Blanc / Blake Arsene Lupin vs Herlock Sholmes

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-387-27724-7
Verlag: Sheba Blake Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 179 Seiten

Arsène Lupin vs. Herlock Sholmes is a collection of two adventures of Arsène Lupin, written by Maurice Leblanc. These adventures feature a match of wits between Lupin and Herlock Sholmes, a transparent reference to Sherlock Holmes, the hero of Conan Doyle's detective stories. It follows the appearance of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Burglar, in which Sherlock Holmes also makes an appearance in 'Sherlock Holmes Arrives Too Late'. The collection was translated twice into English, as Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes in the U.S. (1910, by George Morehead), and as Arsène Lupin versus Holmlock Shears in the UK (1910, by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos, printed as The Blonde Lady in the U.S.). The first story, 'The Blonde Lady', opens with the purchase of an antique desk by a mathematics professor. The desk is subsequently stolen, as it turns out, by Arsène Lupin.

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Autoren/Hrsg.

Blanc, Maurice Le

Blake, Sheba

Leseproben

CHAPTER II
THE BLUE DIAMOND   ON the evening of March 27, at number 134 avenue Henri-Martin, in the house that he had inherited from his brother six months before, the old general Baron d Hautree, ambassador at Berlin under the second Empire, was asleep in a comfortable armchair, while his secretary was reading to him, and the Sister Auguste was warming his bed and preparing the night-lamp. At eleven o'clock, the Sister, who was obliged to return to the convent of her order at that hour, said to the secretary: "Mademoiselle Antoinette, my work is finished; I am going." "Very well, Sister." "Do not forget that the cook is away, and that you are alone in the house with the servant." "Have no fear for the Baron. I sleep in the adjoining room and always leave the door open." The Sister left the house. A few moments so later, Charles, the servant, came to receive his orders. The Baron was now awake, and spoke for himself. "The usual orders, Charles: see that the electric bell rings in your room, and, at the first alarm, run for the doctor. Now, Mademoiselle Antoinette, how far did we get in our reading?" "Is Monsieur not going to bed now?" "No, no, I will go later. Besides, I don't need anyone." Twenty minutes later, he was sleeping again, and Antoinette crept away on tiptoe. At that moment, Charles was closing the shutters on the lower floor. In the kitchen, he bolted the door leading to the garden, and, in the vestibule, he not only locked the door but hooked the chain as well. Then he ascended to his room on the third floor, went to bed, and was soon asleep. Probably an hour had passed, when he leaped from his bed in alarm. The bell was ringing. It rang for some time, seven or eight seconds perhaps, without intermission. "Well!" muttered Charles, recovering his wits, "another of the Baron's whims." He dressed himself quickly, descended the stairs, stopped in front of the door, and rapped, according to his custom. He received no reply. He opened the door and entered. "All! no light," he murmured. "What is that for?" Then, in a low voice, he called: "Mademoiselle?" No reply. "Are you there, mademoiselle? What's the matter? Is Monsieur le Baron ill?" No reply. Nothing but a profound silence that soon became depressing. He took two steps forward; his foot struck a chair, and, having touched it, he noticed that it was overturned. Then, with his hand, he discovered other objects on the floor a small table and a screen. Anxiously, he approached the wall, felt for the electric button, and turned on the light. In the centre of the room, between the table and dressing-case, lay the body of his master, the Baron d'Hautrec. "What!... It can't be possible!" he stammered. He could not move. He stood there, with bulging eyes, gazing stupidly at the terrible disorder, the overturned chairs, a large crystal candelabra shattered in a thousand pieces, the clock lying on the marble hearthstone, all evidence of a fearful and desperate struggle. The handle of a stiletto glittered, not far from the corpse; the blade was stained with blood. A handkerchief, marked with red spots, was lying on the edge of the bed. Charles recoiled with horror: the body lying at his feet extended itself for a moment, then shrunk up again; two or three tremors, and that was the end. He stooped over the body. There was a clean-cut wound on the neck from which the blood was flowing and then congealing in a black pool on the carpet. The face retained an expression of extreme terror. "Some one has killed him!" he muttered, "some one has killed him! Then he shuddered at the thought that there might be another dreadful crime. Did not the baron's secretary sleep in the adjoining room? Had not the assassin killed her also? He opened the door; the room was empty. He concluded that Antoinette had been abducted, or else she had gone away before the crime. He returned to the baron's chamber, his glance falling on the secretary, he noticed that that article of furniture remained intact. Then, he saw upon a table, beside a