Chapter 3

The paragraph inserted in
the agony column of the _Journal_, the _Écho de Paris_ and the _Matin_
runs, ‘Am prepared to buy back the pictures.’”

The count agreed with a nod. Once again, the young man was teaching his
elders. M. Filleul showed himself a good sportsman.

“There’s no doubt about it, my dear sir,” he exclaimed. “I’m beginning
to think your school-fellows were not quite wrong. By Jove, what an
eye! What intuition! If this goes on, there will be nothing left for M.
Ganimard and me to do.”

“Oh, none of this part was so very complicated!”

“You mean to say that the rest was more so I remember, in fact, that,
when we first met you seemed to know all about it. Let me see, a far as
I recollect, you said that you knew the name of the murderer.”

“So I do.”

“Well, then, who killed Jean Daval? Is the man alive? Where is he
hiding?”

“There is a misunderstanding between us, Monsieur le Juge
d’Instruction, or, rather, you have misunderstood the facts from the
beginning The murderer and the runaway are two distinct persons.”

“What’s that?” exclaimed M. Filleul. “The man whom M. de Gesvres saw in
the boudoir and struggled with, the man whom the young ladies saw in
the drawing-room and whom Mlle. de Saint-Véran shot at, the man who
fell in the park and whom we are looking for: do you suggest that he is
not the man who killed Jean Daval?”

“I do.”

“Have you discovered the traces of a third accomplice who disappeared
before the arrival of the young ladies?”

“I have not.”

“In that case, I don’t understand.—Well, who is the murderer of Jean
Daval?”

“Jean Daval was killed by—”

Beautrelet interrupted himself, thought for a moment and continued:

“But I must first show you the road which I followed to arrive at the
certainty and the very reasons of the murder—without which my
accusation would seem monstrous to you.—And it is not—no, it is not
monstrous at all.—There is one detail which has passed unobserved and
which, nevertheless, is of the greatest importance; and that is that
Jean Daval, at the moment when he was stabbed, had all his clothes on,
including his walking boots, was dressed, in short, as a man is dressed
in the middle of the day, with a waistcoat, collar, tie and braces. Now
the crime was committed at four o’clock in the morning.”

“I reflected on that strange fact,” said the magistrate, “and M. de
Gesvres replied that Jean Daval spent a part of his nights in working.”

“The servants say, on the contrary, that he went to bed regularly at a
very early hour. But, admitting that he was up, why did he disarrange
his bedclothes, to make believe that he had gone to bed? And, if he was
in bed, why, when he heard a noise, did he take the trouble to dress
himself from head to foot, instead of slipping on anything that came to
hand? I went to his room on the first day, while you were at lunch: his
slippers were at the foot of the bed. What prevented him from putting
them on rather than his heavy nailed boots?”

“So far, I do not see—”

“So far, in fact, you cannot see anything, except anomalies. They
appeared much more suspicious to me, however, when I learned that
Charpenais the painter, the man who copied the Rubens pictures, had
been introduced and recommended to the Comte de Gesvres by Jean Daval
himself.”

“Well?”

“Well, from that to the conclusion that Jean Daval and Charpenais were
accomplices required but a step. I took that step at the time of our
conversation.”

“A little quickly, I think.”

“As a matter of fact, a material proof was wanted. Now I had discovered
in Daval’s room, on one of the sheets of the blotting-pad on which he
used to write, this address: ‘Monsieur _A.L.N., Post-office_ 45,
_Paris_.’ You will find it there still, traced the reverse way on the
blotting-paper. The next day, it was discovered that the telegram sent
by the sham flyman from Saint-Nicolas bore the same address: ‘_A.L.N.,
Post-office_ 45.’ The material proof existed: Jean Daval was in
correspondence with the gang which arranged the robbery of the
pictures.”

M. Filleul raised no objection.

“Agreed. The complicity is established. And what conclusion do you
draw?”

“This, first of all, that it was not the runaway who killed Jean Daval,
because Jean Daval was his accomplice.”

“And after that?”

