Arsène Lupin intervenes
there ... and they’re the real ones, this time.”
“Yes,” said Valérie, “I know that....”
“You’re quite sure? Those really are the pearls your jeweller valued at
five hundred thousand francs?”
“Yes; they are the ones.”
“You’d swear to that?”
“Certainly,” she said positively.
“In that case, I’ll buy them from you.”
“You’ll buy them! What do you mean?”
“Well, being penniless, you’ve got to sell them. Why not to me, then,
since I can offer you more than anyone else will—I’ll give you twenty
times their value. Instead of five hundred thousand francs, I’ll give
ten million. Does that startle you? Ten million’s a pretty figure.”
“Ten million!”
“Exactly the reputed gross amount of the baron’s estate.”
Valérie lingered at the door, her fingers twisting the handle.
“My husband’s estate,” she repeated. “I don’t see any connection.
Please explain.”
With gentle emphasis Jim Barnett continued: “It’s very simple. You have
your choice—the pearl necklace or the estate!”
“The pearl necklace ... the estate?” she repeated, puzzled.
“Certainly. As you yourself told me, the inheritance turns on two
wills: the earlier one in your favor and the second in favor of those
two old cousins, who are as rich as Crœsus and apparently
correspondingly mean. But suppose Will Number Two can’t be found, Will
Number One is valid.”
“But to-morrow,” she said in faltering accents, “they intend to break
the seals and open the desk—and the second will is there.”
“The will may be there—or it may not,” suggested Barnett, rather
contemptuously. “I’ll go so far as to say that in my humble opinion it
is not.”
“Is that possible?” she asked, staring at him in amazement.
“Quite possible—even probable—in fact, I seem to remember now that when
I came to investigate the waste-pipe the evening after our talk, I took
the opportunity of looking round your husband’s rooms as he was
sleeping so soundly.”
“And you took that will,” she asked haltingly.
“This rather looks like it, doesn’t it?”
He unfolded a sheet of stamped paper and she recognized her husband’s
writing as she caught sight of the words: “I, the undersigned, Léon
Joseph Assermann, banker, in view of certain facts well known to her,
do hereby declare that my wife Valérie Assermann shall not have the
slightest claim upon my fortune and that....”
She read no further. Her voice caught in her throat and falling limply
into an armchair she gasped:
“You stole that paper—and expect me to be your accomplice.... I won’t.
My poor husband’s wishes must be obeyed....”
Jim Barnett threw up his hands enthusiastically.
“How splendid of you, dear lady. Duty points to self-sacrifice, and I
commend you the more when your lot is so especially hard—when for two
old cousins who are quite undeserving of pity, you are prepared to
sacrifice yourself with your own hands to gratify Baron Assermann’s
petty spite. You bow to this injustice to expiate those youthful
peccadilloes. The beautiful Valérie is to forego the luxury to which
she is entitled and be reduced to abject poverty. But, before you
finally make this choice, madame, I beg you to weigh your decision
carefully and realize all it means. Let me be quite plain: if that
necklace leaves this room, the lawyer receives Will Number Two
to-morrow morning and you are disinherited.”
“And if it stays?”
“Well, there’s no will in that desk and you inherit the whole
estate—ten million francs in your pocket, thanks to Jim Barnett.”
His sarcasm was obvious, and Valérie felt like a helpless animal
trapped in his ruthless grasp. There was no way out. If she refused him
the necklace, the will would be read out next day. He was relentless,
and would turn a deaf ear to any entreaties.
He stepped into the back room for a moment and then returned from
behind the curtain, calmly wiping off his face the grease paint with
which he had covered it, like an actor removing his make-up. His
appearance was now completely changed—his face was fresh and
young-looking, with a smooth, healthy skin. A fashionable tie had
replaced the made-up atrocity. He had changed the old frock-coat and
baggy trousers for a well-cut lounge suit. And his attitude of smiling
confidence made it clear he did not fear denunciation or betrayal. In
return, Valérie knew he would never say a word to anyone, even to
Inspector Béchoux—the secret would be kept inviolate.
He leaned towards her and, laughing, said: “Well—I believe you’re
looking at it more reasonably now. That’s good! Besides, who’ll know
that the wealthy Baronne Assermann is wearing imitation pearls? Not one
of your friends will ever suspect it. You’ll keep your fortune and
possess a necklace which everyone will think is genuine. Isn’t that
lovely? Can’t you just see yourself leading a full and happy life, with
plenty of opportunity for fun and flirtation? Aha!” He waggled a jovial
forefinger in her angry face.
At that moment Valérie had not the slightest desire for fun or
flirtation. She glared at Jim Barnett with suppressed fury, and,
drawing herself up, made her exit like a society queen withdrawing from
a hostile drawing-room.
The little bag of pearls remained on the table.
“And they call that an honest woman!” said Jim Barnett to himself, his
arms folded in virtuous indignation. “Her husband disinherits her to
punish her for her naughty ways, and she disregards his wishes! There’s
a fresh will—and she filches it! She deceives his lawyer and despoils
his old cousins. Tut, tut! And how noble is the part of the lover of
justice who chastises the culprit and sets everything to rights again!”
He slipped the necklace deftly back into its place in the depths of his
pocket, finished dressing, and then, his monocle carefully adjusted,
and a fat cigar between his teeth, he left the office, and went forth
in search of fresh amusement.
III
THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER
There was a knock at the door of the modest office in the rue Laborde.
