Arsène Lupin intervenes
misunderstanding between us. I couldn’t bear to think of our being
enemies. It worried me till I could hardly sleep at nights!”
A frown clouded Béchoux’s brow. His professional conscience pricked him
sore for being on friendly terms with Barnett. He cursed the unkind
fate that forced him to collaborate with a man he felt sure was a
crook, and to incur obligations to the fellow into the bargain. But
there are moments and circumstances when even the just man stretches a
point. The loss of a dozen valuable African mining shares explained
Béchoux’s course of action.
Swallowing his scruples, he whispered:
“It’s the concierge, of course?”
“It is she for the reason, inter alia, that it could not be any one
else.”
“But how do you account for a woman who has always been honest and
respectable suddenly turning crook?”
“If you had troubled to make a few inquiries about her you would know
that the poor creature is afflicted with a son who is a thorough bad
hat. He is always sponging on her. It was on his account that she
suddenly gave way to temptation.”
Béchoux jumped up.
“Did she manage to give him my shares?” he asked anxiously.
“Of course not! Do you think I should have allowed a thing like that? I
regard your Twelve Little Nigger Boys as sacred.”
“Where are they, then?”
“In your own coat-pocket.”
“Please don’t joke about it.”
“But, Béchoux, I’m not joking. I never joke in times of stress. Look
for yourself!”
Béchoux’s hand went gingerly to his coat-pocket, felt in it and took
out a large envelope which bore the following superscription: “To my
friend Béchoux.” With trembling fingers he tore it open. Oh, joy, his
Nigger Boys were restored to him, all twelve! Clutching the precious
shares to his breast, he turned very pale and closed his eyes. Barnett
hastened to revive him with smelling salts held under the nose.
“Sniff hard, Béchoux. This is no time to faint.”
Béchoux did not faint, though he surreptitiously wiped away a few tears
of relief. He was inarticulate with emotion. Of course he had no doubt
but that Barnett had stuffed the envelope into his pocket the moment he
came into the Agency, while they were making up their differences. But
anyhow there were the Twelve Little Nigger Boys in his still trembling
hands, and Barnett’s virtue was for him untarnished.
Reviving suddenly, he began capering about, dancing a kind of Spanish
jig shaking imaginary castanets.
“I’ve got them back! My own little pickaninnies! Bless you, Barnett,
for a friend in need. From now on there is only one Barnett—Béchoux’s
preserver! You deserve a statue and a drinking fountain. You are one of
our truly great men. But how on earth did you bring it off? Tell me
all.”
Once again Barnett’s little way was a source of amazement to Inspector
Béchoux. His professional curiosity thoroughly aroused, he asked:
“Won’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Barnett’s tone was one of amused indolence.
“How you unravelled everything! Where was the bundle? ‘In the house yet
out of it,’ was what you said, I believe?”
“‘And out of the house but in it,’” added Barnett with a laugh.
“What does it mean?”
“D’you give it up?”
“Yes, yes; I give it up. I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Will you promise never again to take up that chilly and reproachful
attitude towards my harmless exploits, which almost convinces me at
times that I must have wandered from the straight and narrow path?”
“Go on, tell me, Barnett!”
“Ah,” exclaimed the other, “what a story! I’ve never come across
anything more neatly done, more unexpected, more spontaneous or more
baffling. It was at once human and fantastic. And withal so simple that
you, Béchoux, gifted as you are in your profession, were absolutely in
the dark.”
“Well, hang it all, come to the point,” said Béchoux in some annoyance.
“How did the bundle of securities leave the house?”
“Under your own eyes, my bright lad! And not only did it leave the
house, but it came in again. It left the house twice daily, and twice
daily it returned! And under your own eyes, Béchoux, under your bright,
benignant eyes! And for ten days you bowed to it respectfully. You
almost grovelled on your knees before it!”
“I don’t believe you!” cried Béchoux. “It’s absurd. We searched
everything.”
“Everything was searched, Béchoux, except that. Parcels, boxes,
handbags, pockets, hats, tins, dustbins ... all those, but not that. At
the frontier they search all luggage, except the diplomat’s valise.
Naturally, you searched everything but that.”
“What is that?” yelled Béchoux frenziedly. “For goodness sake, answer
me.”
“The portfolio of the ex-Cabinet Minister!”
Béchoux sprang up in astonishment.
“What do you mean, Barnett? Are you accusing Monsieur Touffémont?”
“Idiot, should I dare accuse a member of parliament? In the first
place, that man, an ex-Cabinet Minister, is above suspicion. And among
all members of parliament and ex-Cabinet Ministers—and Lord knows their
name is legion—I regard Touffémont as the least open to suspicion. All
the same, Madame Alain made him a receiver of stolen goods!”
“Then he was her accomplice?”
“Not a bit of it!”
“Then who was?”
“His portfolio!” And, with a broad smile, Barnett proceeded to
elucidate. “A minister’s portfolio, Béchoux, has a personality of its
own. In this world we have Monsieur Touffémont and we have his
portfolio. The two are inseparable, and each is the other’s raison
d’être. You can’t imagine Monsieur Touffémont minus his portfolio—nor
the portfolio minus Monsieur Touffémont. But it happens that Monsieur
Touffémont lays down his portfolio when he eats and sleeps, and on
various other occasions through the day. At such times the portfolio
assumes a separate identity and may lend itself to actions for which
Monsieur Touffémont cannot be held responsible.