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I will ask you to remember the first
sentence uttered by Monsieur le Comte when he recovered from fainting.
The sentence forms part of Mlle. de Gesvres’ evidence and is in the
official report: ‘I am not wounded.—Daval?—Is he alive?—The knife?’ And
I will ask you to compare it with that part of his story, also in the
report, in which Monsieur le Comte describes the assault: ‘The man
leaped at me and felled me with a blow on the temple!’ How could M. de
Gesvres, who had fainted, know, on waking, that Daval had been stabbed
with a knife?”

Isidore Beautrelet did not wait for an answer to his question. It
seemed as though he were in a hurry to give the answer himself and to
avoid all comment. He continued straightway:

“Therefore it was Jean Daval who brought the three burglars to the
drawing room. While he was there with the one whom they call their
chief, a noise was heard in the boudoir. Daval opened the door.
Recognizing M. de Gesvres, he rushed at him, armed with the knife. M.
de Gesvres succeeded in snatching the knife from him, struck him with
it and himself fell, on receiving a blow from the man whom the two
girls were to see a few minutes after.”

Once again, M. Filleul and the inspector exchanged glances. Ganimard
tossed his head in a disconcerted way. The magistrate said:

“Monsieur le Comte, am I to believe that this version is correct?”

M. de Gesvres made no answer.

“Come, Monsieur le Comte, your silence would allow us to suppose—I beg
you to speak.”

Replying in a very clear voice, M. de Gesvres said:

“The version is correct in every particular.”

The magistrate gave a start.

“Then I cannot understand why you misled the police. Why conceal an act
which you were lawfully entitled to commit in defense of your life?”

“For twenty years,” said M. de Gesvres, “Daval worked by my side. I
trusted him. If he betrayed me, as the result of some temptation or
other, I was, at least, unwilling, for the sake of the past, that his
treachery should become known.”

“You were unwilling, I agree, but you had no right to be.”

“I am not of your opinion, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. As long as
no innocent person was accused of the crime, I was absolutely entitled
to refrain from accusing the man who was at the same time the culprit
and the victim. He is dead. I consider death a sufficient punishment.”

“But now, Monsieur le Comte, now that the truth is known, you can
speak.”

“Yes. Here are two rough drafts of letters written by him to his
accomplices. I took them from his pocket-book, a few minutes after his
death.”

“And the motive of his theft?”

“Go to 18, Rue de la Barre, at Dieppe, which is the address of a
certain Mme. Verdier. It was for this woman, whom he got to know two
years ago, and to supply her constant need of money that Daval turned
thief.”

So everything was cleared up. The tragedy rose out of the darkness and
gradually appeared in its true light.

“Let us go on,” said M. Filluel after the count had withdrawn.

“Upon my word,” said Beautrelet, gaily, “I have said almost all that I
had to say.”

“But the runaway, the wounded man?”

“As to that, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you know as much as I do.
You have followed his tracks in the grass by the cloisters—you have—”

“Yes, yes, I know. But, since then, his friends have removed him and
what I want is a clue or two as regards that inn—”

Isidore Beautrelet burst out laughing:

“The inn! The inn does not exist! It’s an invention, a trick to put the
police on the wrong scent, an ingenious trick, too, for it seems to
have succeeded.”

“But Dr. Delattre declares—”

“Ah, that’s just it!” cried Beautrelet, in a tone of conviction. “It is
just because Dr. Delattre declares that we mustn’t believe him. Why,
Dr. Delattre refused to give any but the vaguest details concerning his
adventure! He refused to say anything that might compromise his
patient’s safety!—And suddenly he calls attention to an inn!—You may be
sure that he talked about that inn because he was told to. You may be
sure that the whole story which he dished up to us was dictated to him
under the threat of terrible reprisals. The doctor has a wife. The
doctor has a daughter. He is too fond of them to disobey people of
whose formidable power he has seen proofs. And that is why he has
assisted your efforts by supplying the most precise clues.”

“So precise that the inn is nowhere to be found.”

“So precise that you have never ceased looking for it, in the face of
all probability, and that your eyes have been turned away from the only
spot where the man can be, the mysterious spot which he has not left,
which he has been unable to leave ever since the moment when, wounded
by Mlle. de Saint-Véran, he succeeded in dragging himself to it, like a
beast to its lair.”

