Part 2
His strength failed him again, and the servants lifted him onto his bed. The doctor came very soon after, and two elderly spinster cousins who had been summoned settled themselves in the room and refused to budge. The final paroxysm was prolonged and painful. At dawn Baron Assermann died, without uttering another word.
At the formal request of the cousins, a seal was placed on every drawer and cupboard in the room. Then the long death vigil began....
Two days later, after the funeral, the dead man’s lawyer called and asked to speak to Valérie in private. He looked grave and troubled and said at once:
“Madame, I have a most painful duty to perform, and I prefer to get it over as quickly as possible, while assuring you beforehand that the injustice done to you was subject to my profound disapproval and contrary to my advice and entreaty. But it was useless to oppose an unshakable determination....”
“I beg you, monsieur,” stammered Valérie, “to make your meaning clear.”
“I am coming to it, madame la baronne—it is this. I hold a will drawn up by Baron Assermann twenty years ago, appointing you his sole heiress and residuary legatee. But I have to tell you that last month the baron confided to me that he had made a fresh will ... by which he left his entire fortune to his two cousins....”
“He made a new will?” cried Valérie.
“Yes.”
“And you have it?”
“After reading it to me he locked it in that desk. He did not wish it to be read until a week after his death. It may not be unsealed before that date.”
Now Valérie realized why, a few years before, after a series of violent quarrels, her husband had advised her to sell all her own jewelry and purchase a pearl necklace with the money. Disinherited, with no fortune of her own, and with an imitation pearl necklace in place of the real one, she was left penniless.
The day before the seals were to be broken, a car drew up in the rue Laborde in front of rather dingy premises bearing the sign:
The Barnett Agency
OPEN FROM TWO TO THREE
Information Free
A veiled woman in deep mourning got out of the car and knocked on the glass panel of the inner door.
“Come in,” called a voice from within.
She entered.
“Who’s that,” went on the voice in the back room, which was separated from the office by a curtain. She recognized the tones.
“Baronne Assermann,” she replied.
“Excuse me, madame. Please take a seat. I won’t keep you a moment.”
While she waited, Valérie looked round the office. It was comparatively empty; the furniture consisted of a table and two old armchairs. The walls were quite bare and the place was innocent of files or papers. A telephone was the only indication of activity. An ash-tray, however, held the stubs of several expensive cigarettes, and a subtle fragrance hung in the air.
The curtain swung back and Jim Barnett appeared suddenly, alert and smiling. He wore the same shabby frock-coat, the same impossible, made-up tie, the same monocle at the end of a black ribbon.
He seized and kissed his visitor’s gloved hand.
“How do you do, madame. This is indeed a pleasure. But what’s the matter? I see you are in mourning—nothing serious, I hope—oh, but how absent-minded I am—of course—Baron Assermann, was it not? So sad! A charming man, and such a devoted husband. I should so much have liked to meet him. Well, well. Let’s see—how did matters stand?”
As he spoke, he took from his pocket a slender note-book which he fingered pensively.
“Baronne Assermann—here we are—I remember. Imitation pearls—husband the thief—pretty woman.... A very pretty woman.... She is to telephone me.... Well, dear lady,” he concluded, with increasing familiarity, “I am still awaiting that telephone call.”
Once more, Valérie felt disconcerted by this man. Without wishing to pretend overwhelming sorrow at the death of her husband, she yet felt sad, and mingled with her sadness was a haunting dread of future poverty. She had had a bad time during the last days—and her wan face showed the ravages of terror and futile remorse resulting from her nightmare visions of ruin and distress.... And here was this impertinent upstart detective, not seeming to grasp the position at all....
With great dignity she recounted all that had happened, and although she avoided idle recriminations, she repeated what her husband’s lawyer had said.
“Ah, yes; quite so,” interposed the detective, smiling approval. “Good ... that all fits in admirably. It’s quite a pleasure to see how logically this enthralling and well constructed drama is working itself out.”
“A pleasure?” asked Valérie tonelessly.
“Certainly—a pleasure which my friend Inspector Béchoux must have enjoyed—for I suppose he’s explained to you....”
“What?”
“What? Why, the key to the mystery, of course. Isn’t it priceless? Old Béchoux must have rocked with mirth!”
Jim Barnett, at any rate, was laughing heartily.
“That washbasin trick now—there’s a novelty! It’s certainly farcical rather than dramatic—but so adroitly worked in—of course I spotted the dodge at once when you told me about the plumber, and saw the connection between the repairing of the washbasin and the baron’s little plans. That was the crux of the whole thing. When he planned the substitution of the false necklace, your husband arranged a good hiding-place for the real pearls; it was essential for his purpose. Merely to deprive you of them and throw them or cause them to be thrown into the Seine like worthless rubbish, would only have been half a revenge. For it to be complete and on the grand scale he had to keep them close at hand, hidden in a spot at once near and inaccessible. And that’s what he did.”
