Arsène Lupin intervenes
“Do you really want to know what I think? Jean never kidnaped any one.
The woman followed him of her own free will. He won’t admit it, because
he is trying to shield her reputation. But if the facts come to
light—and, believe me, they will—we shall find that my son and she knew
each other and were probably on terms of intimacy. And I’m going to get
to the bottom of things, whatever the result!”
Now, while Béchoux crouched, like Sister Anne, at his window, and kept
watch on the square, the general would come in and sit near him. Then
the old man would go over the case and review the deadlock reached by
himself and the police.
“You and I, my friend, are after the same thing,” he would say, “but
someone else is after it, too! I have friends who are in the know, and
they tell me Veraldy has offered a fabulous reward to anyone who will
solve the mystery of his wife’s death. He and my son’s political
opponents are convinced that Jean is guilty. What we all want to find,
though for very different reasons, is that photograph! Veraldy and his
friends believe that if they can lay hands on it they will have proof
of Jean’s guilt. I know that it will prove him innocent!”
From Béchoux’s point of view, what the photograph might or might not
prove was the least of his worries. His task was limited to getting
hold of it for his chief. Any possible sequel had almost ceased to
interest him.
Meanwhile, day after day, he sat at his window watching for the gipsy
girl who never came, filled with anguished speculation as to Barnett’s
activities, and listening inattentively to the general’s eternal
monologue about his hopes and plans and disappointments.
One day old Desroques seemed unusually thoughtful. He obviously
imagined he had hit on a fresh clue, or, at any rate, a new factor in
the tragic problem. After a prolonged silence he addressed Béchoux at
his post:
“Inspector, my friends and I have come to the conclusion that the only
human being who can possibly throw any light on how the photograph
disappeared is the policeman who stopped my son in his flight the day
he was arrested. It’s rather curious that he has never been called to
give evidence. His name has never appeared in the press. In fact, but
for the energetic inquiries of my friends, I should not now be in
possession of”—he paused significantly—“certain information!”
Inspector Béchoux looked distinctly uncomfortable, but did not speak.
The general resumed:
“We now know that this policeman was added to the group of men sent
here from headquarters quite accidentally, just as they were leaving
the police-station of this district on their way here. They rather
doubted whether their numbers were strong enough in case my son offered
violent resistance, and this policeman apparently offered to join them
with some alacrity. They gladly accepted his assistance.
“My friends have not been able to ascertain the identity of that
policeman. For some reason or other none of your colleagues has been
willing or able to tell us. Yet we are certain that the higher
officials at the préfecture know who he is, and have been questioning
him daily. We have reason to believe that he has been under strict
surveillance ever since the arrest of my son. That he was taken to the
police-station immediately after the disappearance of the photograph
and searched; that he has not been allowed home; that he is, in fact, a
prisoner. And we have more than an inkling of the reason for the strict
reticence of the police on his account!” The general bent nearer to
Béchoux, a certain triumph overspreading his hawklike features.
Outwardly calm and indifferent, Béchoux was quaking inwardly. But he
said nothing, feeling it wisest to let the general put all his cards on
the table.
“What do you say,” said the general, “to the suggestion that the
mysterious policeman was, to say the least of it, rather a peculiar
character to have got into the police force at all? A nice story it
would make for the newspapers—and not particularly creditable. Ho, ho!”
He waggled a gouty finger under the inspector’s nose.
Still Béchoux was silent.
“Well,” said the general, “it isn’t going to further my son’s interests
to make a laughing-stock of the police force. But what I do demand as a
right is that I may be allowed to question this policeman myself. Your
people haven’t been able to get anything out of him. I think I may be
more successful.”
“And if I say that you cannot have this interview?” Béchoux’s voice was
cold and level as chilled steel.
“In that case, inspector, I shall—regretfully, of course—communicate
with the editor of a well-known daily in regard to this somewhat
curious ornament of the police force!”
“No need for that, general.” Béchoux forced a smile. “There is no
objection at all to your interviewing Constable Rimbourg—er, the
policeman in question. I shall have pleasure in arranging for him to
come along!”
In truth, Béchoux was not particularly unwilling in the matter. His own
plans had proved fruitless. He was absolutely without information about
Barnett’s movements, and quite in the dark as to his adversary’s
connection with the case. In the past, Barnett had always met him
openly, albeit under the guise of lending his aid. Barnett had even
been noticeably to the fore throughout the cases on which he had
“coöperated” with the inspector. Béchoux had an uneasy feeling that
this time, for some reason of his own, Barnett was working under cover,
ready to burst out at any moment with a startling and probably
unwelcome dénouement of the whole affair. And then it would be too late
to circumvent him!
His superiors gave Béchoux carte blanche to go ahead. Two days later,
Sylvestre, the general’s rotund man-servant, gravely ushered Béchoux
and Constable Rimbourg into the drawing-room.
The constable was a very ordinary looking man—not at all the sort of
figure to suggest a mystery. His eyes and mouth betrayed his weariness.
He had been put through something of a “third degree” over the missing
photograph. He was in uniform, with the customary revolver in a black
leather case, and the policeman’s baton—that world-wide symbol of law
and order.
