Part 1

ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES

BY MAURICE LE BLANC

NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I FOREWORD 9 II “DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY” 13 III THE ROYAL LOVE LETTER 38 IV A GAME OF BACCARAT 61 V THE MAN WITH THE GOLD TEETH 85 VI TWELVE LITTLE NIGGER BOYS 108 VII THE BRIDGE THAT BROKE 137 VIII THE FATAL MIRACLE 164 IX DOUBLE ENTRY 195 X ARRESTING ARSÈNE LUPIN 226 XI AFTERWORD 255

ARSÈNE LUPIN INTERVENES

I

FOREWORD

Contrary, perhaps, to the opinion of the Bright Young People in our midst, the World-before-the-War was not by any means barren of adventure and excitement. Only, they did things differently then. There was, in those days, a certain sparkling gaiety, a spontaneity, a chic sadly lacking from the exploits of a younger generation. There was wit as well as honor among thieves. Just as really good wine differs from that modern depravity, the cocktail, so does the finished artistry of Jim Barnett compare with the outrages of bobbed-hair bandits and cat-burglars.

For Barnett had a brain and used it; a sense of humor, and rejoiced in it. He was independent of revolvers and racing cars and hypodermic syringes. He made a confidant of no man—or woman. He was an unassisted conjurer, as it were, performing his little tricks always in the full glare of the limelight, relying entirely on his own lightning skill to vanish his watches and evolve his rabbits.

A curious, memorable figure, Jim Barnett. By profession, a private detective, principal of the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde, with a modest ground-floor office for his headquarters. Unlike others of his trade, he worked entirely alone. He employed no spies, and saved himself their possible treachery. He had no secretary for the simple reason that he kept no records. His telephone rang infrequently, and when it did he answered it himself.

In appearance, Barnett was something of a problem. He gave the impression of a man who is wilfully badly dressed, intentionally careless of his attire. His coat’s sole claim to respect was its indubitable antiquity. His trousers—but we will spare possible heartbreak to the tailors who read this description. He wore his incongruous monocle like some exotic bloom—its startling aristocracy in conjunction with the rest of his get-up was that of an orchid in an onion patch.

What a contrast to his friend, Inspector Béchoux, that immaculate sprig of the Paris Police Force. Béchoux was frankly a dandy, devoting all his off-time to the adornment of his person. Yet he was no fool. Only, his brain moved in the channels of detective routine, whereas Barnett’s leaped nimbly from point to point of a mystery until it plucked out the heart.

Be it said to Inspector Béchoux’s undying honor that he recognized Barnett’s gifts quite openly. He even resorted to asking his help in various problems, and it is the inner history of some of these that this book now reveals for the first time to the world at large.

The peculiar feature of all the Béchoux-Barnett cases was always either their apparent insolubility (e.g., the Disappearance of the Twelve Little Nigger Boys) or the fact that they seemed solved at the outset (as in the case of the Man with the Gold Teeth). And the finale of each presented certain similar features—a dramatic and quite unexpected eleventh-hour dénouement; a swift adjustment of account between the innocent and guilty parties; and—a highly satisfactory windfall for Barnett. Only, as Inspector Béchoux bitterly observed, it was always the kind of windfall that meant shaking the tree. Barnett’s gifts would have stripped an orchard....

What placed Inspector Béchoux in a serious dilemma was that in every case Barnett’s position was unassailable from start to finish. His victims were people who could not be brought to speak a word against him. You could call it intimidation—blackmail—what you liked. Barnett merely grinned and fed large checks to his banking account.

Large checks—and yet the slogan of the Barnett Agency was:—

“Information Free. No Fees of Any Kind.”

Which was paradoxically true. Barnett’s income was composed not of fees but of levies. Sometimes he took toll of his clients, sometimes of their enemies. A certain poetic justice characterized his depredations. The poor and the innocent had nothing to fear from Jim Barnett.

And he was undeniably on the side of the law so far as results went. Only, where it suited his purpose, he meted out his own idea of a suitable punishment to criminals instead of turning them over to the police.

Inspector Béchoux was probably Barnett’s only close friend. Yet all he knew of him was gleaned from the hours they spent together when Barnett intervened in one of his cases. He was quite ignorant of Barnett’s private life—his antecedents—even his identity. For there was always one mystery which remained unsolved. Who was the man who called himself “Jim Barnett”?

