The Exploits of Arsène Lupin (14 page)

And a post-script adds:

“Later.— Our special correspondent informs us that the preliminary trial of the ‘Seven-of-Hearts’ has not been satisfactory. It is quite likely that the plans sold and delivered by the Varin brothers did not include the final document carried by Louis Lacombe to Mon. Andermatt on the day of his disappearance, a document that was indispensable to a thorough understanding of the invention. It contained a summary of the final conclusions of the inventor, and estimates and figures not contained in the other papers. Without this document, the plans are incomplete; on the other hand, without the plans, the document is worthless. “Now is the time to act and recover what belongs to us. It may be a difficult matter, but we rely upon the assistance of Mon. Andermatt. It will be to his interest to explain his conduct which has hitherto been so strange and inscrutable. He will explain not only why he concealed these facts at the time of the suicide of Etienne Varin, but also why he has never revealed the disappearance of the paper—a fact well known to him. He will tell why, during the last six years, he paid spies to watch the movements of the Varin brothers. We expect from him, not only words, but acts. And at once. Otherwise—”

The threat was plainly expressed. But of what did it consist? What whip was Salvator, the anonymous writer of the article, holding over the head of Mon. Andermatt?

An army of reporters attacked the banker, and ten interviewers announced the scornful manner in which they were treated. Thereupon, the ‘Echo de France’ announced its position in these words:

“Whether Mon. Andermatt is willing or not, he will be, henceforth, our collaborator in the work we have undertaken.”

Daspry and I were dining together on the day on which that announcement appeared. That evening, with the newspapers spread over my table, we discussed the affair and examined it from every point of view with that exasperation that a person feels when walking in the dark and finding himself constantly falling over the same obstacles. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the door opened and a lady entered. Her face was hidden behind a thick veil. I rose at once and approached her.

“Is it you, monsieur, who lives here?” she asked.

“Yes, madame, but I do not understand—”

“The gate was not locked,” she explained.

“But the vestibule door?”

She did not reply, and it occurred to me that she had used the servants’ entrance. How did she know the way? Then there was a silence that was quite embarrassing. She looked at Daspry, and I was obliged to introduce him. I asked her to be seated and explain the object of her visit. She raised her veil, and I saw that she was a brunette with regular features and, though not handsome, she was attractive—principally, on account of her sad, dark eyes.

“I am Madame Andermatt,” she said.

“Madame Andermatt!” I repeated, with astonishment.

After a brief pause, she continued with a voice and manner that were quite easy and natural:

“I have come to see you about that affair—you know. I thought I might be able to obtain some information—”

“Mon Dieu, madame, I know nothing but what has already appeared in the papers. But if you will point out in what way I can help you …”

“I do not know … I do not know.”

Not until then did I suspect that her calm demeanor was assumed, and that some poignant grief was concealed beneath that air of tranquility. For a moment, we were silent and embarrassed. Then Daspry stepped forward, and said:

“Will you permit me to ask you a few questions?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried. “I will answer.”

“You will answer … whatever those questions may be?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know Louis Lacombe?” he asked.

“Yes, through my husband.”

“When did you see him for the last time?”

“The evening he dined with us.”

“At that time, was there anything to lead you to believe that you would never see him again?”

“No. But he had spoken of a trip to Russia—in a vague way.”

“Then you expected to see him again?”

“Yes. He was to dine with us, two days later.”

“How do you explain his disappearance?”

“I cannot explain it.”

“And Mon. Andermatt?”

“I do not know.”

“Yet the article published in the ‘Echo de France’ indicates—”

“Yes, that the Varin brothers had something to do with his disappearance.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“Yes.”

“On what do you base your opinion?”

“When he left our house, Louis Lacombe carried a satchel containing all the papers relating to his invention. Two days later, my husband, in a conversation with one of the Varin brothers, learned that the papers were in their possession.”

“And he did not denounce them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there was something else in the satchel—something besides the papers of Louis Lacombe.”