bunch of keys and a pocket-book that the baron placed there every night, a handful of golden louis. Charles seized the pocket-book, opened it, and found some bank notes. He counted them; there were thirteen notes of one hundred francs each. Instinctively, mechanically, he put the bank-notes in his pocket, rushed down the stairs, drew the bolt, unhooked the chain, closed the door behind him, and fled to the street. * * * Charles was an honest man. He had scarcely left the gate, when, cooled by the night air and the rain, he came to a sudden halt. Now, he saw his action in its true light, and it filled him with horror. He hailed a passing cab, and said to the driver: "Go to the police-office, and bring the commissary. Hurry! There has been a murder in that house." The cab-driver whipped his horse. Charles wished to return to the house, but found the gate locked. He had closed it himself when he came out, and it could not be opened from the outside. On the other hand, it was use less to ring, as there was no one in the house. It was almost an hour before the arrival of the police. When they came, Charles told his story and handed the bank-notes to the commissary. A locksmith was summoned, and, after considerable difficulty, he suc ceeded in forcing open the garden gate and the vestibule door. The commissary of police entered the room first, but, immediately, turned to Charles and said: "You told me that the room was in the greatest disorder." Charles stood at the door, amazed, bewildered; all the furniture had been restored to its accustomed place. The small table was standing between the two windows, the chairs were upright, and the clock was on the centre of the mantel. The debris of the candelabra had been removed. "Where is... Monsieur le Baron?" stammered Charles. "That's so!" exclaimed the officer, "where is the victim?" He approached the bed, and drew aside a large sheet, under which reposed the Baron d'Hautrec, formerly French Ambassador at Berlin. Over him, lay his military coat, adorned with the Cross of Honor. His features were calm. His eyes were closed. "Some one has been here," said Charles. "How did they get in?" "I don't know, but some one has been here during my absence. There was a stiletto on the floor there! And a handkerchief, stained with blood, on the bed. They are not here now. They have been carried away. And some one has put the room in order." "Who would do that!" "The assassin." "But we found all the doors locked." "He must have remained in the house." "Then he must be here yet, as you were in front of the house all the time." Charles reflected a moment, then said, slowly: "Yes... of course... I didn't go away from the gate." "Who was the last person you saw with the baron?" "Mademoiselle Antoinette, his secretary." What has become of her! "I don't know. Her bed wasn't occupied, so she must have gone out. I am not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty." "But how could she leave the house?" "By the door," said Charles. "But you had bolted and chained it." "Yes, but she must have left before that--" "And the crime was committed after her departure? "Of course," said the servant. The house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had fled. How? And when! Was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to his identity? Such were the questions the police were called upon to solve. The coroner came at seven o clock; and, at eight o clock, Mon. Dudouis, the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. They were followed by the Procureur of the Eepublic and the investigating magistrate. In addition to these officials, the house was overrun with policemen, detectives, news paper reporters, photographers, and rela tives and acquaintances of the murdered man. A thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse according to the information furnished by Charles; they questioned Sister Auguste when she arrived; but they discovered nothing new. Sister Auguste was astonished to learn of the dis appearance of Antoinette Brehat. She had engaged the young girl twelve days before, on excellent recommendations, and refused to believe that she would neglect her duty by leaving the house during the night. "But, you see, she hasn't returned yet," said the magistrate, "and we are still con fronted with the question: What has become of her!" "I think she was abducted by the as sassin," said Charles. The theory was plausible, and was borne out by certain facts. Mon. Dudouis agreed with it. He said: "Abducted! ma foi! that is not im probable. "Not only improbable," said a voice, "but absolutely opposed to the facts. There is not a particle of evidence to support such a theory. The voice was harsh, the accent sharp, and no one was surprised to learn that the speaker was Ganimard. In no one else, would they tolerate such a domineering tone, "Ah! it is you, Ganimard!" exclaimed Mon. Dudouis. "I had not seen you before." "I have been here since two o clock." "So you are interested in some things out side of lottery ticket number 514, the affair VERSUS HERLOCK SHOLMES of the rue Clapeyron, the blonde lady and Arsene Lupin?" "Ha-ha!" laughed the veteran detective. "I would not say that Lupin is a stranger to the present case. But let us forget the...