The Confessions of Arsène Lupin (24 page)

“Still, Farmer Goussot …”

“Go to blazes!”

And he slammed the door in their face.

Old Trainard had now been hidden within the walls of Héberville for something like four weeks. The Goussots continued their search as doggedly and confidently as ever, but with daily decreasing hope, as though they were confronted with one of those mysterious obstacles which discourage human effort. And the idea that they would never see their money again began to take root in them.

One fine morning, at about ten o’clock, a motor-car, crossing the village square at full speed, broke down and came to a dead stop.

The driver, after a careful inspection, declared that the repairs would take some little time, whereupon the owner of the car resolved to wait at the inn and lunch. He was a gentleman on the right side of forty, with close-cropped side-whiskers and a pleasant expression of face; and he soon made himself at home with the people at the inn.

Of course, they told him the story of the Goussots. He had not heard it before, as he had been abroad; but it seemed to interest him greatly. He made them give him all the details, raised objections, discussed various theories with a number of people who were eating at the same table and ended by exclaiming:

“Nonsense! It can’t be so intricate as all that. I have had some experience of this sort of thing. And, if I were on the premises …”

“That’s easily arranged,” said the inn-keeper. “I know Farmer Goussot … He won’t object …”

The request was soon made and granted. Old Goussot was in one of those frames of mind when we are less disposed to protest against outside interference. His wife, at any rate, was very firm:

“Let the gentleman come, if he wants to.”

The gentleman paid his bill and instructed his driver to try the car on the high-road as soon as the repairs were finished:

“I shall want an hour,” he said, “no more. Be ready in an hour’s time.”

Then he went to Farmer Goussot’s.

He did not say much at the farm. Old Goussot, hoping against hope, was lavish with information, took his visitor along the walls down to the little door opening on the fields, produced the key and gave minute details of all the searches that had been made so far.

Oddly enough, the stranger, who hardly spoke, seemed not to listen either. He merely looked, with a rather vacant gaze. When they had been round the estate, old Goussot asked, anxiously:

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you think you know?”

The visitor stood for a moment without answering. Then he said:

“No, nothing.”

“Why, of course not!” cried the farmer, throwing up his arms. “How should you know! It’s all hanky-panky. Shall I tell you what I think? Well, that old Trainard has been so jolly clever that he’s lying dead in his hole … and the bank-notes are rotting with him. Do you hear? You can take my word for it.”

The gentleman said, very calmly:

“There’s only one thing that interests me. The tramp, all said and done, was free at night and able to feed on what he could pick up. But how about drinking?”

“Out of the question!” shouted the farmer. “Quite out of the question! There’s no water except this; and we have kept watch beside it every night.”

“It’s a spring. Where does it rise?”

“Here, where we stand.”

“Is there enough pressure to bring it into the pool of itself?”

“Yes.”

“And where does the water go when it runs out of the pool?”

“Into this pipe here, which goes under ground and carries it to the house, for use in the kitchen. So there’s no way of drinking, seeing that we were there and that the spring is twenty yards from the house.”

“Hasn’t it rained during the last four weeks?”

“Not once: I’ve told you that already.”

The stranger went to the spring and examined it. The trough was formed of a few boards of wood joined together just above the ground; and the water ran through it, slow and clear.

“The water’s not more than a foot deep, is it?” he asked.

In order to measure it, he picked up from the grass a straw which he dipped into the pool. But, as he was stooping, he suddenly broke off and looked around him.

“Oh, how funny!” he said, bursting into a peal of laughter.

“Why, what’s the matter?” spluttered old Goussot, rushing toward the pool, as though a man could have lain hidden between those narrow boards.

And Mother Goussot clasped her hands.

“What is it? Have you seen him? Where is he?”

“Neither in it nor under it,” replied the stranger, who was still laughing.

He made for the house, eagerly followed by the farmer, the old woman and the four sons. The inn-keeper was there also, as were the people from the inn who had been watching the stranger’s movements. And there was a dead silence, while they waited for the extraordinary disclosure.

