The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar
“In that case, as you have nothing to lose, what do you fear?”
“I may be indifferent to him now, but I am the woman that he has loved,
the one he would still love--oh! I am quite sure of that,” she murmured,
in a fervent voice, “he would still love me if he had not got hold of
those cursed letters----”
“What! Did he succeed?....But the two brothers still defied him?”
“Yes, and they boasted of having a secure hiding-place.”
“Well?”
“I believe my husband discovered that hiding-place.”
“Ah! where was it?”
“Here.”
“Here!” I cried in alarm.
“Yes. I always had that suspicion. Louis Lacombe was very ingenious
and amused himself in his leisure hours, by making safes and locks. No
doubt, the Varin brothers were aware of that fact and utilized one of
Lacombe’s safes in which to conceal the letters.... and other things,
perhaps.”
“But they did not live here,” I said.
“Before you came, four months ago, the house had been vacant for some
time. And they may have thought that your presence here would not
interfere with them when they wanted to get the papers. But they did not
count on my husband, who came here on the night of 22 June, forced the
safe, took what he was seeking, and left his card to inform the two
brothers that he feared them no more, and that their positions were now
reversed. Two days later, after reading the article in the ‘Gil Blas,’
Etienne Varin came here, remained alone in this room, found the safe
empty, and.... killed himself.”
After a moment, Daspry said:
“A very simple theory....Has Mon. Andermatt spoken to you since then?”
“No.”
“Has his attitude toward you changed in any way? Does he appear more
gloomy, more anxious?”
“No, I haven’t noticed any change.”
“And yet you think he has secured the letters. Now, in my opinion, he
has not got those letters, and it was not he who came here on the night
of 22 June.”
“Who was it, then?”
“The mysterious individual who is managing this affair, who holds all
the threads in his hands, and whose invisible but far-reaching power we
have felt from the beginning. It was he and his friends who entered
this house on 22 June; it was he who discovered the hiding-place of the
papers; it was he who left Mon. Andermatt’s card; it is he who now
holds the correspondence and the evidence of the treachery of the Varin
brothers.”
“Who is he?” I asked, impatiently.
“The man who writes letters to the _Echo de France_.... Salvator! Have
we not convincing evidence of that fact? Does he not mention in his
letters certain details that no one could know, except the man who had
thus discovered the secrets of the two brothers?”
“Well, then,” stammered Madame Andermatt, in great alarm, “he has my
letters also, and it is he who now threatens my husband. Mon Dieu! What
am I to do?”
“Write to him,” declared Daspry. “Confide in him without reserve. Tell
him all you know and all you may hereafter learn. Your interest and his
interest are the same. He is not working against Mon. Andermatt, but
against Alfred Varin. Help him.”
“How?”
“Has your husband the document that completes the plans of Louis
Lacombe?”
“Yes.”
“Tell that to Salvator, and, if possible, procure the document for him.
Write to him at once. You risk nothing.”
The advice was bold, dangerous even at first sight, but Madame Andermatt
had no choice. Besides, as Daspry had said, she ran no risk. If
the unknown writer were an enemy, that step would not aggravate the
situation. If he were a stranger seeking to accomplish a particular
purpose, he would attach to those letters only a secondary importance.
Whatever might happen, it was the only solution offered to her, and
she, in her anxiety, was only too glad to act on it. She thanked us
effusively, and promised to keep us informed.
In fact, two days later, she sent us the following letter that she had
received from Salvator:
“Have not found the letters, but I will get them. Rest easy. I am
watching everything. S.”
I looked at the letter. It was in the same handwriting as the note I
found in my book on the night of 22 June.
Daspry was right. Salvator was, indeed, the originator of that affair.
* * * * *
We were beginning to see a little light coming out of the darkness that
surrounded us, and an unexpected light was thrown on certain points; but
other points yet remained obscure--for instance, the finding of the two
seven-of-hearts. Perhaps I was unnecessarily concerned about those
two cards whose seven punctured spots had appeared to me under such
startling circumstances! Yet I could not refrain from asking myself:
What role will they play in the drama? What importance do they
bear? What conclusion must be drawn from the fact that the submarine
constructed from the plans of Louis Lacombe bore the name of
‘Seven-of-Hearts’?
Daspry gave little thought to the other two cards; he devoted all his
attention to another problem which he considered more urgent; he was
seeking the famous hiding-place.
“And who knows,” said he, “I may find the letters that Salvator did not
find--by inadvertence, perhaps. It is improbable that the Varin brothers
would have removed from a spot, which they deemed inaccessible, the
weapon which was so valuable to them.”
And he continued to search. In a short time, the large room held no more
secrets for him, so he extended his investigations to the other rooms.
He examined the interior and the exterior, the stones of the foundation,
the bricks in the walls; he raised the slates of the roof.
One day, he came with a pickaxe and a spade, gave me the spade, kept the
pickaxe, pointed to the adjacent vacant lots, and said: “Come.”
