Arsène Lupin intervenes
regaining my freedom. And fortune smiled on me. New lamps for old,
Béchoux!
“For, at Granada, I fell in with a gipsy girl—a wild, southern beauty,
Béchoux—and we travelled up together.
“I was attracted to the Desroques case chiefly, I own, because you were
working on it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became
that if there existed any proof of the guilt or innocence of Jean
Desroques, it must be in the hands of the policeman who stopped him in
his flight when they were making the arrest. But when I came to make
investigations, I found myself up against a blank wall. I was unable to
ascertain the identity of this man. I only guessed that he was being
kept virtually a prisoner. What was I to do? Time was passing. The
general and his son were both suffering severely under the strain.
There was only one person in Paris who could help me—yourself!”
Béchoux did not move. He longed for the ground to open and swallow him
up with his shame. He had been tricked once again, more thoroughly than
ever before. Barnett had shown him up as being the typical, slow-witted
detective, the butt of every mystery novelist!
“You were the only person who could help me,” Barnett repeated, “for
the reason that you, and only you, were in possession of the truth. You
had been given the job of putting Rimbourg through the ‘third degree.’
But how was I to get in touch with you without your suspecting
anything? How was I to work it so that you trotted off to retrieve the
bird my chance shot had brought down?
“In the end I found an easy way. I deliberately let you shadow me. I
led you along, like Follow-my-Leader, to the Place du Trocadéro. There
my bright-eyed gipsy lass was waiting for me. A whispered colloquy ...
a furtive glance or two up at this flat ... and you took the bait!
Fired with the idea of catching me or my accomplice, you took up your
vigil here, in this very flat, under the same roof as General Desroques
and his faithful servant—Sylvestre Barnett! So that I was able to keep
you under close observation, hear just what you were doing, and,
through General Desroques, suggest to your receptive mind exactly such
thoughts as I wanted to implant there.”
Turning to the general, Jim Barnett gave the latter a glance of genuine
admiration.
“I must tell you, general, that I cannot sufficiently commend your
acting. You led Béchoux blindfold, step by step, towards our
goal—namely, to find out the unknown constable’s name, and then get him
into this flat for a few minutes. Just a few minutes, Béchoux—not more.
For the thing I was after was the same thing that you, the police, the
State, and everyone else were after—that photograph!
“Knowing your industry, your ingenuity, your excessive energy in the
pursuit of your duty, I realized that it would be useless to waste time
going over ground you had already covered. What I had to do was to
imagine the unimaginable—think of some utterly extraordinary and
unheard-of hiding-place. I had to visualize it in advance, so that I
could, if possible, possess myself of this secret receptacle on the day
the constable came to the flat with you. And I had to obtain possession
of it without his knowledge, for there wouldn’t be time to search him,
explore the linings of his clothes and the soles of his shoes, and so
forth. And yet I knew that somewhere about his person he would have
that photograph. The question was, where?
“I don’t want to digress, but as soon as I knew the name of this
constable of yours, Béchoux, I was considerably enlightened. The
general’s questions only confirmed what I already suspected—that this
man, Rimbourg, was a clever fellow who, before he joined the police
force, had had a distinctly varied experience and rather a checkered
career! In short, I knew him to be just the man to hit upon some
hiding-place so bold as to be unbelievable, so obvious as to seem
fantastic! Something he could make use of, but which would never occur
to anyone else as a possible place of concealment.
“Now, Béchoux, suppose we test the intelligence of the class. What is
it that distinguishes a policeman on duty from a postman, a dustman, a
railway porter, a fireman—in short, from every other kind of uniformed
employee? Give it a moment’s thought, while I count three. Your eagle
intelligence will surely see it! One—two—three. Now, where was the
hiding-place?”
Béchoux made no reply. Despite the disadvantage at which he found
himself, he was trying desperately to snatch at this straw and guess
the solution of the riddle, so apparent to the triumphant Barnett. But
he could not for the life of him think what was the distinguishing
characteristic of a policeman on duty.
“My poor friend,” sympathized Barnett. “Out with the boys last night?
Your brain seems a trifle dulled to-day. I don’t usually have to
enlighten you in words of one syllable only before you get your nose to
the trail!”
But there was no rôle for Béchoux’s nose to play in the incident which
followed. Like a flash, Barnett darted out of the room, and returned a
moment later gravely balancing on the tip of his own olfactory organ
the shining baton—truncheon—nightstick—the same the wide world over,
wielded by every police force, that bane of malefactors, that safeguard
of life and property, that wooden club which has attained to the
dignity of a symbol, and is able to break up the fiercest street-fight
or halt the haughtiest limousine.
