The Blonde Lady

"How charming those French people are!" thought Wilson, who never shirked the opportunity of making an original observation.

"But time is money," cried the baron. "And yours especially, Mr. Shears. Let us come to the point! What do you think of the case? Do you hope to bring it to a satisfactory result?"

"To bring the case to a satisfactory result, I must first know what the case is."

"Don't you know?"

"No; and I will ask you to explain the matter fully, omitting nothing. What is it a case of?"

"It is a case of theft."

"On what day did it take place?"

"On Saturday," replied the baron. "On Saturday night or Sunday morning."

"Six days ago, therefore. Now, pray, go on."

"I must first tell you that my wife and I, though we lead the life expected of people in our position, go out very little. The education of our children, a few receptions, the beautifying of our home: these make up our existence; and all or nearly all our evenings are spent here, in this room, which is my wife's boudoir and in which we have collected a few pretty things. Well, on Saturday last, at about eleven o'clock, I switched off the electric light and my wife and I retired, as usual, to our bedroom."

"Where is that?"

"The next room: that door over there. On the following morning, that is to say, Sunday, I rose early. As Suzanne—my wife—was still asleep, I came into this room as gently as possible, so as not to awake her. Imagine my surprise at finding the window open, after we had left it closed the evening before!"

"A servant…?"

"Nobody enters this room in the morning before we ring. Besides, I always take the precaution of bolting that other door, which leads to the hall. Therefore the window must have been opened from the outside. I had a proof of it, besides: the second pane of the right-hand casement, the one next to the latch, had been cut out."

"And the window?"

"The window, as you perceive, opens on a little balcony surrounded by a stone balustrade. We are on the first floor here and you can see the garden at the back of the house and the railings that separate it from the Parc Monceau. It is certain, therefore, that the man came from the Parc Monceau, climbed the railings by means of a ladder and got up to the balcony."

"It is certain, you say?"

"On either side of the railings, in the soft earth of the borders, we found holes left by the two uprights of the ladder; and there were two similar holes below the balcony. Lastly, the balustrade shows two slight scratches, evidently caused by the contact of the ladder."

"Isn't the Parc Monceau closed at night?"

"Closed? No. But, in any case, there is a house building at No. 14. It would have been easy to effect an entrance that way."

Holmlock Shears reflected for a few moments and resumed:

"Let us come to the theft. You say it was committed in the room where we now are?"

"Yes. Just here, between this twelfth-century Virgin and that chased-silver tabernacle, there was a little Jewish lamp. It has disappeared."

"And is that all?"

"That is all."

"Oh!… And what do you call a Jewish lamp?"

"It is one of those lamps which they used to employ in the old days, consisting of a stem and of a receiver to contain the oil. This receiver had two or more burners, which held the wicks."

"When all is said, objects of no great value."

"Just so. But the one in question formed a hiding-place in which we had made it a practice to keep a magnificent antique jewel, a chimera in gold, set with rubies and emeralds and worth a great deal of money."

"What was your reason for this practice?"

"Upon my word, Mr. Shears, I should find it difficult to tell you! Perhaps we just thought it amusing to have a hiding-place of this kind."

"Did nobody know of it?"

"Nobody."

"Except, of course, the thief," objected Shears. "But for that, he would not have taken the trouble to steal the Jewish lamp."

"Obviously. But how could he know of it, seeing that it was by an accident that we discovered the secret mechanism of the lamp?"

"The same accident may have revealed it to somebody else: a servant … a visitor to the house.... But let us continue: have you informed the police?"

"Certainly. The examining-magistrate has made his inquiry. The journalistic detectives attached to all the big newspapers have made theirs. But, as I wrote to you, it does not seem as though the problem had the least chance of ever being solved."

Shears rose, went to the window, inspected the casement, the balcony, the balustrade, employed his lens to study the two scratches on the stone and asked M. d'Imblevalle to take him down to the garden.

