself.”

“Well, then,” said Ganimard, quite vexed, “what are we to do now? It is easy enough to laugh! Anyone can do that.”

“Come, come, don’t lose your temper! We will get our revenge. But, in the meantime, we need reinforcements.”

“Folenfant is waiting for me at the end of the avenue de Neuilly.”

“Well, go and get him and join me later. I will follow our fugitive.”

Sholmes followed the bicycle tracks, which were plainly visible in the dust of the road as two of the machines were furnished with striated tires. Very soon he ascertained that the tracks were leading him to the edge of the Seine, and that the three men had turned in the direction taken by Bresson on the preceding evening. Thus he arrived at the gateway where he and Ganimard had concealed themselves, and, a little farther on, he discovered a mingling of the bicycle tracks which showed that the men had halted at that spot. Directly opposite there was a little point of land which projected into the river and, at the extremity thereof, an old boat was moored.

It was there that Bresson had thrown away the package, or, rather, had dropped it. Sholmes descended the bank and saw that the declivity was not steep and the water quite shallow, so it would be quite easy to recover the package, provided the three men had not forestalled him.

“No, that can’t be,” he thought, “they have not had time. A quarter of an hour at the most. And yet, why did they come this way?”

A fisherman was seated on the old boat. Sholmes asked him:

“Did you see three men on bicycles a few minutes ago?”

The fisherman made a negative gesture. But Sholmes insisted:

“Three men who stopped on the road just on top of the bank?”

The fisherman rested his pole under his arm, took a memorandum book from his pocket, wrote on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to Sholmes. The Englishman gave a start of surprise. In the middle of the paper which he held in his hand he saw the series of letters cut from the alphabet-book:

CDEHNOPRZEO—237.

The man resumed his fishing, sheltered from the sun by a large straw hat, with his coat and vest lying beside him. He was intently watching the cork attached to his line as it floated on the surface of the water.

There was a moment of silence—solemn and terrible.

“Is it he?” conjectured Sholmes, with an anxiety that was almost pitiful. Then the truth burst upon him:

“It is he! It is he! No one else could remain there so calmly, without the slightest display of anxiety, without the least fear of what might happen. And who else would know the story of those mysterious letters? Alice had warned him by means of her messenger.”

Suddenly the Englishman felt that his hand—that his own hand had involuntarily seized the handle of his revolver, and that his eyes were fixed on the man’s back, a little below the neck. One movement, and the drama would be finished; the life of the strange adventurer would come to a miserable end.

The fisherman did not stir.

Sholmes nervously toyed with his revolver, and experienced a wild desire to fire it and end everything; but the horror of such an act was repugnant to his nature. Death would be certain and would end all.

“Ah!” he thought, “let him get up and defend himself. If he doesn’t, so much the worse for him. One second more ... and I fire....”

But a sound of footsteps behind him caused him to turn his head. It was Ganimard coming with some assistants.

Then, quickly changing his plans, Sholmes leaped into the boat, which was broken from its moorings by his sudden action; he pounced upon the man and seized him around the body. They rolled to the bottom of the boat together.

“Well, now!” exclaimed Lupin, struggling to free himself, “what does this mean? When one of us has conquered the other, what good will it do? You will not know what to do with me, nor I with you. We will remain here like two idiots.”

The two oars slipped into the water. The boat drifted into the stream.

“Good Lord, what a fuss you make! A man of your age ought to know better! You act like a child.”

Lupin succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of the detective, who, thoroughly exasperated and ready to kill, put his hand in his pocket. He uttered an oath: Lupin had taken his revolver. Then he knelt down and tried to capture one of the lost oars in order to regain the shore, while Lupin was trying to capture the other oar in order to drive the boat down the river.

“It’s gone! I can’t reach it,” said Lupin. “But it’s of no consequence. If you get your oar I can prevent your using it. And you could do the same to me. But, you see, that is the way in this world, we act without any purpose or reason, as our efforts are in vain since Fate decides everything. Now, don’t you see, Fate is on the side of his friend Lupin. The game is mine! The current favors me!”

