Arsène Lupin intervenes
half-hour, and maman was in her room knitting, when suddenly she heard
a faint sound like someone moving about in my room. She rushed along
the passage, and found two men taking my bed apart by the light of a
flash-lamp! The light was switched off at once, and one chap sprang at
her and knocked her down while the other flung a tablecloth over her
head. How’s that for assault and battery? Poor old maman! Then, if you
please, these two blighters calmly proceeded to remove the furniture
bit by bit, one of them carrying it downstairs, while the other stayed
in the room. Maman kept quiet and managed not to scream. After a while
she heard a big car starting up in the street outside, and then she was
so overcome with the strain that she fainted right off.”
“So that when you got back from the show——?” prompted Béchoux.
“I found the street door open, the flat door open, and maman lying
unconscious on the floor of my room. You could have knocked me down
with a feather!”
“What had the concierges to say?”
“You know them, Béchoux. Two old dears who’ve been here for thirty
years now. An earthquake wouldn’t rouse ’em. The only sound they ever
hear is the door-bell. Well, they swear by all their gods that no one
rang between ten o’clock, when they went to bed, and next morning.”
“Which means,” said Béchoux, “that they had no cause at any time during
the night to pull the string that opens the door.”
“You’ve said it.”
“Did the other tenants hear nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then the conclusion is——”
“How do you mean, conclusion?”
“Well, what do you make of it?”
Olga’s expression was one of wrath.
“Don’t be an idiot! It’s not my business to make anything of it. That’s
your job, Béchoux. In a moment you’ll have me thinking you as big a
fool as those policemen we’ve had all over the flat.”
“But,” faltered Béchoux, “we’re only beginning.”
“Can’t you get action with what I’ve told you, you boob? If that pal of
yours there isn’t any brighter than you, I can bid my Pompadour bed a
fond farewell!”
The “pal” at this point stepped forward and asked:
“On what particular day would you like your bed back, madame?”
“What’s that?” said Olga, staring at this stranger to whom, up to now,
she had paid but slight attention.
Barnett became glibly detailed.
“I should like to know the day and hour on which you desire to regain
possession of your Pompadour bed and of your furniture, etcetera.”
“Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Let’s fix the day,” said the imperturbable Barnett.
“To-day is Tuesday. Will next Tuesday be satisfactory?”
Olga’s eyes widened, and widened yet again. She could not make Barnett
out a bit. Suddenly she began to rock with mirth.
“You are a one, I must say! Where did you pick it up, Béchoux? Out of
the asylum? I must say your friend’s got a nerve. In a week, he says,
cool as you please. You might think the bed was in his pocket! You’ve
got another thing coming if you fancy I’m going to waste my time with
two mutts like you.” With a hand on the chest of each, she pushed them
vigorously into the hall. “Out you go, my lads, and you can stay out!
And don’t think I’m going to let myself be fooled by a couple of rotten
jokers!”
The studio door slammed violently on the two “rotten jokers,” and
Béchoux groaned aloud.
“And we’ve only been in the flat ten minutes!”
Barnett was calmly examining the hall. He then talked to one of the old
servants. After that, he went downstairs to the concierges’ quarters
and questioned the pair of them. He then hailed a passing taxi, giving
the driver his address in the rue Laborde. Inspector Béchoux, deserted
and aghast, stood forlornly on the pavement and watched the
disappearing chariot of his friend.
However much Jim Barnett held Inspector Béchoux spellbound, the latter
stood in even greater awe of the imperious Olga. He never dreamed of
doubting her assertion that Barnett had turned the whole thing off by
making a promise no one could take seriously.
This gloomy view of affairs was confirmed next day when he called at
the office in the rue Laborde and found Barnett lolling back in an
armchair, his feet upon his desk, smoking peacefully.
“Really, Barnett,” said Béchoux in exasperation, “if this is your idea
of getting down to things, we may as well give up the case. Back at the
house we’re all hopelessly at sea. We none of us know what to make of
it. We are agreed on certain points, of course. The main thing is, that
it’s a physical impossibility to enter the place, even using a skeleton
key, unless the door is opened from the inside. Since none of the
residents can be suspected of being concerned in the burglary, we are
driven to two unavoidable conclusions: first, that one of the thieves
had been in the house, concealed, since early in the evening, and this
man let in a confederate; second, that he could not have got inside
without being seen by one of the concierges, as the street door is
never left open. But who can have been in the house ready to admit the
other thief? That’s what floors us, and I don’t see how on earth we’re
going to find it out. Have you any theory, Barnett?”
But Barnett was silent, absorbed in blowing smoke-rings. Béchoux’s
words might have fallen on deaf ears, but he continued:
“We’ve made a list of people who called during that day—there weren’t
many—and the concierges are positive that every single one of them left
the house again. So you see we’re without a clue. We can easily
reconstruct the modus operandi of the crime, but its authors elude us.
What do you make of it all?”
Barnett gave a prodigious yawn, stretched his arms and legs till they
cracked, and then drawled:
“A perfect peach!”
“Wh-what’s that? Who’re you calling a peach?”
“Your ex-wife,” Barnett told the astonished Béchoux. “She’s as much of
a knock-out off the stage as she is on. So full of joie de vivre, so—so
electric! A regular gamine. Wonderful taste, too. I just can’t get over
the idea of her investing her earnings in that Pompadour bed! Béchoux,
you’re a lucky dog!”
