Maurice Leblanc - Arsene Lupin Part 29 of 99

CHAPTER VIII THE DUKE ARRIVES

The morning was gloomy, and the police-station with its bare, white-washed walls—their white expanse was only broken by notice-boards to which were pinned portraits of criminals with details of their appearance, their crime, and the reward offered for their apprehension—with its shabby furniture, and its dingy fireplace, presented a dismal and sordid appearance entirely in keeping with the September grey. The inspector sat at his desk, yawning after a night which had passed without an arrest. He was waiting to be relieved. The policeman at the door and the two policemen sitting on a bench by the wall yawned in sympathy.
The silence of the street was broken by the rattle of an uncommonly noisy motor-car. It stopped before the door of the police-station, and the eyes of the inspector and his men turned, idly expectant, to the door of the office.
It opened, and a young man in motor-coat and cap stood on the threshold.
He looked round the office with alert eyes, which took in everything, and said, in a brisk, incisive voice: “I am the Duke of Charmerace. I am here on behalf of M. Gournay-Martin. Last evening he received a letter from Arsène Lupin saying he was going to break into his Paris house this very morning.”
At the name of Arsène Lupin the inspector sprang from his chair, the policemen from their bench. On the instant they were wide awake, attentive, full of zeal.
“The letter, your Grace!” said the inspector briskly.
The Duke pulled off his glove, drew the letter from the breast-pocket of his under-coat, and handed it to the inspector.
The inspector glanced through it, and said. “Yes, I know the handwriting well.” Then he read it carefully, and added, “Yes, yes: it’s his usual letter.”
“There’s no time to be lost,” said the Duke quickly. “I ought to have been here hours ago—hours. I had a break-down. I’m afraid I’m too late as it is.”
“Come along, your Grace—come along, you,” said the inspector briskly.
The four of them hurried out of the office and down the steps of the police-station. In the roadway stood a long grey racing-car, caked with muds—grey mud, brown mud, red mud—from end to end. It looked as if it had brought samples of the soil of France from many districts.
“Come along; I’ll take you in the car. Your men can trot along beside us,” said the Duke to the inspector.
He slipped into the car, the inspector jumped in and took the seat beside him, and they started. They went slowly, to allow the two policemen to keep up with them. Indeed, the car could not have made any great pace, for the tyre of the off hind-wheel was punctured and deflated.
In three minutes they came to the Gournay-Martin house, a wide-fronted mass of undistinguished masonry, in an undistinguished row of exactly the same pattern. There were no signs that any one was living in it. Blinds were drawn, shutters were up over all the windows, upper and lower. No smoke came from any of its chimneys, though indeed it was full early for that.
Pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket, the Duke ran up the steps. The inspector followed him. The Duke looked at the bunch, picked out the latch-key, and fitted it into the lock. It did not open it. He drew it out and tried another key and another. The door remained locked.
“Let me, your Grace,” said the inspector. “I’m more used to it. I shall be quicker.”
The Duke handed the keys to him, and, one after another, the inspector fitted them into the lock. It was useless. None of them opened the door.
“They’ve given me the wrong keys,” said the Duke, with some vexation. “Or no—stay—I see what’s happened. The keys have been changed.”
“Changed?” said the inspector. “When? Where?”
“Last night at Charmerace,” said the Duke. “M. Gournay-Martin declared that he saw a burglar slip out of one of the windows of the hall of the château, and we found the lock of the bureau in which the keys were kept broken.”
The inspector seized the knocker, and hammered on the door.
“Try that door there,” he cried to his men, pointing to a side-door on the right, the tradesmen’s entrance, giving access to the back of the house. It was locked. There came no sound of movement in the house in answer to the inspector’s knocking.
“Where’s the concierge?” he said.
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a housekeeper, too—a woman named Victoire,” he said. “Let’s hope we don’t find them with their throats cut.”
“That isn’t Lupin’s way,” said the inspector. “They won’t have come to much harm.”