The boat was slowly drifting down the river.

“Look out!” cried Lupin, quickly.

Someone on the bank was pointing a revolver. Lupin stooped, a shot was fired; it struck the water beyond the boat. Lupin burst into laughter.

“God bless me! It’s my friend Ganimard! But it was very wrong of you to do that, Ganimard. You have no right to shoot except in self-defense. Does poor Lupin worry you so much that you forget yourself?... Now, be good, and don’t shoot again!... If you do you will hit our English friend.”

He stood behind Sholmes, facing Ganimard, and said:

“Now, Ganimard, I am ready! Aim for his heart!... Higher!... A little to the left.... Ah! you missed that time ... deuced bad shot.... Try again.... Your hand shakes, Ganimard.... Now, once more ... one, two, three, fire!... Missed!... Parbleu! the authorities furnish you with toy-pistols.”

Lupin drew a long revolver and fired without taking aim. Ganimard put his hand to his hat: the bullet had passed through it.

“What do you think of that, Ganimard! Ah! that’s a real revolver! A genuine English bulldog. It belongs to my friend, Herlock Sholmes.”

And, with a laugh, he threw the revolver to the shore, where it landed at Ganimard’s feet.

Sholmes could not withhold a smile of admiration. What a torrent of youthful spirits! And how he seemed to enjoy himself! It appeared as if the sensation of peril caused him a physical pleasure; and this extraordinary man had no other purpose in life than to seek for dangers simply for the amusement it afforded him in avoiding them.

Many people had now gathered on the banks of the river, and Ganimard and his men followed the boat as it slowly floated down the stream. Lupin’s capture was a mathematical certainty.

“Confess, old fellow,” said Lupin, turning to the Englishman, “that you would not exchange your present position for all the gold in the Transvaal! You are now in the first row of the orchestra chairs! But, in the first place, we must have the prologue ... after which we can leap, at one bound, to the fifth act of the drama, which will represent the capture or escape of Arsène Lupin. Therefore, I am going to ask you a plain question, to which I request a plain answer—a simple yes or no. Will you renounce this affair? At present I can repair the damage you have done; later it will be beyond my power. Is it a bargain?”

“No.”

Lupin’s face showed his disappointment and annoyance. He continued:

“I insist. More for your sake than my own, I insist, because I am certain you will be the first to regret your intervention. For the last time, yes or no?”

“No.”

Lupin stooped down, removed one of the boards in the bottom of the boat, and, for some minutes, was engaged in a work the nature of which Sholmes could not discern. Then he arose, seated himself beside the Englishman, and said:

“I believe, monsieur, that we came to the river to-day for the same purpose: to recover the object which Bresson threw away. For my part I had invited a few friends to join me here, and I was on the point of making an examination of the bed of the river when my friends announced your approach. I confess that the news did not surprise me, as I have been notified every hour concerning the progress of your investigation. That was an easy matter. Whenever anything occurred in the rue Murillo that might interest me, simply a ring on the telephone and I was informed.”

He stopped. The board that he had displaced in the bottom of the boat was rising and water was working into the boat all around it.

“The deuce! I didn’t know how to fix it. I was afraid this old boat would leak. You are not afraid, monsieur?”

Sholmes shrugged his shoulders. Lupin continued:

“You will understand then, in those circumstances, and knowing in advance that you would be more eager to seek a battle than I would be to avoid it, I assure you I was not entirely displeased to enter into a contest of which the issue is quite certain, since I hold all the trump cards in my hand. And I desired that our meeting should be given the widest publicity in order that your defeat may be universally known, so that another Countess de Crozon or another Baron d’Imblevalle may not be tempted to solicit your aid against me. Besides, my dear monsieur—”

He stopped again and, using his half-closed hands as a lorgnette, he scanned the banks of the river.

“Mon Dieu! they have chartered a superb boat, a real war-vessel, and see how they are rowing. In five minutes they will be along-side, and I am lost. Monsieur Sholmes, a word of advice; you seize me, bind me and deliver me to the officers of the law. Does that programme please you?... Unless, in the meantime, we are shipwrecked, in which event we can do nothing but prepare our wills. What do you think?”