When they were outside, Shears simply sat down in a wicker chair and contemplated the roof of the house with a dreamy eye. Then he suddenly walked toward two little wooden cases with which, in order to preserve the exact marks, they had covered the holes which the uprights of the ladder had left in the ground, below the balcony. He removed the cases, went down on his knees and, with rounded back and his nose six inches from the ground, searched and took his measurements. He went through the same performance along the railing, but more quickly.

That was all.

They both returned to the boudoir, where Madame d'Imblevalle was waiting for them.

Shears was silent for a few minutes longer and then spoke these words:

"Ever since you began your story, monsieur le baron, I was struck by the really too simple side of the offence. To apply a ladder, remove a pane of glass, pick out an object and go away: no, things don't happen so easily as that. It is all too clear, too plain."

"You mean to say…?"

"I mean to say that the theft of the Jewish lamp was committed under the direction of Arsène Lupin."

"Arsène Lupin!" exclaimed the baron.

"But it was committed without Arsène Lupin's presence and without anybody's entering the house.... Perhaps a servant slipped down to the balcony from his garret, along a rain-spout which I saw from the garden."

"But what evidence have you?"

"Arsène Lupin would not have left the boudoir empty-handed."

"Empty-handed! And what about the lamp?"

"Taking the lamp would not have prevented him from taking this snuff-box, which, I see, is studded with diamonds, or this necklace of old opals. It would require but two movements more. His only reason for not making those movements was that he was not here to make them."

"Still, the marks of the ladder?"

"A farce! Mere stage-play to divert suspicions!"

"The scratches on the balustrade?"

"A sham! They were made with sandpaper. Look, here are a few bits of paper which I picked up."

"The marks left by the uprights of the ladder?"

"Humbug! Examine the two rectangular holes below the balcony and the two holes near the railings. The shape is similar, but, whereas they are parallel here, they are not so over there. Measure the space that separates each hole from its neighbour: it differs in the two cases. Below the balcony, the distance is nine inches. Beside the railings, it is eleven inches."

"What do you conclude from that?"

"I conclude, since their outline is identical, that the four holes were made with one stump of wood, cut to the right shape."

"The best argument would be the stump of wood itself."

"Here it is," said Shears. "I picked it up in the garden, behind a laurel-tub."

The baron gave in. It was only forty minutes since the Englishman had entered by that door; and not a vestige remained of all that had been believed so far on the evidence of the apparent facts themselves. The reality, a different reality, came to light, founded upon something much more solid: the reasoning faculties of a Holmlock Shears.

"It is a very serious accusation to bring against our people, Mr. Shears," said the baroness. "They are old family servants and not one of them is capable of deceiving us."

"If one of them did not deceive you, how do you explain that this letter was able to reach me on the same day and by the same post as the one you sent me?"

And he handed her the letter which Arsène Lupin had written to him.

Madame d'Imblevalle was dumbfounded:

"Arsène Lupin!… How did he know?"

"Did you tell no one of your letter?"

"No one," said the baron. "The idea occurred to us the other evening, at dinner."

"Before the servants?"

"There were only our two children. And even then … no, Sophie and Henrietta were not at table, were they Suzanne?"

Madame d'Imblevalle reflected and declared:

"No, they had gone up to mademoiselle."

"Mademoiselle?" asked Shears.

"The governess, Alice Demun."

"Doesn't she have her meals with you?"

"No, she has them by herself, in her room."

Wilson had an idea:

"The letter written to my friend Holmlock Shears was posted?"

"Naturally."

"Who posted it?"

"Dominique, who has been with me as my own man for twenty years," replied the baron. "Any search in that direction would be waste of time."

"Time employed in searching is never wasted," stated Wilson, sententiously.

This closed the first inquiries and Shears asked leave to withdraw.

An hour later, at dinner, he saw Sophie and Henrietta, the d'Imblevalles' children, two pretty little girls of eight and six respectively. The conversation languished. Shears replied to the pleasant remarks of the baron and his wife in so surly a tone that they thought it better to keep silence. Coffee was served. Shears swallowed the contents of his cup and rose from his chair.

At that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message for him. Shears opened it and read:

"Accept my enthusiastic admiration. Results obtained by you in so short a time make my head reel. I feel quite giddy.

"Arsène Lupin."