“But where, confound it all?—In what corner of Hades—?”

“In the ruins of the old abbey.”

“But there are no ruins left!—A few bits of wall!—A few broken
columns!”

“That’s where he’s gone to earth. Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction!”
shouted Beautrelet. “That’s where you will have to look for him! It’s
there and nowhere else that you will find Arsène Lupin!”

“Arsène Lupin!” yelled M. Filleul, springing to his feet.

There was a rather solemn pause, amid which the syllables of the famous
name seemed to prolong their sound. Was it possible that the vanquished
and yet invisible adversary, whom they had been hunting in vain for
several days, could really be Arsène Lupin? Arsène Lupin, caught in a
trap, arrested, meant immediate promotion, fortune, glory to any
examining magistrate!

Ganimard had not moved a limb. Isidore said to him:

“You agree with me, do you not, M. Inspector?”

“Of course I do!”

“You have not doubted either, for a moment have you, that he managed
this business?”

“Not for a second! The thing bears his signature. A move of Arsène
Lupin’s is as different from a move made by another man as one face is
from another. You have only to open your eyes.”

“Do you think so? Do you think so?” said M. Filleul.

“Think so!” cried the young man. “Look, here’s one little fact: what
are the initials under which those men correspond among themselves? ‘A.
L. N.,’ that is to say, the first letter of the name Arsène and the
first and last letters of the name Lupin.”

“Ah,” said Ganimard, “nothing escapes you! Upon my word, you’re a fine
fellow and old Ganimard lays down his arms before you!”

Beautrelet flushed with pleasure and pressed the hand which the
chief-inspector held out to him. The three men had drawn near the
balcony and their eyes now took in the extent of the ruins. M. Filleul
muttered:

“So he ought to be there.”

“_He is there_,” said Beautrelet, in a hollow voice. “He has been there
ever since the moment when he fell. Logically and practically, he could
not escape without being seen by Mlle. de Saint-Véran and the two
servants.”

“What proof have you?”

“His accomplices have furnished the proof. On the very morning, one of
them disguised himself as a flyman and drove you here—”

“To recover the cap, which would serve to identify him.”

“Very well, but also and more particularly to examine the spot, find
out and see for himself what had become of the ‘governor.’”

“And did he find out?”

“I presume so, as he knew the hiding-place. And I presume that he
became aware of the desperate condition of his chief, because, under
the impulse of his alarm, he committed the imprudence to write that
threat: ‘Woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!’”

“But his friends were able to take him away afterward?”

“When? Your men have never left the ruins. And where could they have
moved him to? At most, a few hundred yards away, for one doesn’t let a
dying man travel—and then you would have found him. No, I tell you, he
is there. His friends would never have removed him from the safest of
hiding-places. It was there that they brought the doctor, while the
gendarmes were running to the fire like children.”

“But how is he living? How will he keep alive? To keep alive you need
food and drink.”

“I can’t say. I don’t know. But he is there, I will swear it. He is
there, because he can’t help being there. I am as sure of it as if I
saw as if I touched him. He is there.”

With his finger outstretched toward the ruins, he traced in the air a
little circle which became smaller and smaller until it was only a
point. And that point his two companions sought desperately, both
leaning into space, both moved by the same faith in Beautrelet and
quivering with the ardent conviction which he had forced upon them.
Yes, Arsène Lupin was there. In theory and in fact, he was there:
neither of them was now able to doubt it.

And there was something impressive and tragic in knowing that the
famous adventurer was lying in some dark shelter, below the ground,
helpless, feverish and exhausted.

“And if he dies?” asked M. Filleul, in a low voice.

“If he dies,” said Beautrelet, “and if his accomplices are sure of it,
then see to the safety of Mlle. de Saint-Véran. Monsieur le Juge
d’Instruction, for the vengeance will be terrible.”

A few minutes later and in spite of the entreaties of M. Filleul, who
would gladly have made further use of this fascinating auxiliary,
Isidore Beautrelet, whose holidays ended that day, went off by the
Dieppe Road. He stepped from the train in Paris at five o’clock and, at
eight o’clock, returned to the Lycée Janson together with his
schoolfellows.