“What was it?”

She hesitated; was on the point of speaking, but, finally, remained silent. Daspry continued:

“I presume that is why your husband has kept a close watch over their movements instead of informing the police. He hoped to recover the papers and, at the same time, that compromising article which has enabled the two brothers to hold over him threats of exposure and blackmail.”

“Over him, and over me.”

“Ah! over you, also?”

“Over me, in particular.”

She uttered the last words in a hollow voice. Daspry observed it; he paced to and fro for a moment, then, turning to her, asked:

“Had you written to Louis Lacombe?”

“Of course. My husband had business with him—”

“Apart from those business letters, had you written to Louis Lacombe … other letters? Excuse my insistence, but it is absolutely necessary that I should know the truth. Did you write other letters?”

“Yes,” she replied, blushing.

“And those letters came into the possession of the Varin brothers?”

“Yes.”

“Does Mon. Andermatt know it?”

“He has not seen them, but Alfred Varin has told him of their existence and threatened to publish them if my husband should take any steps against him. My husband was afraid … of a scandal.”

“But he has tried to recover the letters?”

“I think so; but I do not know. You see, after that last interview with Alfred Varin, and after some harsh words between me and my husband in which he called me to account—we live as strangers.”

“In that case, as you have nothing to lose, what do you fear?”

“I may be indifferent to him now, but I am the woman that he has loved, the one he would still love—oh! I am quite sure of that,” she murmured, in a fervent voice, “he would still love me if he had not got hold of those cursed letters—”

“What! Did he succeed? … But the two brothers still defied him?”

“Yes, and they boasted of having a secure hiding-place.”

“Well?”

“I believe my husband discovered that hiding-place.”

“Well?”

“I believe my husband has discovered that hiding-place.”

“Ah! where was it?”

“Here.”

“Here!” I cried in alarm.

“Yes. I always had that suspicion. Louis Lacombe was very ingenious and amused himself in his leisure hours, by making safes and locks. No doubt, the Varin brothers were aware of that fact and utilized one of Lacombe’s safes in which to conceal the letters … and other things, perhaps.”

“But they did not live here,” I said.

“Before you came, four months ago, the house had been vacant for some time. And they may have thought that your presence here would not interfere with them when they wanted to get the papers. But they did not count on my husband, who came here on the night of 22 June, forced the safe, took what he was seeking, and left his card to inform the two brothers that he feared them no more, and that their positions were now reversed. Two days later, after reading the article in the ‘Gil Blas,’ Etienne Varin came here, remained alone in this room, found the safe empty, and … killed himself.”

After a moment, Daspry said:

“A very simple theory … Has Mon. Andermatt spoken to you since then?”

“No.”

“Has his attitude toward you changed in any way? Does he appear more gloomy, more anxious?”

“No, I haven’t noticed any change.”

“And yet you think he has secured the letters. Now, in my opinion, he has not got those letters, and it was not he who came here on the night of 22 June.”

“Who was it, then?”

“The mysterious individual who is managing this affair, who holds all the threads in his hands, and whose invisible but far-reaching power we have felt from the beginning. It was he and his friends who entered this house on 22 June; it was he who discovered the hiding-place of the papers; it was he who left Mon. Andermatt’s card; it is he who now holds the correspondence and the evidence of the treachery of the Varin brothers.”

“Who is he?” I asked, impatiently.

“The man who writes letters to the ‘Echo de France’ … Salvator! Have we not convincing evidence of that fact? Does he not mention in his letters certain details that no one could know, except the man who had thus discovered the secrets of the two brothers?”

“Well, then,” stammered Madame Andermatt, in great alarm, “he has my letters also, and it is he who now threatens my husband. Mon Dieu! What am I to do?”

“Write to him,” declared Daspry. “Confide in him without reserve. Tell him all you know and all you may hereafter learn. Your interest and his interest are the same. He is not working against Mon. Andermatt, but against Alfred Varin. Help him.”