They exchanged looks. Sholmes now understood Lupin’s scheme: he had scuttled the boat. And the water was rising. It had reached the soles of their boots. Then it covered their feet; but they did not move. It was half-way to their knees. The Englishman took out his tobacco, rolled a cigarette, and lighted it. Lupin continued to talk:

“But do not regard that offer as a confession of my weakness. I surrender to you in a battle in which I can achieve a victory in order to avoid a struggle upon a field not of my own choosing. In so doing I recognize the fact that Sholmes is the only enemy I fear, and announce my anxiety that Sholmes will not be diverted from my track. I take this opportunity to tell you these things since fate has accorded me the honor of a conversation with you. I have only one regret; it is that our conversation should have occurred while we are taking a foot-bath ... a situation that is lacking in dignity, I must confess.... What did I say? A foot-bath? It is worse than that.”

The water had reached the board on which they were sitting, and the boat was gradually sinking.

Sholmes, smoking his cigarette, appeared to be calmly admiring the scenery. For nothing in the world, while face to face with that man who, while threatened by dangers, surrounded by a crowd, followed by a posse of police, maintained his equanimity and good humor, for nothing in the world would he, Sholmes, display the slightest sign of nervousness.

Each of them looked as if he might say: Should a person be disturbed by such trifles? Are not people drowned in a river every day? Is it such an unusual event as to deserve special attention? One chatted, whilst the other dreamed; both concealing their wounded pride beneath a mask of indifference.

One minute more and the boat will sink. Lupin continued his chatter:

“The important thing to know is whether we will sink before or after the arrival of the champions of the law. That is the main question. As to our shipwreck, that is a fore-gone conclusion. Now, monsieur, the hour has come in which we must make our wills. I give, devise and bequeath all my property to Herlock Sholmes, a citizen of England, for his own use and benefit. But, mon Dieu, how quickly the champions of the law are approaching! Ah! the brave fellows! It is a pleasure to watch them. Observe the precision of the oars! Ah! is it you, Brigadier Folenfant? Bravo! The idea of a war-vessel is an excellent one. I commend you to your superiors, Brigadier Folenfant.... Do you wish a medal? You shall have it. And your comrade Dieuzy, where is he?... Ah! yes, I think I see him on the left bank of the river at the head of a hundred natives. So that, if I escape shipwreck, I shall be captured on the left by Dieuzy and his natives, or, on the right, by Ganimard and the populace of Neuilly. An embarrassing dilemma!”

The boat entered an eddy; it swung around and Sholmes caught hold of the oarlocks. Lupin said to him:

“Monsieur, you should remove your coat. You will find it easier to swim without a coat. No? You refuse? Then I shall put on my own.”

He donned his coat, buttoned it closely, the same as Sholmes, and said:

“What a discourteous man you are! And what a pity that you should be so stubborn in this affair, in which, of course, you display your strength, but, oh! so vainly! really, you mar your genius——”

“Monsieur Lupin,” interrupted Sholmes, emerging from his silence, “you talk too much, and you frequently err through excess of confidence and through your frivolity.”

“That is a severe reproach.”

“Thus, without knowing it, you furnished me, only a moment ago, with the information I required.”

“What! you required some information and you didn’t tell me?”

“I had no occasion to ask you for it—you volunteered it. Within three hours I can deliver the key of the mystery to Monsieur d’Imblevalle. That is the only reply——”

He did not finish the sentence. The boat suddenly sank, taking both of the men down with it. It emerged immediately, with its keel in the air. Shouts were heard on either bank, succeeded by an anxious moment of silence. Then the shouts were renewed: one of the shipwrecked party had come to the surface.

It was Herlock Sholmes. He was an excellent swimmer, and struck out, with powerful strokes, for Folenfant’s boat.

“Courage, Monsieur Sholmes,” shouted Folenfant; “we are here. Keep it up ... we will get you ... a little more, Monsieur Sholmes ... catch the rope.”