“I lost my luck pretty quickly—only kept it a month!”
“A whole month? Then what are you grumbling at?”
Next Saturday saw Béchoux back at the Barnett Agency, trying to rouse
his torpid ally, but Barnett was wreathed in smoke and silence, and
Béchoux got no satisfaction.
On Monday he came in again, thoroughly depressed.
“It’s a mug’s game,” he averred, “the men on the job are utter idiots,
and all this time Olga’s bedroom suite is probably on its way to some
port or other for shipment abroad. It’s maddening! And what do you
suppose all this makes me look like to Olga—me, a police inspector, I
ask you? Why, she thinks I’m the most colossal ass that ever stepped.”
He glared at the imperturbable Barnett, absorbed in his eternal
smoke-rings, and let loose the full force of his fury.
“Here are we, up against an entirely new type of criminal—fighting men
who must be adepts in their own line—and there you sit, you—you
lotus-eater, and don’t lift a finger to help!”
“One quality in her,” said Barnett, musing aloud, “pleases me more than
all.”
“What?” shouted Béchoux.
“Her naturalness—her superb spontaneity. She is absolutely devoid of
anything theatrical, any pose. Olga says exactly what she means,
follows her instincts and lives according to impulse. Béchoux, she’s a
marvel!”
Béchoux brought his fist down on the desk with a bang.
“Would you like to know what she thinks of you? She thinks you’re a
D-U-D, dud! She and Del Prego can’t mention your name without hooting.
They speak of you as ‘That boob Barnett—that crazy bluffer’....”
Barnett heaved a sigh.
“Harsh words! How can I prove the cap doesn’t fit?”
“By ceasing to wear it,” suggested Béchoux grimly. “To-morrow is
Tuesday, and you’ve promised to produce that Pompadour bed!”
“Good lord, so I have!” said Barnett, as if realizing it for the first
time. “The trouble is, I haven’t the faintest idea where to look for
it! Be a sportsman, Béchoux, and ladle out a word of advice.”
“If you can lay hold of the thieves, they’ll know where to find the
bed.”
“It might be done,” said Barnett. “Got a warrant?”
Béchoux nodded.
“Right. Then telephone the préfecture to send two of their beefiest men
to-day to the Odéon Arcades, near the Luxembourg.”
Béchoux looked both surprised and irresolute.
“No fooling?”
“Absolutely not. Do you think I relish being thought a boob by Olga
Vaubant? And, anyway, don’t I always keep my promises?”
Béchoux thought hard for a moment. Something told him that Barnett
meant what he said, and that during the last week, while he had lolled
in his armchair, his brain had been alert and busy with the problem. He
remembered Barnett’s dictum that there were times when meditation
proved more profitable than investigation. Without further hesitation,
Béchoux took up the telephone and called up one, Albert, who was the
right-hand man of the chief. He arranged for two inspectors to be sent
to the Odéon.
Barnett heaved himself out of his chair, and the clock struck three as
the two men left the Agency.
“Are we going to Olga’s flat?” Béchoux asked.
“To that of the concierges,” Barnett told him.
When they arrived Barnett conversed in low tones with the concierges
and asked them to say nothing of his and Béchoux’s presence in the
house. They then stationed themselves in the rear of the concierges’
quarters, concealed behind a voluminous bed-curtain. By peering out at
each side, they could see anyone leave the house, or enter it when the
door was opened.
They saw the priest from the first floor pass. Then came one of Olga’s
old servants, carrying a market-basket.
“Who on earth are we waiting for?” whispered Béchoux. “What’s your
game?”
“To teach you your job! Now then, not another word!”
At half-past three Del Prego was admitted, resplendent in white gloves,
white spats, grey suit and grey Stetson. He waved a greeting to the
concierges and went up the stairs two at time. It was the hour for
Olga’s gym lesson.
Three-quarters of an hour later he left the house, returning shortly
with a packet of cigarettes he had gone out to buy. His white gloves
and spats flickered up the stairs.
Three other people came and went. Suddenly Béchoux hissed in Barnett’s
ear:
“Look, he’s coming in again for the third time. How on earth did he get
out?”
“By the door, I suppose.”
“Oh, surely not,” said Béchoux, albeit less authoritatively. “That is,
unless he caught us napping. Eh, Barnett?”
Barnett pushed back the curtain and answered:
“The time has come for action. Béchoux, go and pick up your beefy
friends.”
“And bring them here?”
“That’s the stuff.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going up aloft. When you get back, I want all three of you to
station yourselves on the landing of the second floor. You’ll get word
when to move.”
“Then it’s zero at last?”
“It is, and pretty stiff odds. Now, off you go, and make it snappy.”
Béchoux was off like the wind, while Barnett mounted to the third floor
and rang the flat bell. He was shown into the studio-gymnasium where
Olga was finishing her exercises under Del Prego’s supervision.
“Fancy that now, here’s that bright boy Barnett!” called Olga from the
top of a rope-ladder. “Our Mr. Barnett, the Man of Mystery!” She peered
at him from between her shapely legs. “Well, Mr. Barnett, I hope you’ve
got my Pompadour bed with you!”
“Almost, but not quite, madame. I hope I’m not in the way?”
“Not a bit.”
The incredible Olga continued her evolutions at Del Prego’s curt
commands. Her instructor alternately praised and criticised, and
occasionally gave a brief personal demonstration. He was himself a
trained acrobat, but vigorous rather than supple. He seemed out to