There was something about his methods and his amusing buffoonery which could not fail to recall the King of Crooks—the one man who persisted in eluding and baffling the Paris police—the man Inspector Béchoux would have given his life-savings to lay hands on—whom he sometimes, in his inmost heart, half suspected to be masquerading as “Barnett,” and then dismissed the suspicion as fantastic.

It is a long way back to pre-war Paris, and the clash of wits between Barnett and Inspector Béchoux. In these days, when so much of admiration and adulation is being misapplied, honor to whom honor is due! The moment has come when we can openly state that the worthy Inspector’s instinct was right, and the “interventions” of Jim Barnett may safely be attributed to their perpetrator—Arsène Lupin!

II

“DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY....”

The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s imposing residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a moment later the maid brought in an envelope.

“The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four o’clock.”

Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it gingerly between her finger-tips, and read:

The Barnett Agency

Information Free

“Show the gentleman into my boudoir,” she drawled.

Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some thirty years—still retained a measure of good looks, although she was now thick-set, past middle-age and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and at times harsh expression had yet a certain candor which was not without charm.

As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house with its luxurious appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances and in all the pomp and circumstance of her social position. Behind her back society gossips whispered that Valérie had been guilty of various rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even hardened Parisian scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There were those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated getting a divorce.

Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with heart trouble, and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin shoulders and asked him, rather absent-mindedly, how he was feeling, before proceeding to her boudoir.

Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built, square-shouldered man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and shiny, which hung in depressed creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young, but the rugged energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye indifferently, his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a boyish gaiety.

“Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort to keep the scorn out of her voice.

He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand with a flourish, following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible click of the tongue—suggesting his appreciation of the perfumed flavor.

“Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter I stopped just long enough to give my coat a brush ... that was all....”

The baronne wondered for a moment whether she should show her visitor the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man of rank, and, a little taken aback, she merely said:

“I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather delicate and complicated matters....”

He gave a self-satisfied smirk.

“Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing through and into things—and people.”

While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor conveyed a suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and his powers that it was impossible not to share his confidence, and Valérie felt herself coming under the influence of this unknown common detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau. Resenting the feeling, she interrupted him:

“Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms....”

“Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett.

“But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for glory?”

“The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely free.”

She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some remuneration—your out-of-pocket expenses, at least.”

“A tip?” he sneered.

She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet.

“I cannot possibly ...” she began.

“Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame la baronne, I shall see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may be able to render you.”

Was there a note of menace in the suave voice?

Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this obscure remark? How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really, this Jim Barnett aroused in her almost the same sort of dread, the same queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might feel if suddenly confronted with a burglar! He might even be ... yes, he was quite possibly some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had better do. Ring for her maid? But he had so far dominated her that, regardless of the consequences, she found herself submitting passively to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply to his agency. Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she spoke frankly and to the point.

“It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of bridge with some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as usual. About four o’clock—at ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke me and then I heard a bang which sounded to me like a door closing. It came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates with my bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase. I’m not nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here and turned on the light. The room was empty, but this small show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and several of the curios and statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and found him reading in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very much upset and rang for the butler, who immediately made a thorough search of the house. In the morning we called in the police.”

“And the result?” asked Barnett.

“They could find no trace of the arrival or departure of any intruder. How he entered and got away is a mystery. But under a footstool among the débris of the curios some one found half a candle, and an awl set in a very dirty wooden handle. Now on the previous afternoon a plumber had been to repair the taps of the washbasin in my husband’s dressing-room. The man’s employer, when questioned, identified the tool and, moreover, the other half of the candle was found in his shop.”

“On that point, then,” interrupted Jim Barnett, “you have definite evidence.”

“Yes, but against that is the indisputable and disconcerting fact that the investigation also proved that the workman in question took the six o’clock express to Brussels, arriving there at midnight—four hours before the disturbance which awakened me.”

“Really? Has the man returned?”

“No. They lost track of him at Antwerp, where he was spending money lavishly.”

“Is that all you can tell me?”

“Absolutely all.”

“Who’s been in charge of this investigation?”

“Inspector Béchoux.”

“What! The worthy Béchoux! He’s a very good friend of mine. We’ve often worked together.”

“It was he who mentioned your Agency.”

“Yes, because he’d come up against a blank wall, I suppose.”

Barnett crossed to the window and leaning his head against the pane thought hard for a few minutes, frowning ponderously and whistling under his breath. Then he returned to Madame Assermann and continued:

“You and Béchoux, madame, conclude that this was an attempted burglary. Am I right?”

