Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes (14 page)

The caressing and sympathetic tone of his voice soothed her, and she listened to him with an eager desire for hope and happiness. Her features were softened by a smile, and yet how sad a smile! He continued to speak in a tone of tender entreaty:

“You should not be unhappy, Clotilde; you have no cause to be.”

She displayed her delicate white hands and said, solemnly:

“Yes, Maxime; so long as I see those hands I shall be sad.”

“Why?”

“They are stained with blood.”

“Hush! Do not think of that!” exclaimed Lupin. “The dead is past and gone. Do not resurrect it.”

And he kissed the long, delicate hand, while she regarded him with a brighter smile as if each kiss effaced a portion of that dreadful memory.

“You must love me, Maxime; you must—because no woman will ever love you as I do. For your sake, I have done many things, not at your order or request, but in obedience to your secret desires. I have done things at which my will and conscience revolted, but there was some unknown power that I could not resist. What I did I did involuntarily, mechanically, because it helped you, because you wished it … and I am ready to do it again to-morrow … and always.”

“Ah, Clotilde,” he said, bitterly, “why did I draw you into my adventurous life? I should have remained the Maxime Bermond that you loved five years ago, and not have let you know the other man that I am.”

She replied in a low voice:

“I love the other man, also, and I have nothing to regret.”

“Yes, you regret your past life—the free and happy life you once enjoyed.”

“I have no regrets when you are here,” she said, passionately. “All faults and crimes disappear when I see you. When you are away I may suffer, and weep, and be horrified at what I have done; but when you come it is all forgotten. Your love wipes it all away. And I am happy again … But you must love me!”

“I do not love you on compulsion, Clotilde. I love you simply because … I love you.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“I am just as sure of my own love as I am of yours. Only my life is a very active and exciting one, and I cannot spend as much time with you as I would like—just now.”

“What is it? Some new danger? Tell me!”

“Oh! Nothing serious. Only … ”

“Only what?” she asked.

“Well, he is on our track.”

“Who? Herlock Sholmes?”

“Yes; it was he who dragged Ganimard into that affair at the Hungarian restaurant. It was he who instructed the two policemen to watch the house in the rue Chalgrin. I have proof of it. Ganimard searched the house this morning and Sholmes was with him. Besides—”

“Besides? What?”

“Well, there is another thing. One of our men is missing.”

“Who?”

“Jeanniot.”

“The concierge?”

“Yes.”

“Why, I sent him to the rue Chalgrin this morning to pick up the garnets that fell out of my brooch.”

“There is no doubt, then, that Sholmes caught him.”

“No; the garnets were delivered to the jeweler in the rue de la Paix.”

“Then, what has become of him?”

“Oh! Maxime, I am afraid.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, but I confess the situation is very serious. What does he know? Where does he hide himself? His isolation is his strong card. I cannot reach him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Act with extreme prudence, Clotilde. Some time ago I decided to change my residence to a safer place, and Sholmes’ appearance on the scene has prompted me to do so at once. When a man like that is on your track, you must be prepared for the worst. Well, I am making my preparations. Day after to-morrow, Wednesday, I shall move. At noon it will be finished. At two o’clock I shall leave the place, after removing the last trace of our residence there, which will be no small matter. Until then—”

“Well?”

“Until then we must not see each other and no one must see you, Clotilde. Do not go out. I have no fear for myself, but I have for you.”

“That Englishman cannot possibly reach me.”

“I am not so sure of that. He is a dangerous man. Yesterday I came here to search the cupboard that contains all of Monsieur Destange’s old papers and records. There is danger there. There is danger everywhere. I feel that he is watching us—that he is drawing his net around us closer and closer. It is one of those intuitions which never deceive me.”

“In that case, Maxime, go, and think no more of my tears. I shall be brave, and wait patiently until the danger is past. Adieu, Maxime.”

They held one another for some time in a last fond embrace. And it was she that gently pushed him outside. Sholmes could hear the sound of their voices in the distance.