#M_Gournay-Martin #ArsèneLupin #Paris #Duke #France #Grace #Charmerace #Lupin #ArseneLupin #MauriceLeBlanc #mystery #booktoot

Maurice Leblanc - Arsene Lupin Part 22 of 99

CHAPTER VI AGAIN THE CHAROLAIS

Hardly had the door closed behind the millionaire when the head of M. Charolais appeared at one of the windows opening on to the terrace. He looked round the empty hall, whistled softly, and stepped inside. Inside of ten seconds his three sons came in through the windows, and with them came Jean, the millionaire’s chauffeur.
“Take the door into the outer hall, Jean,” said M. Charolais, in a low voice. “Bernard, take that door into the drawing-room. Pierre and Louis, help me go through the drawers. The whole family is going to Paris, and if we’re not quick we shan’t get the cars.”
“That comes of this silly fondness for warning people of a coup,” growled Jean, as he hurried to the door of the outer hall. “It would have been so simple to rob the Paris house without sending that infernal letter. It was sure to knock them all silly.”
“What harm can the letter do, you fool?” said M. Charolais. “It’s Sunday. We want them knocked silly for to-morrow, to get hold of the coronet. Oh, to get hold of that coronet! It must be in Paris. I’ve been ransacking this château for hours.”
Jean opened the door of the outer hall half an inch, and glued his eyes to it. Bernard had done the same with the door opening into the drawing-room. M. Charolais, Pierre, and Louis were opening drawers, ransacking them, and shutting them with infinite quickness and noiselessly.
“Bureau! Which is the bureau? The place is stuffed with bureaux!” growled M. Charolais. “I must have those keys.”
“That plain thing with the brass handles in the middle on the left—that’s a bureau,” said Bernard softly.
“Why didn’t you say so?” growled M. Charolais.
He dashed to it, and tried it. It was locked.
“Locked, of course! Just my luck! Come and get it open, Pierre. Be smart!”
The son he had described as an engineer came quickly to the bureau, fitting together as he came the two halves of a small jemmy. He fitted it into the top of the flap. There was a crunch, and the old lock gave. He opened the flap, and he and M. Charolais pulled open drawer after drawer.
“Quick! Here’s that fat old fool!” said Jean, in a hoarse, hissing whisper.
He moved down the hall, blowing out one of the lamps as he passed it. In the seventh drawer lay a bunch of keys. M. Charolais snatched it up, glanced at it, took a bunch of keys from his own pocket, put it in the drawer, closed it, closed the flap, and rushed to the window. Jean and his sons were already out on the terrace.
M. Charolais was still a yard from the window when the door into the outer hall opened and in came M. Gournay-Martin.
He caught a glimpse of a back vanishing through the window, and bellowed: “Hi! A man! A burglar! Firmin! Firmin!”
He ran blundering down the hall, tangled his feet in the fragments of the broken chair, and came sprawling a thundering cropper, which knocked every breath of wind out of his capacious body. He lay flat on his face for a couple of minutes, his broad back wriggling convulsively—a pathetic sight!—in the painful effort to get his breath back. Then he sat up, and with perfect frankness burst into tears. He sobbed and blubbered, like a small child that has hurt itself, for three or four minutes. Then, having recovered his magnificent voice, he bellowed furiously: “Firmin! Firmin! Charmerace! Charmerace!”
Then he rose painfully to his feet, and stood staring at the open windows.
Presently he roared again: “Firmin! Firmin! Charmerace! Charmerace!”
He kept looking at the window with terrified eyes, as though he expected somebody to step in and cut his throat from ear to ear.
“Firmin! Firmin! Charmerace! Charmerace!” he bellowed again.
The Duke came quietly into the hall, dressed in a heavy motor-coat, his motor-cap on his head, and carrying a kit-bag in his hand.
“Did I hear you call?” he said.
“Call?” said the millionaire. “I shouted. The burglars are here already. I’ve just seen one of them. He was bolting through the middle window.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows.
“Nerves,” he said gently—“nerves.”
“Nerves be hanged!” said the millionaire. “I tell you I saw him as plainly as I see you.”
“Well, you can’t see me at all, seeing that you’re lighting an acre and a half of hall with a single lamp,” said the Duke, still in a tone of utter incredulity.
“It’s that fool Firmin! He ought to have lighted six. Firmin! Firmin!” bellowed the millionaire.