“How?”

“Has your husband the document that completes the plans of Louis Lacombe?”

“Yes.”

“Tell that to Salvator, and, if possible, procure the document for him. Write to him at once. You risk nothing.”

The advice was bold, dangerous even at first sight, but Madame Andermatt had no choice. Besides, as Daspry had said, she ran no risk. If the unknown writer were an enemy, that step would not aggravate the situation. If he were a stranger seeking to accomplish a particular purpose, he would attach to those letters only a secondary importance. Whatever might happen, it was the only solution offered to her, and she, in her anxiety, was only too glad to act on it. She thanked us effusively, and promised to keep us informed.

In fact, two days later, she sent us the following letter that she had received from Salvator:

“Have not found the letters, but I will get them. Rest easy. I am watching everything. S.”

I looked at the letter. It was in the same handwriting as the note I found in my book on the night of 22 June.

Daspry was right. Salvator was, indeed, the originator of that affair.

We were beginning to see a little light coming out of the darkness that surrounded us, and an unexpected light was thrown on certain points; but other points yet remained obscure—for instance, the finding of the two seven-of-hearts. Perhaps I was unnecessarily concerned about those two cards whose seven punctured spots had appeared to me under such startling circumstances! Yet I could not refrain from asking myself: What role will they play in the drama? What importance do they bear? What conclusion must be drawn from the fact that the submarine constructed from the plans of Louis Lacombe bore the name of ‘Seven-of-Hearts’?

Daspry gave little thought to the other two cards; he devoted all his attention to another problem which he considered more urgent; he was seeking the famous hiding-place.

“And who knows,” said he, “I may find the letters that Salvator did not find—by inadvertence, perhaps. It is improbable that the Varin brothers would have removed from a spot, which they deemed inaccessible, the weapon which was so valuable to them.”

And he continued to search. In a short time, the large room held no more secrets for him, so he extended his investigations to the other rooms. He examined the interior and the exterior, the stones of the foundation, the bricks in the walls; he raised the slates of the roof.

One day, he came with a pickaxe and a spade, gave me the spade, kept the pickaxe, pointed to the adjacent vacant lots, and said: “Come.”

I followed him, but I lacked his enthusiasm. He divided the vacant land into several sections which he examined in turn. At last, in a corner, at the angle formed by the walls of two neighboring proprietors, a small pile of earth and gravel, covered with briers and grass, attracted his attention. He attacked it. I was obliged to help him. For an hour, under a hot sun, we labored without success. I was discouraged, but Daspry urged me on. His ardor was as strong as ever.

At last, Daspry’s pickaxe unearthed some bones—the remains of a skeleton to which some scraps of clothing still hung. Suddenly, I turned pale. I had discovered, sticking in the earth, a small piece of iron cut in the form of a rectangle, on which I thought I could see red spots. I stooped and picked it up. That little iron plate was the exact size of a playing-card, and the red spots, made with red lead, were arranged upon it in a manner similar to the seven-of-hearts, and each spot was pierced with a round hole similar to the perforations in the two playing cards.

“Listen, Daspry, I have had enough of this. You can stay if it interests you. But I am going.”

Was that simply the expression of my excited nerves? Or was it the result of a laborious task executed under a burning sun? I know that I trembled as I walked away, and that I went to bed, where I remained forty-eight hours, restless and feverish, haunted by skeletons that danced around me and threw their bleeding hearts at my head.

Daspry was faithful to me. He came to my house every day, and remained three or four hours, which he spent in the large room, ferreting, thumping, tapping.

“The letters are here, in this room,” he said, from time to time, “they are here. I will stake my life on it.”

On the morning of the third day I arose—feeble yet, but cured. A substantial breakfast cheered me up. But a letter that I received that afternoon contributed, more than anything else, to my complete recovery, and aroused in me a lively curiosity. This was the letter:

“Monsieur,