Jim Barnett was thoroughly enjoying himself and went on jocularly: “Can’t you imagine your husband explaining it all to the plumber? ‘See here, my man, just examine that waste-pipe under my washbasin. It goes down to the wainscoting and leaves the bathroom at an almost imperceptible gradient, doesn’t it? Well, reduce that gradient still more—take up the pipe in this dark corner, so as to form a sort of pocket—a blind alley, where something could be lodged if necessary. When the tap is turned on the water will fill the pocket and carry away the object lodged there. You understand? Then drill a hole about half an inch in diameter in the wall side of the pipe, where it won’t be noticed. Yes—there! Done it? Now plug it up with this rubber stopper. Does it fit? That’s all right then. Now, you understand, don’t you—not a word to anyone! Keep your mouth shut. Take this and catch the Brussels express to-night. These three checks you can cash there—one every month. In three months’ time you may come back to Paris. Good-bye. That’s all, thanks.’... And that very night you heard a noise in your boudoir, the imitation pearls were substituted for the real ones, and the latter secreted in the hiding-place prepared for them in the pocket of the pipe. Now do you see? Believing that the end has come, the baron calls out to you: ‘A glass of water—not from the carafe—from the tap there.’ You obey. And the terrible punishment is brought about by your own hand as it turns on the tap—the water runs, carries away the pearls, and the baron stammers out: ‘Do you hear? They’re trickling away—away!’”
The baronne listened in distracted silence. What impressed her most in Burnett’s terrible story was not the full revelation of her husband’s rancor and hatred, but the one fact which it hammered home.
“Then you knew the truth?” she murmured at last.
“Of course,” he replied, “it’s my job. The Barnett Agency, you see....”
“And you said nothing of this to me?” Her tone was an accusation.
“But, my dear baronne, it was you yourself who stopped me from telling you what I knew, or was just about to discover. You dismissed me—somewhat peremptorily, I fear—and not wishing to be thought officious, I did not press the matter. Besides, I had still to verify my deductions.”
“And have you done so?” she faltered.
“Yes. Just out of curiosity, that’s all.”
“When?”
“The same night.”
“What! You got into the house that night—into our rooms? I heard nothing....”
“Oh, I’ve a little way of working on the quiet.... Even Baron Assermann didn’t hear me. And yet....”
“What?...”
“Well, just to make sure, I enlarged that hole, you see ... the one through which he had pushed the pearls into the pipe.”
She started.
“Then you saw them?...”
“I did.”
“My pearls were actually there?”
He nodded.
Valérie choked, as she repeated under her breath: “My pearls were there in the pipe and you could have taken them?...”
“Yes,” he admitted nonchalantly, “and I really believe that but for me, Jim Barnett, at your service, they would have dropped away as the baron intended they should on the day of his death, which he knew was not far off. What were his words: ‘They’re vanishing ... can’t you hear them? ... drops that trickle away...!’ And his plan of revenge would have come off—too bad—such a beautiful necklace—quite a collector’s piece!”
Valérie was not given to violent explosions of wrath, likely to upset her complexion. But at this point she was worked up to such a pitch that she rushed up to Barnett and convulsively seized the collar of his coat.
“It’s theft! You’re a common adventurer! I suspected it all along—a crook!”
At the word “crook” the young man hooted with joy.
“I—a crook? How frightfully amusing!”
She took no notice. Shaking with passion, she rushed up and down the room shrieking: “I won’t have it, I tell you. Give me back my pearls at once or I’ll call the police!”
“Oh—how ugly that sounds,” he exclaimed, “and how tactless for a pretty woman like yourself to behave like this to a man who has shown himself assiduous in serving you and only wants to coöperate peaceably with you for your good!”
She shrugged her shoulders and demanded again: “Will you give me my necklace?”
“Of course! it’s absolutely at your disposal. Good heavens, do you suppose that Jim Barnett robs the people who pay him the compliment of seeking his help! What do you think would become of the Barnett Agency, which owes its popularity to its reputation for absolute integrity and disinterested service? I don’t ask my clients for a single penny. If I kept your pearls I should be a thief—a crook, as you would say—whereas I am an honest man. Here, dear lady, is your necklace.”
He produced a small cloth bag containing the rescued pearls and laid it on the table.
Thunderstruck, Valérie seized the precious necklace with shaking hands. She could hardly believe her eyes; it seemed incredible that this man should restore her property in this way, and with a sudden fear lest he was merely acting on a momentary impulse, she made abruptly for the door without a word of thanks.
“You’re in rather a hurry all at once,” laughed Jim Barnett. “Aren’t you going to count them? Three hundred and forty-five. They’re all 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 rich man, although frugal in his habits. He had no visitors except his friend, Leboc, who lived at Fontines.
The reconstruction of the crime and the examination of Leboc were over, and the inspection of the garden had begun, when Jim Barnett and Inspector Béchoux alighted from their car. Béchoux made himself known to the gendarmes guarding the cottage gate and, followed by Barnett, he joined the examining magistrate and the deputy just as the latter had halted before an angle of the wall. The three Gaudu cousins were there to give their evidence. They were all three farm-hands of just about the same age; they bore no facial resemblance to one another save for a similar sly stubbornness of expression. The eldest Gaudu was speaking:
“Yes, your worship, that’s where we jumped over when we ran to the rescue, as you might say.”
“You were coming from Fontines?”