#CHAROLAIS #M_Charolais #Jean #Bernard #Pierre #Louis #Paris #M_Gournay-Martin #Firmin #Charmerace #ArseneLupin #MauriceLeBlanc #mystery #booktoot

Maurice Leblanc - Arsene Lupin Part 10 of 99

CHAPTER III LUPIN’S WAY

Sonia, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, in a reaction from her fears, slipped back and sat down at the tea-table, panting quickly, struggling to keep back the tears of relief. She did not see the Duke gallop up the slope, dismount, and hand over his horse to the groom who came running to him. There was still a mist in her eyes to blur his figure as he came through the window.
“If it’s for me, plenty of tea, very little cream, and three lumps of sugar,” he cried in a gay, ringing voice, and pulled out his watch. “Five to the minute—that’s all right.” And he bent down, took Germaine’s hand, and kissed it with an air of gallant devotion.
If he had indeed just fought a duel, there were no signs of it in his bearing. His air, his voice, were entirely careless. He was a man whose whole thought at the moment was fixed on his tea and his punctuality.
He drew a chair near the tea-table for Germaine; sat down himself; and Sonia handed him a cup of tea with so shaky a hand that the spoon clinked in the saucer.
“You’ve been fighting a duel?” said Germaine.
“What! You’ve heard already?” said the Duke in some surprise.
“I’ve heard,” said Germaine. “Why did you fight it?”
“You’re not wounded, your Grace?” said Sonia anxiously.
“Not a scratch,” said the Duke, smiling at her.
“Will you be so good as to get on with those wedding-cards, Sonia,” said Germaine sharply; and Sonia went back to the writing-table.
Turning to the Duke, Germaine said, “Did you fight on my account?”
“Would you be pleased to know that I had fought on your account?” said the Duke; and there was a faint mocking light in his eyes, far too faint for the self-satisfied Germaine to perceive.
“Yes. But it isn’t true. You’ve been fighting about some woman,” said Germaine petulantly.
“If I had been fighting about a woman, it could only be you,” said the Duke.
“Yes, that is so. Of course. It could hardly be about Sonia, or my maid,” said Germaine. “But what was the reason of the duel?”
“Oh, the reason of it was entirely childish,” said the Duke. “I was in a bad temper; and De Relzières said something that annoyed me.”
“Then it wasn’t about me; and if it wasn’t about me, it wasn’t really worth while fighting,” said Germaine in a tone of acute disappointment.
The mocking light deepened a little in the Duke’s eyes.
“Yes. But if I had been killed, everybody would have said, ‘The Duke of Charmerace has been killed in a duel about Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin.’ That would have sounded very fine indeed,” said the Duke; and a touch of mockery had crept into his voice.
“Now, don’t begin trying to annoy me again,” said Germaine pettishly.
“The last thing I should dream of, my dear girl,” said the Duke, smiling.
“And De Relzières? Is he wounded?” said Germaine.
“Poor dear De Relzières: he won’t be out of bed for the next six months,” said the Duke; and he laughed lightly and gaily.
“Good gracious!” cried Germaine.
“It will do poor dear De Relzières a world of good. He has a touch of enteritis; and for enteritis there is nothing like rest,” said the Duke.
Sonia was not getting on very quickly with the wedding-cards. Germaine was sitting with her back to her; and over her shoulder Sonia could watch the face of the Duke—an extraordinarily mobile face, changing with every passing mood. Sometimes his eyes met hers; and hers fell before them. But as soon as they turned away from her she was watching him again, almost greedily, as if she could not see enough of his face in which strength of will and purpose was mingled with a faint, ironic scepticism, and tempered by a fine air of race.
He finished his tea; then he took a morocco case from his pocket, and said to Germaine, “It must be quite three days since I gave you anything.”
He opened the case, disclosed a pearl pendant, and handed it to her.
“Oh, how nice!” she cried, taking it.
She took it from the case, saying that it was a beauty. She showed it to Sonia; then she put it on and stood before a mirror admiring the effect. To tell the truth, the effect was not entirely desirable. The pearls did not improve the look of her rather coarse brown skin; and her skin added nothing to the beauty of the pearls. Sonia saw this, and so did the Duke. He looked at Sonia’s white throat. She met his eyes and blushed. She knew that the same thought was in both their minds; the pearls would have looked infinitely better there.