“Yes. An unsuccessful attempt, since nothing has been taken.”

“That’s so. But all the same there must have been a definite motive behind this attempt. What was it?”

Valérie hesitated. “I really don’t know,” she said after a moment. But again her foot tapped restlessly.

The detective shrugged his shoulders; then, pointing to one of the silk-draped panels which lined the boudoir above the wainscoting he asked:

“What’s under that panel?”

“I beg your pardon,” she said in some bewilderment; “what do you mean?”

“I mean that the most superficial observation reveals the fact that the edges of that silk oblong are slightly frayed, and here and there they are separated from the woodwork by a slit: there is every reason to suppose that a safe is concealed there.”

Valérie gave a start. How on earth could the man have guessed from such imperceptible indications.... Then with a jerk she slid the panel open, disclosing a small steel door. As she feverishly worked the three knobs of the safe an unreasoning fear came over her. Impossible as the hypothesis seemed, she wondered whether this queer stranger might somehow have robbed her during the few minutes he had been left alone in the room!

At length, taking a key from her pocket, she opened the safe, and gave a sigh of relief. There it was—the only object the safe contained—a magnificent pearl necklace. Seizing it quickly, she twined its triple strands round her wrist.

Barnett laughed.

“Easier in your mind now, madame la baronne? Yes, it’s quite a pretty piece of jewelry, and I can understand its having been stolen from you.”

“But it’s not been stolen,” she protested. “Even if the thief was after this, he failed to steal it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course. Here is the necklace in my hands. When anything’s stolen it disappears. Well—here it is....”

“Here’s a necklace,” he corrected her quietly; “but are you sure that it is your necklace and that it has any value?”

“What do you mean?” she asked in unconcealed annoyance. “Only a fortnight ago my jeweller valued it at half a million francs.”

“A fortnight ago—that is to say, five days before that night.... And now? Please remember I know nothing; I have not valued the necklace; it is merely a supposition. But are you yourself entirely without suspicion?”

Valérie stood quite still. What suspicion was he hinting at? In what connection? A vague anxiety crept over her as his suggestion persisted. As she weighed the mass of heaped-up pearls in her outstretched hand it seemed to get lighter and lighter. As she looked she discovered variations in coloring, unaccustomed reflections, a disturbing unevenness, a changed graduation—each detail more disturbing than the last, until in the back of her mind the terrible truth began to dawn, distinct and threatening.

Jim Barnett gave vent to a short chuckle.

“Just so. You’re getting there, are you? On the right track at last—one more mental effort and all is clear as day! It’s all quite logical. Your enemy doesn’t just steal—he substitutes. Nothing disappears, and except for the noise of the falling show-case everything would have been carried out in perfect secrecy and have gone undiscovered. Until some fresh development occurred, you would have been absolutely unaware that the real necklace had vanished and that you were displaying on your snowy shoulders a string of imitation pearls.”

Valérie was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed the familiarity of the man’s words and manner.

Barnett leaned towards her.

“Well—that settles the first point. And now we know what he stole, let’s look for the thief. That’s the procedure in all well-conducted cases. And once we’ve found the thief we shan’t be far from recovering the object of the theft.”

He gave Valérie’s hand a friendly pat of reassurance.

“Cheer up, madame. We’re on the right scent now. Let’s begin by a little guesswork—it’s an excellent method. We’ll suppose that your husband, in spite of his illness, had sufficient strength to drag himself from his own room to this one, armed with the candle, and, anyway, with the tool the plumber left behind; we’ll go on to suppose that he opened the safe, clumsily overturned the show-case and then fled in case you had heard the noise. Doesn’t that throw a little light on it all? How naturally it accounts for the absence of any trace of arrival or departure, and also for the safe being opened without being forced, since Baron Assermann must many a time in all these years have come in here with you in the evening, seen you work the lock, noted the clicks and intervals and counted the number of notches displaced—and so, gradually, have discovered the three letters of the cipher.”

This “little guesswork,” as Jim Barnett termed it, seemed to appall the beautiful Valérie as he went on “supposing” step by step. It was as if she saw it all happening before her eyes. At last she stammered out distractedly:

“What you suggest is madness. You don’t suppose my husband.... If someone came here that night, it couldn’t have been the baron. Don’t be absurd!”

“Did you have a copy of your necklace?” he interjected.

She paused. When she spoke it was slowly, with forced calm.

“Yes ... my husband ordered one, for safety, when we bought it—four years ago.”

“And where is the copy?”