The Englishman seized the rope they had thrown to him. But, while they were hauling him into the boat, he heard a voice behind him, saying:

“The key of the mystery, monsieur, yes, you shall have it. I am astonished that you haven’t got it already. What then? What good will it do you? By that time you will have lost the battle....”

Now comfortably installed astride the keel of the boat, Lupin continued his speech with solemn gestures, as if he hoped to convince his adversary.

“You must understand, my dear Sholmes, there is nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. You find yourself in the deplorable position of a gentleman——”

“Surrender, Lupin!” shouted Folenfant.

“You are an ill-bred fellow, Folenfant, to interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. I was saying——”

“Surrender, Lupin!”

“Oh! parbleu! Brigadier Folenfant, a man surrenders only when he is in danger. Surely, you do not pretend to say that I am in any danger.”

“For the last time, Lupin, I call on you to surrender.”

“Brigadier Folenfant, you have no intention of killing me; you may wish to wound me since you are afraid I may escape. But if by chance the wound prove mortal? Just think of your remorse! It would embitter your old age.”

The shot was fired.

Lupin staggered, clutched at the keel of the boat for a moment, then let go and disappeared.

It was exactly three o’clock when the foregoing events transpired. Precisely at six o’clock, as he had foretold, Herlock Sholmes, dressed in trousers that were too short and a coat that was too small, which he had borrowed from an innkeeper at Neuilly, wearing a cap and a flannel shirt, entered the boudoir in the Rue Murillo, after having sent word to Monsieur and Madame d’Imblevalle that he desired an interview.

They found him walking up and down the room. And he looked so ludicrous in his strange costume that they could scarcely suppress their mirth. With pensive air and stooped shoulders, he walked like an automaton from the window to the door and from the door to the window, taking each time the same number of steps, and turning each time in the same manner.

He stopped, picked up a small ornament, examined it mechanically, and resumed his walk. At last, planting himself before them, he asked:

“Is Mademoiselle here?”

“Yes, she is in the garden with the children.”

“I wish Mademoiselle to be present at this interview.”

“Is it necessary——”

“Have a little patience, monsieur. From the facts I am going to present to you, you will see the necessity for her presence here.”

“Very well. Suzanne, will you call her?”

Madame d’Imblevalle arose, went out, and returned almost immediately, accompanied by Alice Demun. Mademoiselle, who was a trifle paler than usual, remained standing, leaning against a table, and without even asking why she had been called. Sholmes did not look at her, but, suddenly turning toward Monsieur d’Imblevalle, he said, in a tone which did not admit of a reply:

“After several days’ investigation, monsieur, I must repeat what I told you when I first came here: the Jewish lamp was stolen by some one living in the house.”

“The name of the guilty party?”

“I know it.”

“Your proof?”

“I have sufficient to establish that fact.”

“But we require more than that. We desire the restoration of the stolen goods.”

“The Jewish lamp? It is in my possession.”

“The opal necklace? The snuff-box?”

“The opal necklace, the snuff-box, and all the goods stolen on the second occasion are in my possession.”

Sholmes delighted in these dramatic dialogues, and it pleased him to announce his victories in that curt manner. The baron and his wife were amazed, and looked at Sholmes with a silent curiosity, which was the highest praise.

He related to them, very minutely, what he had done during those three days. He told of his discovery of the alphabet book, wrote upon a sheet of paper the sentence formed by the missing letters, then related the journey of Bresson to the bank of the river and the suicide of the adventurer, and, finally, his struggle with Lupin, the shipwreck, and the disappearance of Lupin. When he had finished, the baron said, in a low voice:

“Now, you have told us everything except the name of the guilty party. Whom do you accuse?”

“I accuse the person who cut the letters from the alphabet book, and communicated with Arsène Lupin by means of those letters.”

“How do you know that such correspondence was carried on with Arsène Lupin?”

“My information comes from Lupin himself.”

He produced a piece of paper that was wet and crumpled. It was the page which Lupin had torn from his memorandum-book, and upon which he had written the phrase.

“And you will notice,” said Sholmes, with satisfaction, “that he was not obliged to give me that sheet of paper, and, in that way, disclose his id