Arsène Lupin intervenes
Well, father, that explains what happened the other night. When you
jumped out of bed, with a sleep-dazed brain, you never realized that
you were facing away from the window and standing directly before the
fireplace, so that the intruder, instead of being in front of you, was
actually behind you. Therefore, when you switched on your flashlight,
its beam fell not on him but on his reflection in the mirror! I’ve just
brought about a repetition of the phenomenon by spinning you round and
making you giddy. Do you see now? Or shall I dot the i’s of elucidation
by reminding you that a mirror when it reflects an object shows you the
right and left sides reversed? That is how you happened to see the gold
teeth on the left side when they were really on the right.”
“Yes!” cried Inspector Béchoux, in triumph. “But that only proves that
I was right, and yet Père Dessole was not wrong in maintaining his
assertion. Therefore it’s up to you to produce a new man with gold
teeth to take the place of Monsieur Vernisson.”
“Quite unnecessary, I assure you.”
“But you must admit that the burglar is a man with gold teeth?”
“Have I got gold teeth?” demanded Barnett, and took from his mouth a
small piece of gold paper, which still bore the imprint of two of his
teeth.
“Here’s your proof. I hope you find it properly convincing. With
shoe-prints, a grey hat, a brown overcoat and two gold teeth, someone
has fabricated an indisputable Monsieur Vernisson for your benefit. And
how simple it is! One only has to get hold of a little bit of gilt
paper—like this, which I got from the same shop in Vaneuil, where a
whole sheet of it was purchased about three months ago, by the—Baron de
Gravières.”
Barnett’s words, which he let fall quite casually, seemed to reëcho in
the amazed silence which followed them. As a matter of fact, Béchoux,
who had followed Barnett’s line of argument pretty closely, was not
altogether surprised at the climax. But the Abbé Dessole looked as
though he would choke at any moment. His eyes were fixed on his
estimable parishioner, the Baron de Gravières, who sat with heightened
color, but said not a word. Barnett gave Monsieur Vernisson back his
hat and coat. The latter mumbled as he took his leave:
“You promise faithfully, don’t you, that Madame Vernisson shall never
hear of this? It would be terrible if she got to know ... you can
imagine....”
Barnett escorted him to the door and returned beaming. He rubbed his
hands together gleefully.
“A good run and a quick kill. I feel thoroughly braced. You see how
it’s done, Béchoux? Just the same method I applied to the other cases
where we’ve worked together. Never begin by accusing the man you
suspect. Don’t ask him to furnish an alibi. Don’t even take any notice
of him. But, while he thinks himself perfectly safe, reconstruct the
case step by step in his presence. This drives him to a mental
reënaction of the part he played in it. He sees what he had thought
buried in dark oblivion dragged to light. He feels himself cornered,
hopelessly involved, quite unable to fight against the proofs of his
guilt. The ordeal is such a strain on his nerves that it scarcely
occurs to him to utter a word in self-defense or protest. Isn’t that
so, baron? I take it we are all agreed. There’s no point in going over
it all again, is there? You are satisfied that my deductions are
correct?”
Baron de Gravières was evidently undergoing the exact ordeal described
by Barnett, for he made no attempt to confront his adversary or to
conceal his own distress. His attitude was that of a criminal caught
red-handed.
Jim Barnett came over and tendered affable reassurance.
“You need have no fears, monsieur. Abbé Dessole, who is anxious at all
costs to avoid a scandal, only asks you to return the treasure. Once
that’s back in its place, the incident can be regarded as closed.”
The baron raised his head, stared a moment at the man who had compassed
his downfall, and, under Barnett’s relentless gaze, murmured:
“There will be no prosecution? Nothing more will be said? I have your
promise, father?”
“I shall say nothing, I promise,” said the Abbé Dessole. “I shall blot
everything from my memory the minute the treasure is restored. But I
can hardly believe, even now, that you stole it, monsieur le baron—that
you, whom I trusted as I would myself, should turn criminal—it’s
incredible!”
With the awed humility of a child confessing his sins and gaining
relief by the recital, the baron whispered:
“It was too much for me, father. My thoughts kept coming back to that
treasure lying there, so close ... so close ... I resisted the
temptation ... I didn’t want to be a thief.... Then, the whole thing
seemed to take shape in my brain of its own accord....”
“I can hardly believe it!” the abbé repeated sorrowfully.
“Surely—surely——”
“It’s true enough. I had lost money in rash speculation. I had nothing
left to live on. Two months ago, father, I stored all my valuable
antique furniture, with several grandfather clocks and some fine
tapestries in my garage. I meant to sell them ... that would have been
my salvation. But I couldn’t bear to part with them ... and the fourth
of March was so near. Temptation assailed me ... the idea of carrying
out the plan that had come to me. I fell ... forgive me....”
“I forgive you,” said the Abbé Dessole, “and I shall pray the Lord to
be merciful in His punishment to you.”
The baron stood up and said in a firm voice:
“Now, will you please come with me?”
They all walked along the highroad, like men out for a stroll. The Abbé
Dessole mopped his brow. The baron’s tread was heavy and his bearing
bowed. Béchoux felt acute anxiety. He had little doubt that Barnett,
after deftly unravelling the threads of the case, had cheerfully helped
himself to the treasure.
