813 by Maurice LeBlanc (best non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

the infernal genius of his formidable adversary. And he found himself thus cut off at the most critical moment, at the solemn minute when, from his cell, he was playing his last trump-card against the coalesced forces that were overwhelming him so terribly.

On the 13th of August, as he sat facing the two counsels, his attention was attracted by a newspaper in which some of Maltre Quimbel’s papers were wrapped up.

He saw a heading in very large type

“813”

The sub-headings were:

“A FRESH MURDER

“THE EXCITEMENT IN GERMANY

“HAS THE SECRET OF THE ‘APOON’ BEEN DISCOVERED?”

Lupin turned pale with anguish. Below he read the words:

“Two sensational telegrams reach us at the moment of going to press.

“The body of an old man has been found near Augsburg, with his throat cut with a knife. The police have succeeded in identifying the victim: it is Steinweg, the man mentioned in the Kesselbach case.

“On the other hand, a correspondent telegraphs that the famous English detective, Holmlock Shears, has been hurriedly summoned to Cologne’. He will there meet the Emperor; and they will both proceed to Vendenz Castle.

“Holmlock Shears is said to have undertaken to discover the secret of the ‘APOON.’

“If he succeeds, it will mean the pitiful failure of the incomprehensible campaign which ArsŽne Lupin has been conducting for the past month in so strange a fashion.”

Perhaps public curiosity was never so much stirred as by the duel announced to take place between Shears and Lupin, an invisible duel in the circumstances, an anonymous duel, one might say, in which everything would happen in the dark, in which people would be able to judge only by the final results, and yet an impressive duel, because of all the scandal that circled around the adventure and because of the stakes in dispute between the two irreconcilable enemies, now once more opposed to each other.

And it was a question not of small private interests, of insignificant burglaries, of trumpery individual passions, but of a matter of really world-wide importance, involving the politics of the three great western nations and capable of disturbing the peace of the world.

People waited anxiously; and no one knew exactly what he was waiting for. For, after all, if the detective came out victorious in the duel, if he found the letters, who would ever know? What proof would any one have of his triumph?

In the main, all hopes were centred on Lupin, on his well-known habit of calling the public to witness his acts. What was he going to do? How could he avert the frightful danger that threatened him? Was he even aware of it?

Those were the questions which men asked themselves.

Between the four walls of his cell, prisoner 14 asked himself pretty nearly the same questions; and he for his part, was not stimulated by idle curiosity, but by real uneasiness, by constant anxiety. He felt himself irrevocably alone, with impotent hands, an impotent will, an impotent brain. It availed him nothing that he was able, ingenious, fearless, heroic. The struggle was being carried on without him. His part was now finished. He had joined all the pieces and set all the springs of the great machine that was to produce, that was, in a manner of speaking, automatically to manufacture his liberty; and it was impossible for him to make a single movement to improve and supervise his handiwork.

At the date fixed, the machine would start working. Between now and then, a thousand adverse incidents might spring up, a thousand obstacles arise, without his having the means to combat those incidents or remove those obstacles.

Lupin spent the unhappiest hours of his life at that time. He doubted himself. He wondered whether his existence would be buried for good in the horror of a jail. Had he not made a mistake in his calculations? Was is not childish to believe that the event that was to set him free would happen on the appointed date?

“Madness!” he cried. “My argument is false… How can I expect such a concurrence of circumstances?There will be some little fact that will destroy all… the inevitable grain of sand…”

Steinweg’s death and the disappearance of the documents which the old man was to make over to him did not trouble him greatly. The documents he could have done without in case of need; and, with the few words which Steinweg had told him, he was able, by dint of guess-work and his native genius, to reconstruct what the Emperor’s letters contained and to draw up the plan of battle that would lead to victory. But he thought of Holmlock Shears, who was over there now, in the very centre of the battlefield, and who was seeking and who would find the letters, thus demolishing the edifice so patiently built up.

And he thought of “the other one,” the implacable enemy, lurking round the prison, hidden in the prison, perhaps, who guessed his most secret plans even before they were hatched in the mystery of his thought.

The 17th of August!… The 18th of August!… The 19th!… Two more days… Two centuries rather! Oh, the interminable minutes!…

Lupin, usually so calm, so entirely master of himself, so ingenious at providing matter for his own amusement, was feverish, exultant and depressed by turns, powerless against the enemy, mistrusting everything and everybody, morose.

The 20th of August!…

He would have wished to act and he could not. Whatever he did, it was impossible for him to hasten the hour of the catastrophe. This catastrophe would take place or would not take place; but Lupin would not know for certain until the last hour of the last day was spent to the last minute. Then-and then alone—he would know of the definite failure of his scheme.

