Arsène Lupin intervenes

ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES BY MAURICE LE BLANC NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I FOREWORD 9 II “DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY” 13 III THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER 38 IV A GAME OF BACCARAT 61 V THE MAN WITH THE GOLD TEETH 85 VI TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS 108 VII THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE 137 VIII THE FATAL MIRACLE 164 IX DOUBLE ENTRY 195 X ARRESTING ARSÈNE LUPIN 226 XI AFTERWORD 255 ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES I FOREWORD Contrary, perhaps, to the opinion of the Bright Young People in our midst, the World-before-the-War was not by any means barren of adventure and excitement. Only, they did things differently then. There was, in those days, a certain sparkling gaiety, a spontaneity, a chic sadly lacking from the exploits of a younger generation. There was wit as well as honor among thieves. Just as really good wine differs from that modern depravity, the cocktail, so does the finished artistry of Jim Barnett compare with the outrages of bobbed-hair bandits and cat-burglars. For Barnett had a brain and used it; a sense of humor, and rejoiced in it. He was independent of revolvers and racing cars and hypodermic syringes. He made a confidant of no man—or woman. He was an unassisted conjurer, as it were, performing his little tricks always in the full glare of the limelight, relying entirely on his own lightning skill to vanish his watches and evolve his rabbits. A curious, memorable figure, Jim Barnett. By profession, a private detective, principal of the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde, with a modest ground-floor office for his headquarters. Unlike others of his trade, he worked entirely alone. He employed no spies, and saved himself their possible treachery. He had no secretary for the simple reason that he kept no records. His telephone rang infrequently, and when it did he answered it himself. In appearance, Barnett was something of a problem. He gave the impression of a man who is wilfully badly dressed, intentionally careless of his attire. His coat’s sole claim to respect was its indubitable antiquity. His trousers—but we will spare possible heartbreak to the tailors who read this description. He wore his incongruous monocle like some exotic bloom—its startling aristocracy in conjunction with the rest of his get-up was that of an orchid in an onion patch. What a contrast to his friend, Inspector Béchoux, that immaculate sprig of the Paris Police Force. Béchoux was frankly a dandy, devoting all his off-time to the adornment of his person. Yet he was no fool. Only, his brain moved in the channels of detective routine, whereas Barnett’s leaped nimbly from point to point of a mystery until it plucked out the heart. Be it said to Inspector Béchoux’s undying honor that he recognized Barnett’s gifts quite openly. He even resorted to asking his help in various problems, and it is the inner history of some of these that this book now reveals for the first time to the world at large. The peculiar feature of all the Béchoux-Barnett cases was always either their apparent insolubility (e.g., the Disappearance of the Twelve Little Nigger Boys) or the fact that they seemed solved at the outset (as in the case of the Man with the Gold Teeth). And the finale of each presented certain similar features—a dramatic and quite unexpected eleventh-hour dénouement; a swift adjustment of account between the innocent and guilty parties; and—a highly satisfactory windfall for Barnett. Only, as Inspector Béchoux bitterly observed, it was always the kind of windfall that meant shaking the tree. Barnett’s gifts would have stripped an orchard.... What placed Inspector Béchoux in a serious dilemma was that in every case Barnett’s position was unassailable from start to finish. His victims were people who could not be brought to speak a word against him. You could call it intimidation—blackmail—what you liked. Barnett merely grinned and fed large checks to his banking account. Large checks—and yet the slogan of the Barnett Agency was:— “Information Free. No Fees of Any Kind.” Which was paradoxically true. Barnett’s income was composed not of fees but of levies. Sometimes he took toll of his clients, sometimes of their enemies. A certain poetic justice characterized his depredations. The poor and the innocent had nothing to fear from Jim Barnett. And he was undeniably on the side of the law so far as results went. Only, where it suited his purpose, he meted out his own idea of a suitable punishment to criminals instead of turning them over to the police. Inspector Béchoux was probably Barnett’s only close friend. Yet all he knew of him was gleaned from the hours they spent together when Barnett intervened in one of his cases. He was quite ignorant of Barnett’s private life—his antecedents—even his identity. For there was always one mystery which remained unsolved. Who was the man who called himself “Jim Barnett”? There was something about his methods and his amusing buffoonery which could not fail to recall the King of Crooks—the one man who persisted in eluding and baffling the Paris police—the man Inspector Béchoux would have given his life-savings to lay hands on—whom he sometimes, in his inmost heart, half suspected to be masquerading as “Barnett,” and then dismissed the suspicion as fantastic. It is a long way back to pre-war Paris, and the clash of wits between Barnett and Inspector Béchoux. In these days, when so much of admiration and adulation is being misapplied, honor to whom honor is due! The moment has come when we can openly state that the worthy Inspector’s instinct was right, and the “interventions” of Jim Barnett may safely be attributed to their perpetrator—Arsène Lupin! II “DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY....” The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s imposing residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a moment later the maid brought in an envelope. “The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four o’clock.” Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it gingerly between her finger-tips, and read: The Barnett Agency Information Free “Show the gentleman into my boudoir,” she drawled. Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some thirty years—still retained a measure of good looks, although she was now thick-set, past middle-age and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and at times harsh expression had yet a certain candor which was not without charm. As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house with its luxurious appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances and in all the pomp and circumstance of her social position. Behind her back society gossips whispered that Valérie had been guilty of various rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even hardened Parisian scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There were those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated getting a divorce. Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with heart trouble, and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin shoulders and asked him, rather absent-mindedly, how he was feeling, before proceeding to her boudoir. Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built, square-shouldered man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and shiny, which hung in depressed creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young, but the rugged energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye indifferently, his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a boyish gaiety. “Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort to keep the scorn out of her voice. He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand with a flourish, following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible click of the tongue—suggesting his appreciation of the perfumed flavor. “Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter I stopped just long enough to give my coat a brush ... that was all....” The baronne wondered for a moment whether she should show her visitor the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man of rank, and, a little taken aback, she merely said: “I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather delicate and complicated matters....” He gave a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing through and into things—and people.” While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor conveyed a suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and his powers that it was impossible not to share his confidence, and Valérie felt herself coming under the influence of this unknown common detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau. Resenting the feeling, she interrupted him: “Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms....” “Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett. “But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for glory?” “The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely free.” She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some remuneration—your out-of-pocket expenses, at least.” “A tip?” he sneered. She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet. “I cannot possibly ...” she began. “Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame la baronne, I shall see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may be able to render you.” Was there a note of menace in the suave voice? Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this obscure remark? How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really, this Jim Barnett aroused in her almost the same sort of dread, the same queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might feel if suddenly confronted with a burglar! He might even be ... yes, he was quite possibly some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had better do. Ring for her maid? But he had so far dominated her that, regardless of the consequences, she found herself submitting passively to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply to his agency. Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she spoke frankly and to the point. “It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of bridge with some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as usual. About four o’clock—at ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke me and then I heard a bang which sounded to me like a door closing. It came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates with my bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase. I’m not nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here and turned on the light. The room was empty, but this small show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and several of the curios and statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and found him reading in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very