The general came in, and the three men sat a long while in conference.
But no fresh light was shed on the problem of the photograph. Rimbourg
was respectful, stolidly sympathetic, ready with his answers. But he
denied having seen anything of any photograph.
Then the general changed the trend of his interrogations. Abruptly he
asked:
“When did you first meet my son?”
“We did our military service together, sir,” was the surprising answer.
“You said nothing of this,” cried Béchoux.
“I was not asked about it, inspector,” replied the man.
“I must tell you, general,” said Béchoux, “that one of the reasons for
our very strict surveillance of Constable Rimbourg was that he obtained
his appointment through your son’s influence!”
“What?” cried the general “But it has been freely hinted that this man,
Rimbourg——” He broke off, suddenly thoughtful. Then he asked the
constable: “What was your profession before you joined the police
force?”
“I did various odd jobs, sir. I was carpenter and scene-shifter for a
touring company. I travelled round with a circus. I was lift-man in a
hotel.”
“Why did you leave the hotel?”
“I tired of the job, sir.” Rimbourg’s voice was infinitely respectful,
but there was a slight flicker in his eyes that belied his stolid calm.
“And you found the police force suited you?”
“Oh, perfectly, sir.”
The general gave a disheartened shrug of dismissal.
“Thank you, thank you; that will do for the present, I think,” he said.
“I wish I could believe what you tell me, but frankly, I cannot help
feeling you are keeping something back. Your previous acquaintance with
my son is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, and I think,
Inspector Béchoux, if I were you, I would investigate Constable
Rimbourg’s past a bit more closely. Find out why he left that job as
lift-man. And remember what I said before about the suggestion that he
is, perhaps, a curious kind of constable altogether. Look up some of
the cases in which he has been concerned—it might prove illuminating!”
He rang the bell. “Sylvestre, give Monsieur Rimbourg a drink before he
goes.” The door closed. “He’ll be quite safe with my man,” the general
told Béchoux, as he poured out a glass of wine for the inspector. Then,
raising his own glass:
“Here’s to my son’s speedy liberation,” he said.
For a second Béchoux could have sworn he saw a gleam of triumphant
merriment in the general’s eye. A most uncalled-for emotion, surely,
and yet....
He wheeled sharply round, for the general was grinning broadly now. The
drawing-room door had swung silently open. On the threshold he beheld a
strange manifestation. There was slowly approaching a creature that
walked on its hands! The empurpled face almost touched the floor. Above
it protruded a comfortable paunch, surmounted by a pair of oddly slim
and wildly kicking legs that pointed ceiling-wards. For a moment
Béchoux was forcibly reminded of the antics of his acrobat wife, Olga.
All at once the creature somersaulted, bringing its feet neatly
together, and, right side up, began spinning round and round at
terrific speed like a human top. And now Béchoux recognized—Sylvestre,
the man-servant. Obviously the fellow was out of his mind. As he spun
around, his stomach quivered like a jelly, and from his wide mouth
issued a series of rousing guffaws.
But—was it really Sylvestre? As he watched the extraordinary
performance, Béchoux felt his brow bathed in a clammy dew. Could this
wild figure be the imperturbable, perfectly trained, intensely
respectable man-servant?
The top ceased spinning. Sylvestre, if he it was, fixed the detective
with a steady stare, relaxed his set expression of grotesque mirth,
undid jacket and waistcoat, divested himself of a rubber paunch, and
slipped gracefully into the coat which General Desroques handed him.
Once more looking fixedly at the inspector he murmured solemnly:
“Sold again, Béchoux!”
And Béchoux, incapable of protest, sank weakly into a chair, breathing
the one word—“Barnett....”
“Yes, Barnett,” said the erstwhile man-servant, smiling.
And Barnett it was, but a resplendent Barnett. Gone was the air of
shabby gentility, the seedy get-up. This new Barnett approximated more
nearly to Inspector Béchoux’s mental portrait of the redoubtable Arsène
Lupin!
And the general was chuckling unrestrainedly!
Turning to him, Barnett bowed courteously.
“Forgive my antics, sir, but whenever something happens that especially
delights me I am apt to cut a few capers out of sheer exuberance. I am
sure you will understand.”
“In this instance, my friend, you are surely entitled to behave like a
whole circus of clowns. Your little plan has succeeded to perfection.”
“What’s all this?” asked Béchoux, recovering slightly from his first
sense of shock and dismay. “Have you any special cause for joy,
Barnett?”
“Why, yes, Béchoux; and the best of it is that it is all thanks to you,
dear old chap. (He’s the best of good fellows, general, I may tell
you.) But I can see you are bursting to hear all about it. I will
reserve my praises for another time, and start in on my little story.”
He lit a cigarette, handing his case to the general, who also elected
to smoke. Then, puffing appreciatively, he began:
“Well, Béchoux, a short while ago I was travelling in Spain with a
lady, if you remember? Ah, I see you do. A friend of mine telegraphed,
asking me to help in unravelling the Desroques case. As it happened,
my little idyll was by then distinctly on the wane—a total eclipse of
the honeymoon, if I may use the expression. I seized the chance of