#Germaine #Sonia #DeRelzières #Charmerace #MademoiselleGournay-Martin #ArseneLupin #MauriceLeBlanc #mystery #booktoot

Maurice Leblanc - Arsene Lupin Part 5 of 99

“Speaking of Madame de Relzières, do you know that she is on pins and needles with anxiety? Her son is fighting a duel to-day,” she said.
“With whom?” said Sonia.
“No one knows. She got hold of a letter from the seconds,” said Marie.
“My mind is quite at rest about Relzières,” said Germaine. “He’s a first-class swordsman. No one could beat him.”
Sonia did not seem to share her freedom from anxiety. Her forehead was puckered in little lines of perplexity, as if she were puzzling out some problem; and there was a look of something very like fear in her gentle eyes.
“Wasn’t Relzières a great friend of your fiance at one time?” said Jeanne.
“A great friend? I should think he was,” said Germaine. “Why, it was through Relzières that we got to know Jacques.”
“Where was that?” said Marie.
“Here—in this very château,” said Germaine.
“Actually in his own house?” said Marie, in some surprise.
“Yes; actually here. Isn’t life funny?” said Germaine. “If, a few months after his father’s death, Jacques had not found himself hard-up, and obliged to dispose of this château, to raise the money for his expedition to the South Pole; and if papa and I had not wanted an historic château; and lastly, if papa had not suffered from rheumatism, I should not be calling myself in a month from now the Duchess of Charmerace.”
“Now what on earth has your father’s rheumatism got to do with your being Duchess of Charmerace?” cried Jeanne.
“Everything,” said Germaine. “Papa was afraid that this château was damp. To prove to papa that he had nothing to fear, Jacques, en grand seigneur, offered him his hospitality, here, at Charmerace, for three weeks.”
“That was truly ducal,” said Marie.
“But he is always like that,” said Sonia.
“Oh, he’s all right in that way, little as he cares about society,” said Germaine. “Well, by a miracle my father got cured of his rheumatism here. Jacques fell in love with me; papa made up his mind to buy the château; and I demanded the hand of Jacques in marriage.”
“You did? But you were only sixteen then,” said Marie, with some surprise.
“Yes; but even at sixteen a girl ought to know that a duke is a duke. I did,” said Germaine. “Then since Jacques was setting out for the South Pole, and papa considered me much too young to get married, I promised Jacques to wait for his return.”
“Why, it was everything that’s romantic!” cried Marie.
“Romantic? Oh, yes,” said Germaine; and she pouted. “But between ourselves, if I’d known that he was going to stay all that time at the South Pole—”
“That’s true,” broke in Marie. “To go away for three years and stay away seven—at the end of the world.”
“All Germaine’s beautiful youth,” said Jeanne, with her malicious smile.
“Thanks!” said Germaine tartly.
“Well, you ARE twenty-three. It’s the flower of one’s age,” said Jeanne.
“Not quite twenty-three,” said Germaine hastily. “And look at the wretched luck I’ve had. The Duke falls ill and is treated at Montevideo. As soon as he recovers, since he’s the most obstinate person in the world, he resolves to go on with the expedition. He sets out; and for an age, without a word of warning, there’s no more news of him—no news of any kind. For six months, you know, we believed him dead.”
“Dead? Oh, how unhappy you must have been!” said Sonia.
“Oh, don’t speak of it! For six months I daren’t put on a light frock,” said Germaine, turning to her.
“A lot she must have cared for him,” whispered Jeanne to Marie.
“Fortunately, one fine day, the letters began again. Three months ago a telegram informed us that he was coming back; and at last the Duke returned,” said Germaine, with a theatrical air.
“The Duke returned,” cried Jeanne, mimicking her.
“Never mind. Fancy waiting nearly seven years for one’s fiance. That was constancy,” said Sonia.
“Oh, you’re a sentimentalist, Mlle. Kritchnoff,” said Jeanne, in a tone of mockery. “It was the influence of the castle.”
“What do you mean?” said Germaine.
“Oh, to own the castle of Charmerace and call oneself Mlle. Gournay-Martin—it’s not worth doing. One MUST become a duchess,” said Jeanne.
“Yes, yes; and for all this wonderful constancy, seven years of it, Germaine was on the point of becoming engaged to another man,” said Marie, smiling.
“And he a mere baron,” said Jeanne, laughing.
“What? Is that true?” said Sonia.
“Didn’t you know, Mlle. Kritchnoff? She nearly became engaged to the Duke’s cousin, the Baron de Relzières. It was not nearly so grand.”