“That was what happened on the morning of the theft.”
Béchoux stared at Barnett, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
“That was what happened,” Barnett repeated, “on the morning that your
twelve African mining shares vanished away. The concierge, terrified by
what she had done, and dreading the consequences of her action, could
not think how to get rid of the securities, which were bound to betray
her guilt. Suddenly she noticed the providential presence of Monsieur
Touffémont’s portfolio on her mantelpiece—the portfolio all by itself!
Monsieur Touffémont had come in there to collect his post. He put his
portfolio down on the mantelpiece and proceeded to open his letters,
while Gassire and you, Béchoux, were telling him about the
disappearance of the securities.
“Then Madame Alain had an inspiration of sheer genius. Her room had not
yet been searched, but it was bound to be ransacked in a little while,
and the securities would be discovered. She had no time to lose. She
turned her back on the three of you standing there discussing the
theft. With quick, deft fingers she opened the portfolio, emptied one
of the flap pockets of all its papers, and slipped the securities into
their place. The deed was done, the great bell rung. No one suspected
anything. And when Monsieur Touffémont withdrew, he took away in the
portfolio under his arm your Twelve Little Nigger Boys and all
Gassire’s securities.”
Béchoux never questioned Barnett’s asseverations when they were made on
that particular note of absolute conviction. Instead, he bowed his head
humbly in the Temple of Truth and believed what he was told.
“Certainly,” he said, “I noticed a sheaf of papers and reports lying
about down there that morning, but I paid no attention to it. And
surely she must have given those documents back to Monsieur
Touffémont?”
“I hardly think so,” answered Barnett. “Rather than incur any suspicion
she probably burned them.”
“But he must have asked after them?”
Barnett shook his head and smiled quietly.
“You mean to say he hasn’t noticed the disappearance of a whole sheaf
of his papers?”
“Has he noticed the appearance of the bundle of securities?”
“But—but what happened when he opened the portfolio?”
“He didn’t open it. He never opens it. Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio,
like that of many a politician, is only a sham—a dummy—a useful prop on
the parliamentary stage. If he had opened it he would have demanded the
return of his own papers, and restored the securities. He has done
neither.”
“But when he works....”
“He doesn’t work. The mere fact of a man’s carrying a portfolio does
not necessarily imply that he works. As a matter of fact, the
possession of an ex-minister’s portfolio is in itself a dispensation
from work. A portfolio stands for power, authority, omnipotence, and
omniscience. Last night, at the Chambre des Députés—I was there myself,
by the way—Monsieur Touffémont laid down his portfolio on the rostrum.
You can see that his doing this at such a crisis was tantamount to
announcing publicly that he was once again a candidate for office. The
Cabinet realized that it was lost. The great man’s portfolio must be
full of crushing documents crammed with statistics! Monsieur Touffémont
even undid it, though he took nothing from its bulging compartments. It
was so obvious that he had everything there.... But really, there was
nothing there except your twelve African mining shares, Gassire’s
securities and some old newspapers. They carried the day, however, and
Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio overthrew the Cabinet.”
“But how do you know all this?”
“Because, when Monsieur Touffémont was strolling home from the House at
one o’clock in the morning, a person unknown came into clumsy collision
with him and sent him sprawling on the pavement. Another man—an
accomplice—snatched up the portfolio and replaced the securities with a
bundle of old papers, carrying off the former. Need I tell you the name
of the second man?”
Béchoux laughed heartily. Every time his hand felt the twelve shares in
his pocket he was struck afresh with the humor of the story and of
Monsieur Touffémont’s little adventure.
Barnett, beaming on his friend, concluded:
“That’s all there is to know, and it was in my endeavor to ferret out
the truth and collect evidence in the case that I’ve dictated my
memoirs and taken lessons on the flute. What a pleasant week it’s been!
Flirtations up above and a variety entertainment on the ground floor.
Gassire, Béchoux, Madame Alain, Touffémont ... my own little
marionettes, dancing when I pulled the strings! The hardest nut I had
to crack was that Touffémont could actually be oblivious of his
portfolio’s guilty secret, and be taking your Twelve Little Nigger Boys
to and fro in blissful ignorance. At first it had me absolutely beat.
And how surprised the poor concierge must have been! She must think
Touffémont a common crook, since she certainly believes that he has
stuck to your Little Nigger Boys and the rest of the bundle. Fancy
Touffémont——”
“Hadn’t I better tell him?” broke in Béchoux.
“What’s the good? Let him go on carting his old newspapers about and
sleeping with the portfolio under his pillow. Don’t let on about this
to anyone, Béchoux.”
“Except Gassire, of course,” said Béchoux. “I shall have to explain to
him when I give him back his securities.”
“What securities?” asked Barnett blankly.
“The ones you found in Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio—they’re his!”
“You must be crazy, Béchoux. You don’t suppose Gassire will ever see
his securities again?”
“Naturally I do.”
Barnett brought his fist down on the table and gave vent to a sudden
burst of righteous indignation.
“Look here, Béchoux, do you know what sort of man Nicolas Gassire is?
He’s a scoundrel like the concierge’s son! He robbed his clients—I can
prove it! He gambled with their money. He was even preparing to steal