Ganimard, after a minute, but utterly useless exploration of the ruins
of Ambrumésy, returned to Paris by the fast night-train. On reaching
his apartment in the Rue Pergolese, he found an express letter awaiting
him:

_Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal:_
Finding that I had a little time to spare at the end of the day, I
have succeeded in collecting a few additional particulars which are
sure to interest you.
Arsène Lupin has been living in Paris for twelve months under the
name of Étienne de Vaudreix. It is a name which you will often come
across in the society notes or the sporting columns of the
newspapers. He is a great traveler and is absent for long periods,
during which, by his own account, he goes hunting tigers in Bengal
or blue foxes in Siberia. He is supposed to be in business of some
kind, although nobody is able to say for certain what his business
is.
His present address is 38, Rue Marbeuf; and I will call your
attention to the fact that the Rue Marbeuf is close to Post-office
Number 45. Since Thursday the twenty-third of April, the day before
the burglary at Ambrumésy, there has been no news at all of Étienne
de Vaudreix.
With very many thanks for the kindness which you have shown me,
believe me to be,

Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal,
Yours sincerely,
ISIDORE BEAUTRELET.

P.S.—Please on no account think that it cost me any great trouble to
obtain this information. On the very morning of the crime, while M.
Filleul was pursuing his examination before a few privileged persons, I
had the fortunate inspiration to glance at the runaway’s cap, before
the sham flyman came to change it. The hatter’s name was enough, as you
may imagine, to enable me to find the clue that led to the
identification of the purchaser and his address.

The next morning, Ganimard called at 36, Rue Marbeuf. After questioning
the concierge, he made him open the door of the ground-floor flat on
the right, a very comfortable apartment, elegantly furnished, in which,
however, he discovered nothing beyond some cinders in the fireplace.
Two friends had come, four days earlier, to burn all compromising
papers.

But, just as he was leaving, Ganimard passed the postman, who was
bringing a letter for M. de Vaudreix. That afternoon, the public
prosecutor was informed of the case and ordered the letter to be given
up. It bore an American postmark and contained the following lines, in
English:

DEAR SIR:
I write to confirm the answer which I gave your representative. As
soon as you have M. de Gesvres’s four pictures in your possession,
you can forward them as arranged.
You may add the rest, if you are able to succeed, which I doubt.
An unexpected business requires my presence in Europe and I shall
reach Paris at the same time as this letter. You will find me at
the Grand Hôtel.

Yours faithfully,
EPHRAIM B. HARLINGTON.

That same day, Ganimard applied for a warrant and took Mr. E. B.
Harlington, an American citizen, to the police-station, on a charge of
receiving and conspiracy.

Thus, within the space of twenty-four hours, all the threads of the
plot had been unraveled, thanks to the really unforeseen clues supplied
by a schoolboy of seventeen. In twenty-four hours, what had seemed
inexplicable became simple and clear. In twenty-four hours, the scheme
devised by the accomplices to save their leader was baffled; the
capture of Arsène Lupin, wounded and dying, was no longer in doubt, his
gang was disorganized, the address of his establishment in Paris and
the name which he assumed were known and, for the first time, one of
his cleverest and most carefully elaborated feats was seen through
before he had been able to ensure its complete execution.

An immense clamor of astonishment, admiration and curiosity arose among
the public. Already, the Rouen journalist, in a very able article, had
described the first examination of the sixth-form pupil, laying stress
upon his personal charm, his simplicity of manner and his quiet
assurance. The indiscretions of Ganimard and M. Filleul, indiscretions
to which they yielded in spite of themselves, under an impulse that
proved stronger than their professional pride, suddenly enlightened the
public as to the part played by Isidore Beautrelet in recent events. He
alone had done everything. To him alone the merit of the victory was
due.

The excitement was intense. Isidore Beautrelet awoke to find himself a
hero; and the crowd, suddenly infatuated, insisted upon the fullest
information regarding its new favorite. The reporters were there to
supply it. They rushed to the assault of the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly,
waited for the day-boarders to come out after schoolhours and picked up
all that related, however remotely, to Beautrelet. It was in this way
that they learned the reputation which he enjoyed among his
schoolfellows, who called him the rival of Holmlock Shears. Thanks to
his powers of logical reasoning, with no further data than those which
he was able to gather from the papers, he had, time after time,
proclaimed the solution of very complicated cases long before they were
cleared up by the police.