Emboldened by the necessities of the situation and the urgent need of bringing his investigation to a speedy termination, Sholmes proceeded to make an examination of the house in which he now found himself. He passed through Clotilde’s boudoir into a corridor, at the end of which there was a stairway leading to the lower floor; he was about to descend this stairway when he heard voices below, which caused him to change his route. He followed the corridor, which was a circular one, and discovered another stairway, which he descended and found himself amidst surroundings that bore a familiar appearance. He passed through a door that stood partly open and entered a large circular room. It was Monsieur Destange’s library.

“Ah! Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Now I understand everything. The boudoir of Mademoiselle Clotilde—the Blonde Lady—communicates with a room in the adjoining house, and that house does not front on the Place Malesherbes, but upon an adjacent street, the rue Montchanin, if I remember the name correctly … And I now understand how Clotilde Destange can meet her lover and at the same time create the impression that she never leaves the house; and I understand also how Arsène Lupin was enabled to make his mysterious entrance to the gallery last night. Ah! There must be another connection between the library and the adjoining room. One more house full of ways that are dark! And no doubt Lucien Destange was the architect, as usual! … I should take advantage of this opportunity to examine the contents of the cupboard and perhaps learn the location of other houses with secret passages constructed by Monsieur Destange.”

Sholmes ascended to the gallery and concealed himself behind some draperies, where he remained until late in the evening. At last a servant came and turned off the electric lights. An hour later the Englishman, by the light of his lantern, made his way to the cupboard. As he had surmised, it contained the architect’s old papers, plans, specifications and books of account. It also contained a series of registers, arranged according to date, and Sholmes, having selected those of the most recent dates, searched in the indexes for the name “Harmingeat.” He found it in one of the registers with a reference to page 63. Turning to that page, he read:

“Harmingeat, 40 rue Chalgrin.”

This was followed by a detailed account of the work done in and about the installation of a furnace in the house. And in the margin of the book someone had written these words: “See account M.B.”

“Ah! I thought so!” said Sholmes; “the account M.B. is the one I want. I shall learn from it the actual residence of Monsieur Lupin.”

It was morning before he found that important account. It comprised sixteen pages, one of which was a copy of the page on which was described the work done for Mon. Harmingeat of the rue Chalgrin. Another page described the work performed for Mon. Vatinel as owner of the house at No. 25 rue Clapeyron. Another page was reserved for the Baron d’Hautrec, 134 avenue Henri-Martin; another was devoted to the Château de Crozon, and the eleven other pages to various owners of houses in Paris.

Sholmes made a list of those eleven names and addresses; after which he returned the books to their proper places, opened a window, jumped out onto the deserted street and closed the shutters behind him.

When he reached his room at the hotel he lighted his pipe with all the solemnity with which he was wont to characterize that act, and amidst clouds of smoke he studied the deductions that might be drawn from the account of M.B., or rather, from the account of Maxime Bermond alias Arsène Lupin.

At eight o’clock he sent the following message to Ganimard:

“I expect to pass through the rue Pergolese this forenoon and will inform you of a person whose arrest is of the highest importance. In any event, be at home to-night and to-morrow until noon and have at least thirty men at your service.”

Then he engaged an automobile at the stand on the boulevard, choosing one whose chauffeur looked good-natured but dull-witted, and instructed him to drive to the Place Malesherbes, where he stopped him about one hundred feet from Monsieur Destange’s house.

“My boy, close your carriage,” he said to the chauffeur; “turn up the collar of your coat, for the wind is cold, and wait patiently. At the end of an hour and a half, crank up your machine. When I return we will go to the rue Pergolese.”

As he was ascending the steps leading to the door a doubt entered his mind. Was it not a mistake on his part to be spending his time on the affairs of the Blonde Lady, while Arsène Lupin was preparing to move? Would he not be better engaged in trying to find the abode of his adversary amongst the eleven houses on his list?

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “when the Blonde Lady becomes my prisoner, I shall be master of the situation.”

And he rang the bell.