He could not suppress a gesture of annoyance and, showing the telegram to the baron:

"Do you begin to believe," he said, "that your walls have eyes and ears?"

"I can't understand it," murmured M. d'Imblevalle, astounded.

"Nor I. But what I do understand is that not a movement takes place here unperceived by him. Not a word is spoken but he hears it."

That evening, Wilson went to bed with the easy conscience of a man who has done his duty and who has no other business before him than to go to sleep. So he went to sleep very quickly and was visited by beautiful dreams, in which he was hunting down Lupin all by himself and just on the point of arresting him with his own hand; and the feeling of the pursuit was so lifelike that he woke up.

Some one was touching his bed. He seized his revolver:

"Another movement, Lupin, and I shoot!"

"Steady, old chap, steady on!"

"Hullo, is that you, Shears? Do you want me?"

"I want your eyes. Get up...."

He led him to the window:

"Look over there … beyond the railings...."

"In the park?"

"Yes. Do you see anything?"

"No, nothing."

"Try again; I am sure you see something."

"Oh, so I do: a shadow … no, two!"

"I thought so: against the railings.... See, they're moving.... Let's lose no time."

Groping and holding on to the banister, they made their way down the stairs and came to a room that opened on to the garden steps. Through the glass doors, they could see the two figures still in the same place.

"It's curious," said Shears. "I seem to hear noises in the house."

"In the house? Impossible! Everbody's asleep."

"Listen, though...."

At that moment, a faint whistle sounded from the railings and they perceived an undecided light that seemed to come from the house.

"The d'Imblevalles must have switched on their light," muttered Shears. "It's their room above us."

"Then it's they we heard, no doubt," said Wilson. "Perhaps they are watching the railings."

A second whistle, still fainter than the first.

"I can't understand, I can't understand," said Shears, in a tone of vexation.

"No more can I," confessed Wilson.

Shears turned the key of the door, unbolted it and softly pushed it open.

A third whistle, this time a little deeper and in a different note. And, above their heads, the noise grew louder, more hurried.

"It sounds rather as if it were on the balcony of the boudoir," whispered Shears.

He put his head between the glass doors, but at once drew back with a stifled oath. Wilson looked out in his turn. Close to them, a ladder rose against the wall, leaning against the balustrade of the balcony.

"By Jove!" said Shears. "There's some one in the boudoir. That's what we heard. Quick, let's take away the ladder!"

But, at that moment, a form slid from the top to the bottom, the ladder was removed and the man who carried it ran swiftly toward the railings, to the place where his accomplices were waiting. Shears and Wilson had darted out. They came up with the man as he was placing the ladder against the railings. Two shots rang out from the other side.

"Wounded?" cried Shears.

"No," replied Wilson.

He caught the man around the body and tried to throw him. But the man turned, seized him with one hand and, with the other, plunged a knife full into his chest. Wilson gave a sigh, staggered and fell.

"Damnation!" roared Shears. "If they've done for him, I'll do for them!"

He laid Wilson on the lawn and rushed at the ladder. Too late: the man had run up it and, in company with his accomplices, was fleeing through the shrubs.

"Wilson, Wilson, it's not serious, is it? Say it's only a scratch!"

The doors of the house opened suddenly. M. d'Imblevalle was the first to appear, followed by the men-servants carrying candles.

"What is it?" cried the baron. "Is Mr. Wilson hurt?"

"Nothing; only a scratch," repeated Shears, endeavouring to delude himself into the belief.

Wilson was bleeding copiously and his face was deathly pale. Twenty minutes later, the doctor declared that the point of the knife had penetrated to within a quarter of an inch of the heart.

"A quarter of an inch! That Wilson was always a lucky dog!" said Shears, summing up the situation, in an envious tone.

"Lucky … lucky...." grunted the doctor.

"Why, with his strong constitution, he'll be all right...."

"After six weeks in bed and two months' convalescence."

"No longer?"

"No, unless complications ensue."

"Why on earth should there be any complications?"