It had become a game at the Lycée Janson to put difficult questions and
intricate problems to Beautrelet; and it was astonishing to see with
what unhesitating and analytical power and by means of what ingenious
deductions he made his way through the thickest darkness. Ten days
before the arrest of Jorisse, the grocer, he showed what could be done
with the famous umbrella. In the same way, he declared from the
beginning, in the matter of the Saint-Cloud mystery, that the concierge
was the only possible murderer.

But most curious of all was the pamphlet which was found circulating
among the boys at the school, a typewritten pamphlet signed by
Beautrelet and manifolded to the number of ten copies. It was entitled,
_Arsène Lupin and his method, showing in how far the latter is based
upon tradition and in how far original. Followed by a comparison
between English humor and French irony._

It contained a profound study of each of the exploits of Arsène Lupin,
throwing the illustrious burglar’s operations into extraordinary
relief, showing the very mechanism of his way of setting to work, his
special tactics, his letters to the press, his threats, the
announcement of his thefts, in short, the whole bag of tricks which he
employed to bamboozle his selected victim and throw him into such a
state of mind that the victim almost offered himself to the plot
contrived against him and that everything took place, as it were, with
his own consent.

And the work was so just, regarded as a piece of criticism, so
penetrating, so lively and marked by a wit so clever and, at the same
time, so cruel that the lawyers at once passed over to his side, that
the sympathy of the crowd was summarily transferred from Lupin to
Beautrelet and that, in the struggle engaged upon between the two, the
schoolboy’s victory was loudly proclaimed in advance.

Be this as it may, both M. Filleul and the Paris public prosecutor
seemed jealously to reserve the possibility of this victory for him. On
the one hand, they failed to establish Mr. Harlington’s identity or to
furnish a definite proof of his connection with Lupin’s gang.
Confederate or not, he preserved an obstinate silence. Nay, more, after
examining his handwriting, it was impossible to declare that he was the
author of the intercepted letter. A Mr. Harlington, carrying a small
portmanteau and a pocket-book stuffed with bank-notes, had taken up his
abode at the Grand Hôtel: that was all that could be stated with
certainty.

On the other hand, at Dieppe, M. Filleul lay down on the positions
which Beautrelet had won for him. He did not move a step forward.
Around the individual whom Mlle. de Saint-Véran had taken for
Beautrelet, on the eve of the crime, the same mystery reigned as
heretofore. The same obscurity also surrounded everything connected
with the removal of the four Rubens pictures. What had become of them?
And what road had been taken by the motor car in which they were
carried off during the night?

Evidence of its passing was obtained at Luneray at Yerville, at Yvetot
and at Caudebec-en-Caux, where it must have crossed the Seine at
daybreak in the steam-ferry. But, when the matter came to be inquired
into more thoroughly, it was stated that the motor car was an uncovered
one and that it would have been impossible to pack four large pictures
into it unobserved by the ferryman.

It was very probably the same car; but then the question cropped up
again: what had become of the four Rubenses?

These were so many problems which M. Filleul unanswered. Every day, his
subordinates searched the quadrilateral of the ruins. Almost every day,
he came to direct the explorations. But between that and discovering
the refuge in which Lupin lay dying—if it were true that Beautrelet’s
opinion was correct—there was a gulf fixed which the worthy magistrate
did not seem likely to cross.

And so it was natural that they should turn once more to Isidore
Beautrelet, as he alone had succeeded in dispelling shadows which, in
his absence, gathered thicker and more impenetrable than ever. Why did
he not go on with the case? Seeing how far he had carried it, he
required but an effort to succeed.

The question was put to him by a member of the staff of the _Grand
Journal_, who had obtained admission to the Lycée Janson by assuming
the name of Bernod, the friend of Beautrelet’s father. And Isidore very
sensibly replied:

“My dear sir, there are other things besides Lupin in this world, other
things besides stories about burglars and detectives. There is, for
instance, the thing which is known as taking one’s degree. Now I am
going up for my examination in July. This is May. And I don’t want to
be plucked. What would my worthy parent say?”