Monsieur Destange was already in the library. They had been working only a few minutes, when Clotilde entered, bade her father good morning, entered the adjoining parlor and sat down to write. From his place Sholmes could see her leaning over the table and from time to time absorbed in deep meditation. After a short time he picked up a book and said to Monsieur Destange:

“Here is a book that Mademoiselle Destange asked me to bring to her when I found it.”

He went into the little parlor, stood before Clotilde in such a manner that her father could not see her, and said:

“I am Monsieur Stickmann, your father’s new secretary.”

“Ah!” said Clotilde, without moving, “my father has changed his secretary? I didn’t know it.”

“Yes, mademoiselle, and I desire to speak with you.”

“Kindly take a seat, monsieur; I have finished.”

She added a few words to her letter, signed it, enclosed it in the envelope, sealed it, pushed her writing material away, rang the telephone, got in communication with her dressmaker, asked the latter to hasten the completion of a travelling dress, as she required it at once, and then, turning to Sholmes, she said:

“I am at your service, monsieur. But do you wish to speak before my father? Would not that be better?”

“No, mademoiselle; and I beg of you, do not raise your voice. It is better that Monsieur Destange should not hear us.”

“For whose sake is it better?”

“Yours, mademoiselle.”

“I cannot agree to hold any conversation with you that my father may not hear.”

“But you must agree to this. It is imperative.”

Both of them arose, eye to eye. She said:

“Speak, monsieur.”

Still standing, he commenced:

“You will be so good as to pardon me if I am mistaken on certain points of secondary importance. I will guarantee, however, the general accuracy of my statements.”

“Can we not dispense with these preliminaries, monsieur? Or are they necessary?”

Sholmes felt the young woman was on her guard, so he replied:

“Very well; I will come to the point. Five years ago your father made the acquaintance of a certain young man called Maxime Bermond, who was introduced as a contractor or an architect, I am not sure which it was; but it was one or the other. Monsieur Destange took a liking to the young man, and as the state of his health compelled him to retire from active business, he entrusted to Monsieur Bermond the execution of certain orders he had received from some of his old customers and which seemed to come within the scope of Monsieur Bermond’s ability.”

Herlock Sholmes stopped. It seemed to him that the girl’s pallor had increased. Yet there was not the slightest tremor in her voice when she said:

“I know nothing about the circumstances to which you refer, monsieur, and I do not see in what way they can interest me.”

“In this way, mademoiselle: You know, as well as I, that Maxime Bermond is also known by the name of Arsène Lupin.”

She laughed, and said:

“Nonsense! Arsène Lupin? Maxime Bermond is Arsène Lupin? Oh! No! It isn’t possible!”

“I have the honor to inform you of that fact, and since you refuse to understand my meaning, I will add that Arsène Lupin has found in this house a friend—more than a friend—and accomplice, blindly and passionately devoted to him.”

Without emotion, or at least with so little emotion that Sholmes was astonished at her self-control, she declared:

“I do not understand your object, monsieur, and I do not care to; but I command you to say no more and leave this house.”

“I have no intention of forcing my presence on you,” replied Sholmes, with equal sang-froid, “but I shall not leave this house alone.”

“And who will accompany you, monsieur?”

“You will.”

“I?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, we will leave this house together, and you will follow me without one word of protest.”

The strange feature of the foregoing interview was the absolute coolness of the two adversaries. It bore no resemblance to an implacable duel between two powerful wills; but, judging solely from their attitude and the tone of their voices, an onlooker would have supposed their conversation to be nothing more serious than a courteous argument over some impersonal subject.

Clotilde resumed her seat without deigning to reply to the last remark of Herlock Sholmes, except by a shrug of her shoulders. Sholmes looked at his watch and said:

“It is half-past ten. We will leave here in five minutes.”

“Perhaps.”

“If not, I shall go to Monsieur Destange, and tell him—”

“What?”

“The truth. I will tell him of the vicious life of Maxime Bermond, and I will tell him of the double life of his accomplice.”