Fully reassured, Shears returned to M. d'Imblevalle in the boudoir. This time, the mysterious visitor had not shown the same discretion. He had laid hands without shame on the diamond-studded snuff-box, on the opal necklace and, generally, on anything that could find room in the pockets of a self-respecting burglar.

The window was still open, one of the panes had been neatly cut out and a summary inquiry held at daybreak showed that the ladder came from the unfinished house and that the burglars must have come that way.

"In short," said M. d'Imblevalle, with a touch of irony in his voice, "it is an exact repetition of the theft of the Jewish lamp."

"Yes, if we accept the first version favoured by the police."

"Do you still refuse to adopt it? Doesn't this second theft shake your opinion as regards the first?"

"On the contrary, it confirms it."

"It seems incredible! You have the undoubted proof that last night's burglary was committed by somebody from the outside and you still maintain that the Jewish lamp was stolen by one of our people?"

"By some one living in the house."

"Then how do you explain…?"

"I explain nothing, monsieur: I establish two facts, which resemble each other only in appearance, I weigh them separately and I am trying to find the link that connects them."

His conviction seemed so profound, his actions based upon such powerful motives, that the baron gave way:

"Very well. Let us go and inform the commissary of the police."

"On no account!" exclaimed the Englishman, eagerly. "On no account whatever! The police are people whom I apply to only when I want them."

"Still, the shots…?"

"Never mind the shots!"

"Your friend...."

"My friend is only wounded.... Make the doctor hold his tongue.... I will take all the responsibility as regards the police."

Two days elapsed, devoid of all incident, during which Shears pursued his task with a minute care and a conscientiousness that was exasperated by the memory of that daring onslaught, perpetrated under his eyes, despite his presence and without his being able to prevent its success. He searched the house and garden indefatigably, talked to the servants and paid long visits to the kitchen and stables. And, though he gathered no clue that threw any light upon the subject, he did not lose courage.

"I shall find what I am looking for," he thought, "and I shall find it here. It is not a question now, as in the case of the blonde lady, of walking at hap-hazard and of reaching, by roads unknown to me, an equally unknown goal. This time I am on the battlefield itself. The enemy is no longer the invisible, elusive Lupin, but the flesh-and-blood accomplice who moves within the four walls of this house. Give me the least little particular, and I know where I stand."

This little particular, from which he was to derive such remarkable consequences, with a skill so prodigious that the case of the Jewish Lamp may be looked upon as one in which his detective genius bursts forth most triumphantly, this little particular he was to obtain by accident.

On the third day, entering the room above the boudoir, which was used as a schoolroom for the children, he came upon Henriette, the smaller of the two. She was looking for her scissors.

"You know," she said to Shears, "I make papers too, like the one you got the other evening."

"The other evening?"

"Yes, after dinner. You got a paper with strips on it … you know, a telegram.... Well, I make them too."

She went out. To any one else, these words would have represented only the insignificant observation of a child; and Shears himself listened without paying much attention and continued his inspection. But, suddenly, he started running after the child, whose last phrase had all at once impressed him. He caught her at the top of the staircase and said:

"So you stick strips on to paper also, do you?"

Henriette, very proudly, declared:

"Yes, I cut out the words and stick them on."

"And who taught you that pretty game?"

"Mademoiselle … my governess.... I saw her do it. She takes words out of newspapers and sticks them on...."

"And what does she do with them?"

"Makes telegrams and letters which she sends off."

Holmlock Shears returned to the schoolroom, singularly puzzled by this confidence and doing his utmost to extract from it the inferences of which it allowed.

There was a bundle of newspapers on the mantel-piece. He opened them and saw, in fact, that there were groups of words or lines missing, regularly and neatly cut out. But he had only to read the words that came before or after to ascertain that the missing words had been removed with the scissors at random, evidently by Henriette. It was possible that, in the pile of papers, there was one which mademoiselle had cut herself. But how was he to make sure?

Mechanically, Shears turned the pages of the lesson-books heaped up on the table and of some others lying on the shelves of a cupboard. And suddenly a cry of joy escaped him. In a corner of the cupboard, under a pile of old exercise-books, he had found a children's album, a sort of picture alphabet, and, in one of the pages of this album, he had seen a gap.