“The inevitable failure,” he kept on repeating to himself. “Success depends upon circumstances far too subtle and can be obtained only by methods far too psychological… There is no doubt that I am deceiving myself as to the value and the range of my weapons… And yet…”

Hope returned to him. He weighed his chances. They suddenly seemed to him real and formidable. The fact was going to happen as he had foreseen it happening and for the very reasons which he had expected. It was inevitable…

Yes, inevitable. Unless, indeed, Shears discovered the hiding-place…

And again he thought of Shears; and again an immense sense of discouragement overwhelmed him.

The last day…

He woke late, after a night of bad dreams.

He saw nobody that day, neither the examining magistrate nor his counsel.

The afternoon dragged along slowly and dismally, and the evening came, the murky evening of the cells… He was in a fever. His heart beat in his chest like the clapper of a bell.

And the minutes passed, irretrievably…

At nine o’clock, nothing. At ten o’clock, nothing.

With all his nerves tense as the string of a bow, he listened to the vague prison sounds, tried to catch through those inexorable walls ah1 that might trickle in from the life outside.

Oh, how he would have liked to stay the march of time and to give destiny a little more leisure!

But what was the good? Was everything not finished?…

“Oh,” he cried, “I am going mad! If all this were only over… that would be better. I can begin again, differently… I shall try something else… but I can’t go on like this, I can’t go on…”

He held his head in his hands, pressing it with all his might, locking himself within himself and concentrating his whole mind upon one subject, as though he wished to provoke, as though he wished to create the formidable, stupefying, inadmissible event to which he had attached his independence and his fortune:

“It must happen,” he muttered, “it must; and it must, not because I wish it, but because it is logical. And it shall happen… it shall happen…”

He beat his skull with his fists; and delirious words rose to his lips…

The key grated in the lock. In his frenzy, he had not heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor; and now, suddenly, a ray of light penetrated into his cell and the door opened.

Three men entered.

Lupin had not a moment of surprise.

The unheard-of miracle was being worked; and this at once seemed to him natural and normal, in perfect agreement with truth and justice.

But a rush of pride flooded his whole being. At this minute he really received a dear sensation of his own strength and intelligence…

“Shall I switch on the light?” asked one of the three men, in whom Lupin recognized the governor of the prison.

“No,” replied the taller of his companions, speaking in a foreign accent. “This lantern will do.”

“Shall I go?”

“Act according to your duty, sir,” said the same individual.

“My instructions from the prefect of police are to comply entirely with your wishes.”

“In that case, sir, it would be preferable that you should withdraw.”

M. Borely went away, leaving the door half open, and remained outside, within call.

The visitor exchanged a few words with the one who had not yet spoken; and Lupin vainly tried to distinguish his features in the shade. He saw only two dark forms, clad in wide motoring-cloaks and wearing caps with the flaps lowered.

“Are you ArsŽne Lupin?” asked the man, turning the light of the lantern full on his face.

He smiled:

“Yes, I am the person known as ArsŽne Lupin, at present a prisoner in the Sante, cell 14, second division.”

“Was it you,” continued the visitor, “who published in the Grand Journal a series of more or less fanciful notes, in which there is a question of a so-called collection of letters…?”

Lupin interrupted him.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but, before pursuing this conversation, the object of which, between ourselves, is none too clear to me, I should be much obliged if you would tell me to whom I have the honour of speaking.”

“Absolutely unnecessary,” replied the stranger.

“Absolutely essential,” declared Lupin.

“Why?”

“For reasons of politeness, sir. You know my name and I do not know yours; this implies a disregard of good form which I cannot suffer.”

The stranger lost patience:

“The mere fact that the governor of the prison brought us here shows…”

“That M. Borely does not know his manners,” said Lupin. “M. Borely should have introduced us to each other. We are equals here, sir: it is no case of a superior and an inferior, of a prisoner and a visitor who condescends to come and see him. There are two men here; and one of those two men has a hat on his head, which he ought not to have.”

“Now look here…”

“Take the lesson as you please, sir,” said Lupin.

The stranger came closer to him and tried to speak.

“The hat first,” said Lupin, “the hat…

“You shall listen to me!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Matters were becoming virulent, stupidly. The second stranger, the one who had kept silent, placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder and said, in German:

“Leave him to me.”

“Why, it was understood…”

“Hush… and go away!”

“Leaving you alone?”

“Yes.”

“But the door?”

“Shut it and walk away.”

“But this man… you know who he is… ArsŽne Lupin…”

“Go away!”

The other went out, cursing under his breath.

“Pull the door!” cried the second visitor. “Harder than that… Altogether!… That’s right…”

Then he turned, took the lantern and raised it slowly:

“Shall I tell you who I am?” he asked.

“No,” replied Lupin.

“And why?”

“Because I know.”

“Ah!”

“You are the visitor I was expecting.”

“I?”

“Yes, Sire.”