In high feather, Barnett held forth at his side:
“How on earth you came to miss the real thief, Béchoux, beats me. You
must be blind. I saw at once that Monsieur Vernisson couldn’t have
plotted the crime at the rate of one trip a year; that it was much more
likely to be the work of a resident, and preferably of a neighbor. When
I saw the neighbor!... Why, the baron’s house commands an unimpeded
view of church and rectory. He was familiar with the curé’s various
precautions. He knew all about Monsieur Vernisson’s annual pilgrimage
on the fourth of March. Then....”
But Béchoux was not listening. He was too much taken up with his fears,
which solemn meditation did nothing to mitigate.
Barnett went jestingly on:
“Then, when I was sure of my case, I denounced the criminal to his
face. I had no actual proof at all—nothing that would stand in a court
of law. But I observed my man’s face as I built up the story of what
had happened and saw that he was almost beside himself. Ah, Béchoux,
that’s a grand and glorious feeling! And you see where it has landed
us?”
“Yes, I see ... or rather, I soon shall see ... you in clover and me in
the soup, I expect,” said Béchoux, morbidly resigned to the ultimate
doom.
Baron de Gravières had led them the length of several ditches on his
estate, and they were now taking a narrow grass path across a field. He
stopped short a few minutes later, near a clump of oaks.
“There,” he said in a staccato voice, “in that field on the right ...
in the haystack.”
Béchoux’s mouth wore a twisted smile. Feeling he might as well get it
over, he darted to the haystack, followed by the others.
The haystack was quite a small one. In a minute, Béchoux had tumbled
the top layer to the ground. Then he rummaged in the hay, working like
a ferret. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.
“Here they are! A monstrance!” his arm brandished it clear of the hay.
“A candlestick! A sconce!” he burrowed fiercely. “Six things ... no,
seven.”
“There should be nine!” cried the abbé.
“Nine there are! Why, they’re all here! Bully for you, Barnett. Bless
you, old son.”
Overcome with joy, and gathering the beloved objects to his ample
bosom, the abbé murmured:
“Mr. Barnett, you have my profound thanks. Heaven will reward you.”
Barnett’s inscrutable smile at this remark was perhaps indicative of
his belief in the old saying: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
Inspector Béchoux had been right in expecting an unpleasant surprise,
only it came a little later.
On their return, as the baron and his companions again skirted the
farm, they heard cries coming from the orchard. The baron rushed to the
garage, in front of which three of his employees stood gesticulating.
He guessed at once what had happened. The door of the small stable
adjoining the garage had been forced open and all the valuable antique
furniture, the grandfather clocks and the tapestries stored there—the
baron’s last resources—had disappeared. He reeled back, stammering:
“This is ghastly! When did it happen?”
“Last night,” said a servant. “We heard the dogs barking about eleven
o’clock.”
“But how could all the things have been spirited away?”
“In your car, sir.”
“In my car! They’ve stolen that too....”
The wretched baron sank into the arms of the priest, who comforted him
as best he could.
“God’s punishment has not tarried, my poor friend. Accept it with a
contrite heart....”
Béchoux advanced on Barnett with clenched fists, ready to spring and
strike.
“You must notify the police, monsieur le baron,” he rasped, in a tone
of fury. “I can assure you that your furniture is not lost.”
“Of course not,” agreed Barnett amicably. “But to prefer a charge would
be most dangerous for the baron.”
Béchoux continued his measured advance. His eyes were steely, and his
attitude one of threat. But Barnett drew him gently aside.
“Don’t you realize what would have happened without me? The curé would
not have got his treasure back. The innocent Vernisson would be in jail
and Madame Vernisson would know all about her unfortunate husband’s
backsliding. The only thing left for you in the circumstances would
have been to jump into the Seine.”
Béchoux sank limply down upon a tree stump. He was inarticulate with
rage.
“Quick, quick!” cried Barnett. “Something to pull Béchoux round....
He’s not feeling well!”
Baron de Gravières gave an order. A bottle of old wine was opened.
Béchoux drank down one glass, the curé another. The baron finished the
bottle....
VI
TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS
Monsieur Gassire’s first waking thought that morning was for the safety
of the bundle of securities which he had brought home the previous
evening. He stretched out an exploring hand, and encountered the bundle
still safely on the little table by his bed.
His mind set at rest, he proceeded to get out of bed and begin the
business of dressing for the day.
Nicolas Gassire was a short, corpulent man with a shriveled hawk-face.
He was an outside broker doing business in the Invalides quarter of
Paris, with a sound clientele of worthy bourgeois. These latter
entrusted their savings to him and were rewarded by the singularly
attractive profits he netted for them, in part from lucky speculations
and in part from his own little private business of money-lending.
He had a flat on the first floor of a narrow old house of which he was
the owner. This flat comprised a hall, his bedroom, a dining-room which
he used as his office, and another room in which his three clerks
worked. Right at the back there was the kitchen.
Gassire’s economy led him to do without a servant. Every morning at
eight the concierge, a stout, cheerful, active woman, came up with his
post and petit déjeuner—a cup of coffee and a croissant, which she laid
on his desk—and then cleaned up the flat.
On the morning in question the concierge departed at half-past eight,