It roused Jim Barnett of the Barnett Agency from his doze in the
comfortable armchair, where he sat awaiting clients.
“Come in!” he cried, and, as the door opened to admit his visitor,
“why, Inspector Béchoux, how nice of you to look me up! How are you?”
In both manner and appearance, Inspector Béchoux was a striking
contrast to the usual type of detective. He aimed at sartorial
elegance, exaggerated the crease in his trousers, had a pretty taste in
ties and was very particular about the starching of his collars. He had
a curious waxen pallor. In build, he was small, lean, and seemingly
weedy. Oddly enough, he had the muscular arms of a heavyweight
champion—arms which gave the impression of having been tacked haphazard
on to his limp frame. He was intensely proud of those arms. Though
quite a young man, his bearing was most self-assured. His eyes gleamed
alert and intelligent.
“I happened to be passing,” he announced, “and, knowing your clock-like
habits, I thought: ‘This being old Barnett’s consultation hour, he’s
sure to be there. Why not drop in....’”
“And ask his advice,” finished Jim Barnett.
“Perhaps,” admitted the Inspector, to whom Barnett’s perspicacity was a
never-failing source of surprise.
Seeing his hesitation, Barnett spoke again: “What’s up, old son?
Finding it a bit difficult to consult the oracle to-day?”
Béchoux smote the table with his clenched fist; no mean blow, with his
great arm to back it.
“Fact is, I’m a bit stumped. We’ve worked together on three cases now,
Barnett—you as a private detective and I as a police inspector—and each
time I haven’t been able to help feeling that your clients—Baronne
Assermann, for instance—ended by regarding you with a very jaundiced
eye.”
“As if I’d taken advantage of my opportunity to blackmail them,”
Barnett interrupted, fiddling with his eternal monocle, and smiling
sardonically.
“No, I don’t mean....” Béchoux forgot his resolve to find out just what
had happened in the case of Baronne Assermann.
Barnett clapped him on the shoulder.
“Inspector Béchoux, you’re forgetting the slogan of this firm:
‘Information Free.’ I give you my word of honor that I never ask my
clients for a penny and I never accept a penny from them.”
Béchoux breathed more freely.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad to have that assurance. My professional
conscience will only allow me to avail myself of your coöperation on
certain conditions. You understand, don’t you? But if you don’t mind my
asking the question, there’s one thing I feel I must know. Just what
financial backing have you in the Barnett Agency?”
“I have a sleeping partner—a philanthropist.” Barnett’s tone was remote
and casual.
“Is he anybody I know?”
“I rather think so. In fact, I’m almost certain. For even a police
inspector must at some time have heard the name of—Arsène Lupin!”
Béchoux jumped.
“That’s no name to jest about, Barnett.”
Inspector Béchoux’s existence was dominated by two emotions—his
admiration for Barnett’s detective ability and his fierce hatred of
Arsène Lupin. Béchoux was one of Caminard’s little band and fully
shared that great man’s bitterness, especially as he had himself
suffered humiliating defeats at the enemy’s hands. He still smarted
with resentment at the memory of these, and never forgot that Arsène
Lupin had added insult to injury by robbing him more than once of the
lady of his choice.
“We won’t discuss the fellow,” he said gruffly, “unless there’s a
chance of my laying hands on him.”
“Or I,” and Barnett blandly extended his own hands—oddly enough, at the
level of his nose! “But let’s get to work. Whereabouts is your new
job?”
“Near Marly. It’s the business of the murder of old Vaucherel. You’ve
heard about it?”
“Only vaguely.”
Barnett’s attitude was one of acute detachment from anything so mundane
as murder.
“I’m not surprised. The newspapers aren’t giving it much space yet,
though it’s infernally baffling....”
“He was done in with a knife, wasn’t he?” After all, Barnett’s
detachment was only assumed.
“Yes. Stabbed between the shoulder-blades.”
“Any finger-marks on the knife?”
“None. We found a piece of paper in ashes; it was probably wrapped
round the handle by the murderer.”
“Any clews?”
Inspector Béchoux shook his head. “Vaucherel’s room was a bit
disordered. Some of the furniture had been knocked over and the drawer
of a table had been broken open, but we don’t know why that was done or
what’s missing.”
“Where have they got to on the inquest?”
“They’re confronting a retired official called Leboc with the Gaudu
cousins—three ne’er-do-weel blackguards of poachers. Without any real
evidence, each side is accusing the other of the murder. Want me to run
you over there in my car? Nothing like a good, stiff cross-examination,
you know!”
“Right you are.” Barnett rose, albeit reluctantly.
“Just one thing, Barnett. Formerie, who’s conducting the inquiry, hopes
to attract attention and get a Paris appointment. He’s a touchy sort of
chap and he won’t stand for your usual bright bedside manner with the
law, so cut out the flippancy.” Béchoux’s tone was eloquent with
painful memories of Barnett’s past exploits.
“I promise to treat him most respectfully,” replied Barnett, “and I
never break my word!”
Half-way between the village of Fontines and Marly Forest, in a copse
separated from the forest by a strip of ground, stands a one-storied
house with a small kitchen garden, surrounded by a low wall. Eight days
before Béchoux’s conversation with Jim Barnett, the cottage was still
inhabited by a retired bookseller, old Vaucherel, who never left his
little domain of flowers and vegetables except to browse in the
bookstalls along the Paris quays. He was very miserly and reputed a