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

the trouble to disguise the contempt in which he held him. However, the magistrate drew himself up and, in his most solemn tones:

“So, doctor, you consider that death took place about a dozen hours ago, perhaps more!… That, in fact, was my own idea… We are quite agreed… And the instrument of the crime?”

“A knife with a very thin blade, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,” replied the surgeon. “Look, the blade has been wiped on the dead man’s own handkerchief…”

“Just so… just so… you can see the mark… And now let us go and question Mr. Kesselbach’s secretary and manservant. I have no doubt that their examination will throw some more light on the case.”

Chapman, who together with Edwards, had been moved to his own room, on the left of the sitting-room, had already recovered from his experiences. He described in detail the events of the previous day, Mr. Kesselbach’s restlessness, the expected visit of the Colonel and, lastly, the attack of which they had been the victims.

“Aha!” cried M. Formerie. “So there’s an accomplice! And you heard his name!… Marco, you say?… This is very important. When we’ve got the accomplice, we shall be a good deal further advanced…”

“Yes, but we’ve not got him,” M. Lenormand ventured to remark.

“We shall see… One thing at a time…. And then, Mr. Chapman, this Marco went away immediately after M. Gourel had rung the bell?”

“Yes, we heard him go.”

“And after he went, did you hear nothing else?”

“Yes… from time to time, but vaguely… The door was shut.”

“And what sort of noises did you hear?”

“Bursts of voices. The man…”

“Call him by his name, ArsŽne Lupin.”

“ArsŽne Lupin must have telephoned.”

“Capital! We will examine the person of the hotel who has charge of the branch exchange communicating with the outside. And, afterward, did you hear him go out, too?”

“He came in to see if we were still bound; and, a quarter of an hour later, he went away, closing the hall-door after him.”

“Yes, as soon as his crime was committed. Good… Good… It all fits in… And, after that?”

“After that, we heard nothing more… The night passed… I fell asleep from exhaustion… So did Edwards… And it was not until this morning…”

“Yes, I know… There, it’s not going badly… it all fits in…”

And, marking off the stages of his investigation, in a tone as though he were enumerating so many victories over the stranger, he muttered thoughtfully:

“The accomplice… the telephone…the time of the murder… the sounds that were heard… Good… Very good… We have still to establish the motive of the crime… In this case, as we have Lupin to deal with, the motive is obvious. M. Lenormand, have you noticed the least sign of anything being broken open?”

“No.”

“Then the robbery must have been effected upon the person of the victim himself. Has his pocketbook been found?”

“I left it in the pocket of his jacket,” said Gourel.

They all went into the sitting-room, where M. Formerie discovered that the pocketbook contained nothing but visiting-cards and papers establishing the murdered man’s identity.

“That’s odd. Mr. Chapman, can you tell us if Mr. Kesselbach had any money on him?”

“Yes. On the previous day—that is, on Monday, the day before yesterday—we went to the Credit Lyonnais, where Mr. Kesselbach hired a safe…”

“A safe at the Credit Lyonnais? Good… We must look into that.”

“And, before we left, Mr. Kesselbach opened an account and drew out five or six thousand francs in banknotes.”

“Excellent… that tells us just what we want to know.”

Chapman continued:

“There is another point, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. Mr. Kesselbach, who for some days had been very uneasy in his mind—I have told you the reason: a scheme to which he attached the utmost importance—Mr. Kesselbach seemed particularly anxious about two things. There was, first, a little ebony box, which he put away safely at the Cr6dit Lyonnais; and, next, a little black morocco note-case, in which he kept a few papers.”

“And where is that?”

“Before Lupin’s arrival, he put it, in my presence, into that travelling-bag.”

M. Formerie took the bag and felt about in it. The note-case was not there. He rubbed his hands:

“Ah, everything fits in!… We know the culprit, the conditions and the motive of the crime. This case won’t take long. Are we quite agreed upon everything, M. Lenormand?”

“Upon not one single thing.”

There was a moment of stupefaction. The commissioner of police had arrived: and, behind him, in spite of the constables keeping the door, a troop of journalists, and the hotel staff had forced their way in and were standing in the entrance-lobby.

Notorious though the old fellow was for his bluntness—a bluntness which was not without a certain discourtesy and which had already procured him an occasional reprimand in high quarters—the abruptness of this reply took every one aback. And M. Formerie in particular appeared utterly nonplussed:

“Still,” he said, “I can see nothing that isn’t quite simple. Lupin is the thief…”

“Why did he commit the murder?” M. Lenormand flung at him.

“In order to commit the theft.”

“I beg your pardon; the witnesses’ story proves that the theft took place before the murder. Mr. Kesselbach was first bound and gagged, then robbed. Why should Lupin, who has never resorted to murder, choose this time to kill a man whom he had rendered helpless and whom he had already robbed?”

The examining-magistrate stroked his long, fair whiskers, with the gesture customary to him when a question seemed incapable of solution. He replied in a thoughtful tone:

“There are several answers to that…”

“What are they?”

“It depends… it depends upon a number of facts as yet unknown… And, moreover, the objection applies only to the nature of the motives. We are agreed as to the remainder.”

“No.”