I followed him, but I lacked his enthusiasm. He divided the vacant land
into several sections which he examined in turn. At last, in a corner,
at the angle formed by the walls of two neighboring proprietors, a small
pile of earth and gravel, covered with briers and grass, attracted his
attention. He attacked it. I was obliged to help him. For an hour, under
a hot sun, we labored without success. I was discouraged, but Daspry
urged me on. His ardor was as strong as ever.
At last, Daspry’s pickaxe unearthed some bones--the remains of a
skeleton to which some scraps of clothing still hung. Suddenly, I turned
pale. I had discovered, sticking in the earth, a small piece of iron cut
in the form of a rectangle, on which I thought I could see red spots. I
stooped and picked it up. That little iron plate was the exact size of a
playing-card, and the red spots, made with red lead, were arranged upon
it in a manner similar to the seven-of-hearts, and each spot was pierced
with a round hole similar to the perforations in the two playing cards.
“Listen, Daspry, I have had enough of this. You can stay if it interests
you. But I am going.”
Was that simply the expression of my excited nerves? Or was it the
result of a laborious task executed under a burning sun? I know that
I trembled as I walked away, and that I went to bed, where I remained
forty-eight hours, restless and feverish, haunted by skeletons that
danced around me and threw their bleeding hearts at my head.
Daspry was faithful to me. He came to my house every day, and remained
three or four hours, which he spent in the large room, ferreting,
thumping, tapping.
“The letters are here, in this room,” he said, from time to time, “they
are here. I will stake my life on it.”
On the morning of the third day I arose--feeble yet, but cured. A
substantial breakfast cheered me up. But a letter that I received that
afternoon contributed, more than anything else, to my complete recovery,
and aroused in me a lively curiosity. This was the letter:
“Monsieur,
“The drama, the first act of which transpired on the night of 22
June, is now drawing to a close. Force of circumstances compel me
to bring the two principal actors in that drama face to face, and I
wish that meeting to take place in your house, if you will be so
kind as to give me the use of it for this evening from nine o’clock
to eleven. It will be advisable to give your servant leave of
absence for the evening, and, perhaps, you will be so kind as to
leave the field open to the two adversaries. You will remember
that when I visited your house on the night of 22 June, I took
excellent care of your property. I feel that I would do you an
injustice if I should doubt, for one moment, your absolute
discretion in this affair. Your devoted,
“SALVATOR.”
I was amused at the facetious tone of his letter and also at the
whimsical nature of his request. There was a charming display of
confidence and candor in his language, and nothing in the world could
have induced me to deceive him or repay his confidence with ingratitude.
I gave my servant a theatre ticket, and he left the house at eight
o’clock. A few minutes later, Daspry arrived. I showed him the letter.
“Well?” said he.
“Well, I have left the garden gate unlocked, so anyone can enter.”
“And you--are you going away?”
“Not at all. I intend to stay right here.”
“But he asks you to go---”
“But I am not going. I will be discreet, but I am resolved to see what
takes place.”
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Daspry, laughing, “you are right, and I shall stay
with you. I shouldn’t like to miss it.”
We were interrupted by the sound of the door-bell.
“Here already?” said Daspry, “twenty minutes ahead of time! Incredible!”
I went to the door and ushered in the visitor. It was Madame Andermatt.
She was faint and nervous, and in a stammering voice, she ejaculated:
“My husband.... is coming.... he has an appointment.... they intend to
give him the letters....”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“By chance. A message came for my husband while we were at dinner. The
servant gave it to me by mistake. My husband grabbed it quickly, but he
was too late. I had read it.”
“You read it?”
“Yes. It was something like this: ‘At nine o’clock this evening, be
at Boulevard Maillot with the papers connected with the affair. In
exchange, the letters.’ So, after dinner, I hastened here.”
“Unknown to your husband?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think about it?” asked Daspry, turning to me.
“I think as you do, that Mon. Andermatt is one of the invited guests.”
“Yes, but for what purpose?”
“That is what we are going to find out.”
I led them to a large room. The three of us could hide comfortably
behind the velvet chimney-mantle, and observe all that should happen
in the room. We seated ourselves there, with Madame Andermatt in the
centre.
The clock struck nine. A few minutes later, the garden gate creaked upon
its hinges. I confess that I was greatly agitated. I was about to learn
the key to the mystery. The startling events of the last few weeks were
about to be explained, and, under my eyes, the last battle was going to
be fought. Daspry seized the hand of Madame Andermatt, and said to her:
“Not a word, not a movement! Whatever you may see or hear, keep quiet!”
Some one entered. It was Alfred Varin. I recognized him at once, owing
to the close resemblance he bore to his brother Etienne. There was
the same slouching gait; the same cadaverous face covered with a black
beard.
He entered with the nervous air of a man who is accustomed to fear the
presence of traps and ambushes; who scents and avoids them. He glanced
about the room, and I had the impression that the chimney, masked with
a velvet portière, did not please him. He took three steps in our
direction, when something caused him to turn and walk toward the old
mosaic king, with the flowing beard and flamboyant sword, which he
examined minutely, mounting on a chair and following with his fingers
the outlines of the shoulders and head and feeling certain parts of the