“It’s as I thought,” he said, with an amused expression. “The old chap had to quench his thirst somewhere; and, as there was only the spring …”

“Oh, but look here,” growled Farmer Goussot, “we should have seen him!”

“It was at night.”

“We should have heard him … and seen him too, as we were close by.”

“So was he.”

“And he drank the water from the pool?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“From a little way off.”

“With what?”

“With this.”

And the stranger showed the straw which he had picked up:

“There, here’s the straw for the customer’s long drink. You will see, there’s more of it than usual: in fact, it is made of three straws stuck into one another. That was the first thing I noticed: those three straws fastened together. The proof is conclusive.”

“But, hang it all, the proof of what?” cried Farmer Goussot, irritably.

The stranger took a shotgun from the rack.

“Is it loaded?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the youngest of the brothers. “I use it to kill the sparrows with, for fun. It’s small shot.”

“Capital! A peppering where it won’t hurt him will do the trick.”

His face suddenly assumed a masterful look. He gripped the farmer by the arm and rapped out, in an imperious tone:

“Listen to me, Farmer Goussot. I’m not here to do policeman’s work; and I won’t have the poor beggar locked up at any price. Four weeks of starvation and fright is good enough for anybody. So you’ve got to swear to me, you and your sons, that you’ll let him off without hurting him.”

“He must hand over the money!”

“Well, of course. Do you swear?”

“I swear.”

The gentleman walked back to the door-sill, at the entrance to the orchard. He took a quick aim, pointing his gun a little in the air, in the direction of the cherry tree which overhung the spring. He fired. A hoarse cry rang from the tree; and the scarecrow which had been straddling the main branch for a month past came tumbling to the ground, only to jump up at once and make off as fast as its legs could carry it.

There was a moment’s amazement, followed by outcries. The sons darted in pursuit and were not long in coming up with the runaway, hampered as he was by his rags and weakened by privation. But the stranger was already protecting him against their wrath:

“Hands off there! This man belongs to me. I won’t have him touched … I hope I haven’t stung you up too much, Trainard?”

Standing on his straw legs wrapped round with strips of tattered cloth, with his arms and his whole body clad in the same materials, his head swathed in linen, tightly packed like a sausage, the old chap still had the stiff appearance of a lay-figure. And the whole effect was so ludicrous and so unexpected that the onlookers screamed with laughter.

The stranger unbound his head; and they saw a veiled mask of tangled gray beard encroaching on every side upon a skeleton face lit up by two eyes burning with fever.

The laughter was louder than ever.

“The money! The six notes!” roared the farmer.

The stranger kept him at a distance:

“One moment … we’ll give you that back, sha’n’t we, Trainard?”

And, taking his knife and cutting away the straw and cloth, he jested, cheerily:

“You poor old beggar, what a guy you look! But how on earth did you manage to pull off that trick? You must be confoundedly clever, or else you had the devil’s own luck … So, on the first night, you used the breathing-time they left you to rig yourself in these togs! Not a bad idea. Who could ever suspect a scarecrow? … They were so accustomed to seeing it stuck up in its tree! But, poor old daddy, how uncomfortable you must have felt, lying flat up there on your stomach, with your arms and legs dangling down! All day long, like that! The deuce of an attitude! And how you must have been put to it, when you ventured to move a limb, eh? And how you must have funked going to sleep! … And then you had to eat! And drink! And you heard the sentry and felt the barrel of his gun within a yard of your nose! Brrrr! … But the trickiest of all, you know, was your bit of straw! … Upon my word, when I think that, without a sound, without a movement so to speak, you had to fish out lengths of straw from your toggery, fix them end to end, let your apparatus down to the water and suck up the heavenly moisture drop by drop … Upon my word, one could scream with admiration … Well done, Trainard …” And he added, between his teeth, “Only you’re in a very unappetizing state, my man. Haven’t you washed yourself all this month, you old pig? After all, you had as much water as you wanted! … Here, you people, I hand him over to you. I’m going to wash my hands, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Farmer Goussot and his four sons grabbed at the prey which he was abandoning to them:

“Now then, come along, fork out the money.”