He examined the page. It gave the names of the days of the week: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and so on. The word "Saturday" was missing. Now the Jewish Lamp was stolen on a Saturday night.

Shears felt that little clutch at his heart which always told him, in the plainest manner possible, when he had hit upon the knotty point of a mystery. That grip of truth, that feeling of certainty never deceived him.

He hastened to turn over the pages of the album, feverishly and confidently. A little further on came another surprise.

It was a page consisting of capital letters followed by a row of figures.

Nine of the letters and three of the figures had been carefully removed.

Shears wrote them down in his note-book, in the order which they would have occupied, and obtained the following result:

C D E H N O P R Z—237

"By Jove!" he muttered. "There's not much to be made out of that, at first sight."

Was it possible to rearrange these letters and, employing them all, to form one, two or three complete words?

Shears attempted to do so in vain.

One solution alone suggested itself, returned continually to the point of his pencil and, in the end, appeared to him the right one, because it agreed with the logic of the facts and also corresponded with the general circumstances.

Admitting that the page in the album contained each of the letters of the alphabet once and once only, it was probable, it was certain that he had to do with incomplete words and that these words had been completed with letters taken from other pages. Given these conditions, and allowing for the possibility of a mistake, the puzzle stood thus:

R E P O N D . Z—CH—237

The first word was clear: "Rêpondez, reply." An E was missing, because the letter E, having been once used, was no longer available.

As for the last, unfinished word, it undoubtedly formed, with the number 237, the address which the sender gave to the receiver of the letter. He was advised to fix the day for Saturday and asked to send a reply to C H 237.

Either C H 237 was the official number of a poste restante or else the two letters C H formed part of an incomplete word. Shears turned over the leaves of the album: nothing had been cut from any of the following pages. He must, therefore, until further orders, be content with the explanation hit upon.

"Isn't it fun?"

Henriette had returned.

He replied:

"Yes, great fun! Only, haven't you any other papers?… Or else some words ready cut out, for me to stick on?"

"Papers?… No.... And then mademoiselle wouldn't like it."

"Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, mademoiselle has scolded me already."

"Why?"

"Because I told you things … and she says you must never tell things about people you are fond of."

"You were quite right to tell me."

Henriette seemed delighted with his approval, so much so that, from a tiny canvas bag pinned on to her frock, she took a few strips of stuff, three buttons, two lumps of sugar and, lastly, a square piece of paper which she held out to Shears:

"There, I'll give it you all the same." It was the number of a cab, No. 8279.

"Where did you get this from?"

"It fell out of her purse."

"When?"

"On Sunday, at mass, when she was taking out some coppers for the collection."

"Capital! And now I will tell you how not to get scolded. Don't tell mademoiselle that you have seen me."

Shears went off in search of M. d'Imblevalle and asked him straight out about mademoiselle.

The baron gave a start:

"Alice Demun!… Would you think?… Oh, impossible!"

"How long has she been in your service?"

"Only twelve months, but I know no quieter person nor any in whom I place more confidence."

"How is it that I have not yet seen her?"

"She was away for two days."

"And at present?"

"Immediately on her return, she took up her position by your friend's bedside. She is a first-rate nurse … gentle … attentive. Mr. Wilson seems delighted with her."

"Oh!" said Shears, who had quite omitted to inquire after old chap's progress.

He thought for a moment and asked:

"And did she go out on Sunday morning?"

"The day after the robbery?"

"Yes."

The baron called his wife and put the question to her. She replied:

"Mademoiselle took the children to the eleven o'clock mass, as usual."

"But before that?"

"Before? No.... Or rather.... But I was so upset by the theft!… Still, I remember that, on the evening before, she asked leave to go out on Sunday morning … to see a cousin who was passing through Paris, I think. But surely you don't suspect her?"

"Certainly not. But I should like to see her."

He went up to Wilson's room. A woman dressed like a hospital nurse, in a long gray linen gown, was stooping over the sick man and giving him a draught. When she turned round, Shears recognized the girl who had spoken to him outside the Gare du Nord.