“My husband kept it,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper.

“Well,” said Barnett cheerfully, “that’s the copy you’ve got in your hands; he has substituted it for the real pearls which he has taken. As for his motive—well, since his fortune places Baron Assermann above any suspicion of theft, we must look for something more intimate ... more subtle.... Revenge? A desire to torture—to injure—perhaps to punish? What do you think yourself? After all, a young and pretty woman’s rather reckless behavior may be very understandable, but her husband is bound to judge it fairly severely.... Forgive me, madame. I have no right to pry into the secrets of your private life. I am merely here to locate, with your help, the present whereabouts of your necklace.”

“No,” cried Valérie, starting back. “No!”

Suddenly she felt she could no longer endure this ally who, in the course of a brief, friendly, almost frivolous conversation, had fathomed with diabolical ease all the secret circumstances of her life by a method quite unlike the ordinary methods employed by the police. And this man was now pointing out with an air of good-natured banter the precipice to whose edge fate seemed to be forcing her.

The sound of his sarcastic voice became all at once intolerable. She hated the mere thought of his searching for her necklace.

“No,” she repeatedly obstinately.

He bowed, insolently servile.

“As you wish, madame. I have not the slightest desire to seem importunate. I am simply here to serve you in so far as you want my help. Besides, as things are now, you can safely dispense with my aid, since your husband is quite unfit to go out and will scarcely have been so imprudent as to entrust the pearls to any one else. If you make a careful search, you will probably discover them hidden somewhere in his room. I need say no more—except that if you should need me, telephone me at my office between nine and ten any night. And now I respectfully withdraw, madame la baronne.”

Again he kissed her hand and she dared not resist him. Then he took his leave jauntily, swinging along with an irritating air of utter complacency. The courtyard gate clanged behind him. To Valérie it brought a curious premonition of doom—as if a prison gate had now closed upon her.

That evening, Valérie summoned Inspector Béchoux, whose continued attendance seemed only natural, and the search began.

Béchoux, a conscientious detective and a pupil of the famous Canimard, adhered to the approved methods of his profession—and proceeded to examine the baron’s bathroom and private study in sections. After all, a necklace with three strands of pearls is too large an object for it to remain hidden from an expert searcher for very long. Nevertheless, after a week’s persistent search, including several night visits when, owing to the baron’s habit of taking sleeping draughts, he was able to examine even the bed and the bedclothes, Béchoux admitted himself discouraged. The necklace could not possibly be in the house.

In spite of her instinctive aversion, Valérie was tempted to get in touch once more with the impossible man at the Barnett Agency. Despite the repugnance with which he inspired her, she felt positive he would know how to perform the miracle of finding the necklace.

Then matters were brought to a head by a crisis which came suddenly, though not unexpectedly. One evening the servants summoned their mistress hastily—the baron lay choking and prostrate on a divan near the bathroom door. His distorted features and the anguish in his eyes were indicative of the most acute suffering.

Almost paralyzed with fright, Valérie was about to telephone for the doctor, but the baron stammered out the words, “Too late ... it’s ... too ... late....”

Then, trying to rise, he gasped out: “A drink ...” and would have staggered to the washstand.

Quickly Valérie thrust him back on to the divan.

“There’s water here in the carafe,” she urged.

“No.... I want it ... from the tap....” He fell back, exhausted.

She turned on the tap quickly, fetched a glass and filled it, but when she took it to him, he would not drink.

There was a long silence except for the sound of the water running in the basin. The dying man’s face became drawn and sunken. He motioned to his wife and she leaned forward—but, doubtless to prevent the servants hearing, he repeated the word “closer,” and again “closer.”

Valérie hesitated, as though afraid of what he might want to say, but his imperious glance cowed her and she knelt down with her ear almost touching his lips. Then he whispered, incoherently, and she could scarcely so much as guess what the words meant.

“The pearls ... the necklace ... you shall know before I’m gone ... you never loved me ... you married me ... for ... my money....”

She began to protest indignantly at his making such a cruel accusation at this solemn moment, but he seized her wrist and repeated in a kind of confused delirium: “... for my money, and your conduct has proved it. You have never been a good wife to me—that’s why I wanted to punish you—why I’m punishing you now—it’s an exquisite joy—the only pleasure possible to me—and I can die happily now because the pearls are vanishing away.... Can’t you hear them, falling, dropping away into the swirling water. Ah, Valérie, my wife ... what a punishment! ... the drops that trickle away!...”