Barnett toyed with this particular baton like a music-hall juggler with
a bottle. He let it slither down his nose, caught it, twirled it behind
his leg, round his neck, and down his back. Before it could fall to the
ground, he had grasped it again, and, holding it out between thumb and
finger, he addressed it in accents of mock solemnity:
“O most honorable, most respectable, most admirable baton! Symbol of
civic and municipal authority! A short while ago, you were hanging at
Constable Rimbourg’s belt. A little sleight of hand and, hey presto!
another baton, your double hung in your place. You were left behind
when the constable departed!” Béchoux started violently, but Barnett
motioned him back to his seat. “He is unlikely to return to retrieve
you. In fact, I doubt whether we shall ever hear from him again. His
rôle in the drama is over; he filled it not unworthily. But you, O
baton, will fulfil to the last your rôle of defender of those in
distress, and from you we shall learn the secret of Jean Desroques and
the beautiful Christiane Veraldy. Speak, little baton, I conjure you to
speak!”
With his left hand Barnett seized firm hold of the handle, circled with
narrow grooves. In his right, he held tightly the heavy body of the
club, made of ash-wood, painted white, and attempted to twist it.
“I was right!” he exclaimed joyously. “But it’s a miracle of
workmanship. Not for nothing was Constable Rimbourg at one time a
carpenter—the man must have been a master of his craft! See, he has
hollowed out the heart of this club without ever breaking the outside,
fixed this almost invisible channel for the screw, so that the two
pieces of wood fit together so perfectly that there is no danger of the
head of the club working loose.”
Barnett gave the baton another twist. The handle came unscrewed,
revealing a metal ring. The stick of the baton was now in two bits. In
the longer section they could see a copper tube running the length of
the club.
The faces of all three men wore expressions of rapt attention. They
held their breath, so that the silence of the room was intensified.
Despite himself, even Barnett was obviously impressed with the
solemnity of the moment. He turned over the copper tubing, tapping it
several times hard on the table. Out fell a roll of paper!
“That’s it—the photograph!” murmured Béchoux.
“You recognize it, do you? It fits the official description all right.
About six inches long, detached from its mount and rather crumpled.
Will you kindly unroll it yourself, General Desroques?”
With trembling eagerness the general picked up the paper. His usually
steady hand shook as he began unrolling the fateful scroll. There were
four sheets of notepaper and a telegram pinned to the photograph. For a
moment, the general stared in silence at the latter, then he showed it
to the other two. In a voice vibrant with emotion he began speaking on
a note of joy, which quickly gave place to one of grief.
“You see, it is the portrait of a woman. A young woman with a child on
her lap. The face is that of Madame Veraldy—it tallies with the
pictures in the press, except that here she is younger. This photograph
must have been taken nine or ten years ago by the look of it. Yes;
here’s the date, in the bottom, left-hand corner. I was right. This
picture is eleven years old. And it is signed ‘Christiane’—Madame
Veraldy’s name!”
The general paused, then added thoughtfully:
“This establishes the fact that Jean must have known this woman in the
past, possibly before her marriage to Veraldy.”
“Read the letters, monsieur,” suggested Barnett, handing over the first
sheet, closely covered with fine, feminine handwriting.
General Desroques began reading. He had hardly read the first few
lines, when he gave a kind of groan, as of a man who stumbles suddenly
on a terrible and painful secret. Hurriedly he scanned the first
letter, then, with increasing anxiety, turned to the others which, with
the telegram, Barnett passed to him one by one.
“Can you tell us what you have found out, general?”
The general did not answer at once. His eyes were filled with tears
when at last he muttered huskily:
“It is I who am to blame! I alone who am guilty.... About twelve years
ago Jean fell in love with a little shop-girl. They had a baby, a boy.
Jean wanted to marry his amie, but my heart was hardened by pride and
snobbishness. I forbade the marriage and refused to see the girl. Jean
was meaning to disobey me—for the first time—and marry her out of hand.
But she would not let him. She sacrificed her own happiness so that my
son should not quarrel with me. Here is her letter—the first one. She
says: ‘It’s good-bye Jean. Your father won’t let us get married. You
must give in to him. If you don’t it might mean bad luck for our
darling baby. I send you a picture of us both. Keep it always, and
don’t forget about us too soon....’”
The general paused, overcome with emotion. He continued, more calmly:
“But it was she who forgot. Some time later she got engaged to Veraldy,
then at the beginning of his career. Jean learned of their marriage,
and had his little son brought up by a retired schoolmaster near
Chartres. There the mother would sometimes visit him secretly.”
Béchoux and Barnett were listening intently so as not to lose a word.
It was not easy to follow the general’s speech, as he dropped his voice
until it was little more than a whisper. The hand that had held the
letters trembled uncontrollably.
“The last letter,” he continued, “is dated five months ago. It is very
short. Christiane tells of her remorse and unhappiness. She is
passionately fond of her child, and it is agony to her not to have him
with her. Then comes the telegram, sent to Jean by the old
schoolmaster: ‘Child dangerously ill, come at once.’ At the bottom of
the telegraph form are just these few words, scrawled by my son after
the tragedy: ‘Our child is dead. Christiane has killed herself.’”
Again the general paused. No further explanations were needed. It was
easy to guess what had happened. On receipt of the telegram, Jean had
immediately sought out Christiane and taken her to the bedside of the
dying child. On the way back to Paris, Christiane overcome with grief,
had committed suicide.
“What shall we do about it?” Barnett wanted to know.