Dazed as he was, the tramp still managed to simulate astonishment.

“Don’t put on that idiot look,” growled the farmer. “Come on. Out with the six notes …”

“What? … What do you want of me?” stammered old Trainard.

“The money … on the nail …”

“What money?”

“The bank-notes.”

“The bank-notes?”

“Oh, I’m getting sick of you! Here, lads …”

They laid the old fellow flat, tore off the rags that composed his clothes, felt and searched him all over.

There was nothing on him.

“You thief and you robber!” yelled old Goussot. “What have you done with it?”

The old beggar seemed more dazed than ever. Too cunning to confess, he kept on whining:

“What do you want of me? … Money? I haven’t three sous to call my own …”

But his eyes, wide with wonder, remained fixed upon his clothes; and he himself seemed not to understand.

The Goussots’ rage could no longer be restrained. They rained blows upon him, which did not improve matters. But the farmer was convinced that Trainard had hidden the money before turning himself into the scarecrow:

“Where have you put it, you scum? Out with it! In what part of the orchard have you hidden it?”

“The money?” repeated the tramp with a stupid look.

“Yes, the money! The money which you’ve buried somewhere … Oh, if we don’t find it, your goose is cooked! … We have witnesses, haven’t we? … All of you, friends, eh? And then the gentleman …”

He turned, with the intention of addressing the stranger, in the direction of the spring, which was thirty or forty steps to the left. And he was quite surprised not to see him washing his hands there:

“Has he gone?” he asked.

Some one answered:

“No, he lit a cigarette and went for a stroll in the orchard.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” said the farmer. “He’s the sort to find the notes for us, just as he found the man.”

“Unless …” said a voice.

“Unless what?” echoed the farmer. “What do you mean? Have you something in your head? Out with it, then! What is it?”

But he interrupted himself suddenly, seized with a doubt; and there was a moment’s silence. The same idea dawned on all the country-folk. The stranger’s arrival at Héberville, the breakdown of his motor, his manner of questioning the people at the inn and of gaining admission to the farm: were not all these part and parcel of a put-up job, the trick of a cracksman who had learnt the story from the papers and who had come to try his luck on the spot? …

“Jolly smart of him!” said the inn-keeper. “He must have taken the money from old Trainard’s pocket, before our eyes, while he was searching him.”

“Impossible!” spluttered Farmer Goussot. “He would have been seen going out that way … by the house … whereas he’s strolling in the orchard.”

Mother Goussot, all of a heap, suggested:

“The little door at the end, down there? …”

“The key never leaves me.”

“But you showed it to him.”

“Yes; and I took it back again … Look, here it is.”

He clapped his hand to his pocket and uttered a cry:

“Oh, dash it all, it’s gone! … He’s sneaked it! …”

He at once rushed away, followed and escorted by his sons and a number of the villagers.

When they were halfway down the orchard, they heard the throb of a motor-car, obviously the one belonging to the stranger, who had given orders to his chauffeur to wait for him at that lower entrance.

When the Goussots reached the door, they saw scrawled with a brick, on the worm-eaten panel, the two words:

“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

Stick to it as the angry Goussots might, they found it impossible to prove that old Trainard had stolen any money. Twenty persons had to bear witness that, when all was said, nothing was discovered on his person. He escaped with a few months’ imprisonment for the assault.

He did not regret them. As soon as he was released, he was secretly informed that, every quarter, on a given date, at a given hour, under a given milestone on a given road, he would find three gold louis.

To a man like old Trainard that means wealth.

X. EDITH SWAN-NECK

“Arsène Lupin, what’s your real opinion of Inspector Ganimard?”

“A very high one, my dear fellow.”

“A very high one? Then why do you never miss a chance of turning him into ridicule?”

“It’s a bad habit; and I’m sorry for it. But what can I say? It’s the way of the world. Here’s a decent detective-chap, here’s a whole pack of decent men, who stand for law and order, who protect us against the apaches, who risk their lives for honest people like you and me; and we have nothing to give them in return but flouts and gibes. It’s preposterous!”