#Sonia #Marie #Relzières #Germaine #Jeanne #Jacques #SouthPole #Charmerace #Montevideo #Mlle #Kritchnoff #Gournay-Martin #ArseneLupin #MauriceLeBlanc #mystery #booktoot

Maurice Leblanc - Arsene Lupin Part 10 of 99

CHAPTER III LUPIN’S WAY

Sonia, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, in a reaction from her fears, slipped back and sat down at the tea-table, panting quickly, struggling to keep back the tears of relief. She did not see the Duke gallop up the slope, dismount, and hand over his horse to the groom who came running to him. There was still a mist in her eyes to blur his figure as he came through the window.
“If it’s for me, plenty of tea, very little cream, and three lumps of sugar,” he cried in a gay, ringing voice, and pulled out his watch. “Five to the minute—that’s all right.” And he bent down, took Germaine’s hand, and kissed it with an air of gallant devotion.
If he had indeed just fought a duel, there were no signs of it in his bearing. His air, his voice, were entirely careless. He was a man whose whole thought at the moment was fixed on his tea and his punctuality.
He drew a chair near the tea-table for Germaine; sat down himself; and Sonia handed him a cup of tea with so shaky a hand that the spoon clinked in the saucer.
“You’ve been fighting a duel?” said Germaine.
“What! You’ve heard already?” said the Duke in some surprise.
“I’ve heard,” said Germaine. “Why did you fight it?”
“You’re not wounded, your Grace?” said Sonia anxiously.
“Not a scratch,” said the Duke, smiling at her.
“Will you be so good as to get on with those wedding-cards, Sonia,” said Germaine sharply; and Sonia went back to the writing-table.
Turning to the Duke, Germaine said, “Did you fight on my account?”
“Would you be pleased to know that I had fought on your account?” said the Duke; and there was a faint mocking light in his eyes, far too faint for the self-satisfied Germaine to perceive.
“Yes. But it isn’t true. You’ve been fighting about some woman,” said Germaine petulantly.
“If I had been fighting about a woman, it could only be you,” said the Duke.
“Yes, that is so. Of course. It could hardly be about Sonia, or my maid,” said Germaine. “But what was the reason of the duel?”
“Oh, the reason of it was entirely childish,” said the Duke. “I was in a bad temper; and De Relzières said something that annoyed me.”
“Then it wasn’t about me; and if it wasn’t about me, it wasn’t really worth while fighting,” said Germaine in a tone of acute disappointment.
The mocking light deepened a little in the Duke’s eyes.
“Yes. But if I had been killed, everybody would have said, ‘The Duke of Charmerace has been killed in a duel about Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin.’ That would have sounded very fine indeed,” said the Duke; and a touch of mockery had crept into his voice.
“Now, don’t begin trying to annoy me again,” said Germaine pettishly.
“The last thing I should dream of, my dear girl,” said the Duke, smiling.
“And De Relzières? Is he wounded?” said Germaine.
“Poor dear De Relzières: he won’t be out of bed for the next six months,” said the Duke; and he laughed lightly and gaily.
“Good gracious!” cried Germaine.
“It will do poor dear De Relzières a world of good. He has a touch of enteritis; and for enteritis there is nothing like rest,” said the Duke.
Sonia was not getting on very quickly with the wedding-cards. Germaine was sitting with her back to her; and over her shoulder Sonia could watch the face of the Duke—an extraordinarily mobile face, changing with every passing mood. Sometimes his eyes met hers; and hers fell before them. But as soon as they turned away from her she was watching him again, almost greedily, as if she could not see enough of his face in which strength of will and purpose was mingled with a faint, ironic scepticism, and tempered by a fine air of race.
He finished his tea; then he took a morocco case from his pocket, and said to Germaine, “It must be quite three days since I gave you anything.”
He opened the case, disclosed a pearl pendant, and handed it to her.
“Oh, how nice!” she cried, taking it.
She took it from the case, saying that it was a beauty. She showed it to Sonia; then she put it on and stood before a mirror admiring the effect. To tell the truth, the effect was not entirely desirable. The pearls did not improve the look of her rather coarse brown skin; and her skin added nothing to the beauty of the pearls. Sonia saw this, and so did the Duke. He looked at Sonia’s white throat. She met his eyes and blushed. She knew that the same thought was in both their minds; the pearls would have looked infinitely better there.

#Germaine #Sonia #DeRelzières #Charmerace #MademoiselleGournay-Martin #ArseneLupin #MauriceLeBlanc #mystery #booktoot