This time, again, the denial was flat, blunt, almost impolite; so much so that the magistrate was absolutely nonplussed, dared not even raise a protest, and remained abashed in the presence of this strange collaborator. At last he said:

“We all have our theories. I should like to know yours.”

“I have none.”

The chief detective rose and, leaning on his stick, took a few steps through the room. All the people around him were silent… And it was rather curious, in a group in which, after all, his position was only that of an auxiliary, a subordinate, to see this ailing, decrepit, elderly man dominate the others by the sheer force of an authority which they had to feel, even though they did not accept it. After a long pause he said:

“I should like to inspect the rooms which adjoin this suite.”

The manager showed him the plan of the hotel. The only way out of the right-hand bedroom, which was Mr. Kesselbach’s, was through the little entrance-hall of the suite. But the bedroom on the left, the room occupied by the secretary, communicated with another apartment.

“Let us inspect it,” said M. Lenormand.

M. Formerie could not help shrugging his shoulders and growling:

“But the communicating door is bolted and the window locked.”

“Let us inspect it,” repeated M. Lenormand.

He was taken into the apartment, which was the first of the five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach. Then, at his request, he was taken to the rooms leading out of it. All the communicating doors were bolted on both sides.

“Are not any of these rooms occupied?” he asked.

“No.”

“Where are the keys?”

“The keys are always kept in the office.”

“Then no one can have got in?…”

“No one, except the floor-waiter who airs and dusts the rooms.”

“Send for him, please.”

The man, whose name was Gustave Beudot, replied that he had closed the windows of five rooms on the previous day in accordance with his general instructions.

“At what time?”

“At six o’clock in the evening.”

“And you noticed nothing?”

“No, sir.”

“And, this morning… ?”

“This morning, I opened the windows at eight o’clock exactly.”

“And you found nothing?”

He hesitated. He. was pressed with questions and ended by admitting:

“Well, I picked up a cigarette-case near the fireplace in 420… I intended to take it to the office this evening.”

“Have you it on you?”

“No, it is in my room. It is a gun-metal case. It has a space for tobacco and cigarette-papers on one side and for matches on the other. There are two initials in gold: an L and an M…”

“What’s that?”

Chapman had stepped forward. He seemed greatly surprised and, questioning the servant:

“A gun-metal cigarette-case, you say?”

“Yes.”

“With three compartments—for tobacco, cigarette-papers, and matches… Russian tobacco, wasn’t it, very fine and light?”

“Yes.”

“Go and fetch it… I should like to see it for myself… to make sure…”

At a sign from the chief detective, Gustave Beudot left the room.

M. Lenormand sat down and his keen eyes examined the carpet, the furniture and the curtains. He asked:

“This is room 420, is it not?”

“Yes.”.

The magistrate grinned:

“I should very much like to know what connection you establish between this incident and the tragedy. Five locked doors separate us from the room in which Mr. Kesselbach was murdered.”

M. Lenormand did not condescend to reply.

Time passed. Gustave did not return.

“Where does he sleep?” asked the chief detective.

“On the sixth floor,” answered the manager. “The room is on the Rue de JudŽe side: above this, therefore. It’s curious that he’s not back yet.”

“Would you have the kindness to send some one to see?”

The manager went himself, accompanied by Chapman. A few minutes after, he returned alone, running, with every mark of consternation on his face.

“Well?”

“Dead!”

“Murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, by thunder, how clever these scoundrels are!” roared M. Lenormand. “Off with you, Gourel, and have the doors of the hotel locked… Watch every outlet… And you, Mr. Manager, please take us to Gustave Beudot’s room.”

The manager led the way. But as they left the room, M. Lenormand stooped and picked up a tiny little round piece of paper, on which his eyes had already fixed themselves.

It was a label surrounded with a blue border and marked with the number 813. He put it in his pocket, on chance, and joined the others…

A small wound in the back, between the shoulder-blades…

“Exactly the same wound as Mr. Kesselbach’s,” declared the doctor.

“Yes,” said M. Lenormand, “it was the same hand that struck the blow and the same weapon was used.”

Judging by the position of the body, the man had been surprised when on his knees before the bed, feeling under the mattress for the cigarette-case which he had hidden there. His arm was still caught between the mattress and the bed, but the cigarette-case was not to be found.

“That cigarette-case must have been devilish compromising!” timidly suggested M. Formerie, who no longer dared put forward any definite opinion.

“Well, of course!” said the chief detective.

“At any rate, we know the initials: an L and an M. And with that, together with what Mr. Chapman appears to know, we shall easily learn…”

M. Lenormand gave a start:

“Chapman! But where is he?”

They looked in the passage among the groups of people crowded together. Chapman was not there.

“Mr. Chapman came with me,” said the manager.

“Yes, yes, I know, but he did not come back with you.”

“No, I left him with the corpse.”

“You left him!… Alone?”

“I said to him,‘Stay here… don’t move.’”

“And was there no one about? Did you see no one?”

“In the passage? No.”

“But in the other attics?… Or else, look here, round that corner: was there no one hiding there?”

M. Lenormand seemed greatly excited. He walked up and down, he opened the doors of the rooms. And, suddenly, he set off at