“But what would he say if you delivered Arsène Lupin into the hands of
the police?”

“Tut! There’s a time for everything. In the next holidays—”

“Whitsuntide?”

“Yes—I shall go down on Saturday the sixth of June by the first train.”

“And, on the evening of that Saturday, Lupin will be taken.”

“Will you give me until the Sunday?” asked Beautrelet, laughing.

“Why delay?” replied the journalist, quite seriously.

This inexplicable confidence, born of yesterday and already so strong,
was felt with regard to the young man by one and all, even though, in
reality, events had justified it only up to a certain point. No matter,
people believed in him! Nothing seemed difficult to him. They expected
from him what they were entitled to expect at most from some phenomenon
of penetration and intuition, of experience and skill. That day of the
sixth of June was made to sprawl over all the papers. On the sixth of
June, Isidore Beautrelet would take the fast train to Dieppe: and Lupin
would be arrested on the same evening.

“Unless he escapes between this and then,” objected the last remaining
partisans of the adventurer.

“Impossible! Every outlet is watched.”

“Unless he has succumbed to his wounds, then,” said the partisans, who
would have preferred their hero’s death to his capture.

And the retort was immediate:

“Nonsense! If Lupin were dead, his confederates would know it by now,
and Lupin would be revenged. Beautrelet said so!”

And the sixth of June came. Half a dozen journalists were looking out
for Isidore at the Gare Saint-Lazare. Two of them wanted to accompany
him on his journey. He begged them to refrain.

He started alone, therefore, in a compartment to himself. He was tired,
thanks to a series of nights devoted to study, and soon fell asleep. He
slept heavily. In his dreams, he had an impression that the train
stopped at different stations and that people got in and out. When he
awoke, within sight of Rouen, he was still alone. But, on the back of
the opposite seat, was a large sheet of paper, fastened with a pin to
the gray cloth. It bore these words:

“Every man should mind his own business. Do you mind yours. If not, you
must take the consequences.”

“Capital!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight. “Things are
going badly in the adversary’s camp. That threat is as stupid and
vulgar as the sham flyman’s. What a style! One can see that it wasn’t
composed by Lupin.”

The train threaded the tunnel that precedes the old Norman city. On
reaching the station, Isidore took a few turns on the platform to
stretch his legs. He was about to re-enter his compartment, when a cry
escaped him. As he passed the bookstall, he had read, in an
absent-minded way, the following lines on the front page of a special
edition of the _Journal de Rouen;_ and their alarming sense suddenly
burst upon him:

STOP-PRESS NEWS

We hear by telephone from Dieppe that the Château d’Ambrumésy was
broken into last night by criminals, who bound and gagged Mlle. de
Gesvres and carried off Mlle. de Saint-Véran. Traces of blood have been
seen at a distance of five hundred yards from the house and a scarf has
been found close by, which is also stained with blood. There is every
reason to fear that the poor young girl has been murdered.

Isidore Beautrelet completed his journey to Dieppe without moving a
limb. Bent in two, with his elbows on his knees and his hands plastered
against his face, he sat thinking.

At Dieppe, he took a fly. At the door of Ambrumésy, he met the
examining magistrate, who confirmed the horrible news.

“You know nothing more?” asked Beautrelet.

“Nothing. I have only just arrived.”

At that moment, the sergeant of gendarmes came up to M. Filleul and
handed him a crumpled, torn and discolored piece of paper, which he had
picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found. M. Filleul
looked at it and gave it to Beautrelet, saying:

“I don’t suppose this will help us much in our investigations.”

Isidore turned the paper over and over. It was covered with figures,
dots and signs and presented the exact appearance reproduced below:

CHAPTER THREE
THE CORPSE

At six o’clock in the evening, having finished all he had to do, M.
Filluel, accompanied by M. Brédoux, his clerk, stood waiting for the
carriage which was to take him back to Dieppe. He seemed restless,
nervous.