The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar Maurice Leblanc (ebook reader ink TXT) 📖

great commotion in France at the close of the eighteenth century, should create a similar commotion a century later. But what I am about to relate is known only to the parties directly interested and a few others from whom the count exacted a promise of secrecy. As it is probable that some day or other that promise will be broken, I have no hesitation in rending the veil and thus disclosing the key to the mystery, the explanation of the letter published in the morning papers two days ago; an extraordinary letter which increased, if possible, the mists and shadows that envelope this inscrutable drama.

Five days ago, a number of guests were dining with the Count de Dreux-Soubise. There were several ladies present, including his two nieces and his cousin, and the following gentlemen: the president of Essaville, the deputy Bochas, the chevalier Floriani, whom the count had known in Sicily, and General Marquis de Rouzières, an old club friend.

After the repast, coffee was served by the ladies, who gave the gentlemen permission to smoke their cigarettes, provided they would not desert the salon. The conversation was general, and finally one of the guests chanced to speak of celebrated crimes. And that gave the Marquis de Rouzières, who delighted to tease the count, an opportunity to mention the affair of the Queen’s Necklace, a subject that the count detested.

Each one expressed his own opinion of the affair; and, of course, their various theories were not only contradictory but impossible.

“And you, monsieur,” said the countess to the chevalier Floriani, “what is your opinion?”

“Oh! I⁠—I have no opinion, madame.”

All the guests protested; for the chevalier had just related in an entertaining manner various adventures in which he had participated with his father, a magistrate at Palermo, and which established his judgment and taste in such manners.

“I confess,” said he, “I have sometimes succeeded in unraveling mysteries that the cleverest detectives have renounced; yet I do not claim to be Sherlock Holmes. Moreover, I know very little about the affair of the Queen’s Necklace.”

Everybody now turned to the count, who was thus obliged, quite unwillingly, to narrate all the circumstances connected with the theft. The chevalier listened, reflected, asked a few questions, and said:

“It is very strange⁠ ⁠… at first sight, the problem appears to be a very simple one.”

The count shrugged his shoulders. The others drew closer to the chevalier, who continued, in a dogmatic tone:

“As a general rule, in order to find the author of a crime or a theft, it is necessary to determine how that crime or theft was committed, or, at least, how it could have been committed. In the present case, nothing is more simple, because we are face to face, not with several theories, but with one positive fact, that is to say: the thief could only enter by the chamber door or the window of the cabinet. Now, a person cannot open a bolted door from the outside. Therefore, he must have entered through the window.”

“But it was closed and fastened, and we found it fastened afterward,” declared the count.

“In order to do that,” continued Floriani, without heeding the interruption, “he had simply to construct a bridge, a plank or a ladder, between the balcony of the kitchen and the ledge of the window, and as the jewel-case⁠—”

“But I repeat that the window was fastened,” exclaimed the count, impatiently.

This time, Floriani was obliged to reply. He did so with the greatest tranquility, as if the objection was the most insignificant affair in the world.

“I will admit that it was; but is there not a transom in the upper part of the window?”

“How do you know that?”

“In the first place, that was customary in houses of that date; and, in the second place, without such a transom, the theft cannot be explained.”

“Yes, there is one, but it was closed, the same as the window. Consequently, we did not pay attention to it.”

“That was a mistake; for, if you had examined it, you would have found that it had been opened.”

“But how?”

“I presume that, like all others, it opens by means of a wire with a ring on the lower end.”

“Yes, but I do not see⁠—”

“Now, through a hole in the window, a person could, by the aid of some instrument, let us say a poker with a hook at the end, grip the ring, pull down, and open the transom.”

The count laughed and said:

“Excellent! excellent! Your scheme is very cleverly constructed, but you overlook one thing, monsieur, there is no hole in the window.”

“There was a hole.”

“Nonsense, we would have seen it.”

“In order to see it, you must look for it, and no one has looked. The hole is there; it must be there, at the side of the window, in the putty. In a vertical direction, of course.”

The count arose. He was greatly excited. He paced up and down the room, two or three times, in a nervous manner; then, approaching Floriani, said:

“Nobody has been in that room since; nothing has been changed.”

“Very well, monsieur, you can easily satisfy yourself that my explanation is correct.”

“It does not agree with the facts established by the examining judge. You have seen nothing, and yet you contradict all that we have seen and all that we know.”

Floriani paid no attention to the count’s petulance. He simply smiled and said:

“Mon Dieu, monsieur, I submit my theory; that is all. If I am mistaken, you can easily prove it.”

“I will do so at once.⁠ ⁠… I confess that your assurance⁠—”

The count muttered a few more words; then suddenly rushed to the door and passed out. Not a word was uttered in his absence; and this profound silence gave the situation an air of almost tragic importance. Finally, the count returned. He was pale and nervous. He said to his friends, in a trembling voice:

“I beg your pardon⁠ ⁠… the revelations of the chevalier were so unexpected.⁠ ⁠… I should never have thought.⁠ ⁠…”

His wife questioned him, eagerly:

“Speak⁠ ⁠… what is it?”

He stammered: “The