Arsène Lupin Versus Herlock Sholmes by Maurice Leblanc (best fiction novels to read .txt) 📕

But Wilson was asleep; and Sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his speech:

“And, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps, but the light is creeping in. In the first place, I must learn all about Monsieur Bresson. Ganimard and I will visit the bank of the river, at the spot where Bresson threw away the package, and the particular role of that gentleman will be known to me. After that the game will be played between me and Alice Demun. Rather a lightweight opponent, hein, Wilson? And do you not think that I will soon know the phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and what the isolated letters⁠—the ‘C’ and the ‘H’⁠—mean? That is all I want to know, Wilson.”

Mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing Sholmes gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner:

“Monsieur Sholmes, I must scold you if you waken my patient. It isn’t nice of you to disturb him. The doctor has ordered absolute rest.”

He looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at her wonderful self-possession.

“Why do you look at me so, Monsieur Sholmes?⁠ ⁠… You seem to be trying to read my thoughts.⁠ ⁠… No?⁠ ⁠… Then what is it?”

She questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face and in her frank blue eyes. A smile played upon her lips; and she displayed so much unaffected candor that the Englishman almost lost his temper. He approached her and said, in a low voice:

“Bresson killed himself last night.”

She affected not to understand him; so he repeated:

“Bresson killed himself yesterday.⁠ ⁠…”

She did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did not concern or interest her in any way.

“You have been informed,” said Sholmes, displaying his annoyance. “Otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. Ah! you are stronger than I expected. But what’s the use of your trying to conceal anything from me?”

He picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said:

“Will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent to Bresson four days before the theft of the Jewish lamp?”

“The order?⁠ ⁠… Bresson?⁠ ⁠… the theft of the Jewish lamp?”

She repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. He continued:

“Yes. Here are the letters employed⁠ ⁠… on this bit of paper.⁠ ⁠… What did you say to Bresson?”

“The letters employed⁠ ⁠… what did I say.⁠ ⁠…”

Suddenly she burst into laughter:

“Ah! that is it! I understand! I am an accomplice in the crime! There is a Monsieur Bresson who stole the Jewish lamp and who has now committed suicide. And I am the friend of that gentleman. Oh! how absurd you are!”

“Whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in the avenue des Ternes?”

“Who? My modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais. Do you suppose that my modiste and my friend Monsieur Bresson are the same person?”

Despite all he knew, Sholmes was now in doubt. A person can feign terror, joy, anxiety, in fact all emotions; but a person cannot feign absolute indifference or light, careless laughter. Yet he continued to question her:

“Why did you accost me the other evening at the Northern Railway station? And why did you entreat me to leave Paris immediately without investigating this theft?”

“Ah! you are too inquisitive, Monsieur Sholmes,” she replied, still laughing in the most natural manner. “To punish you I will tell you nothing, and, besides, you must watch the patient while I go to the pharmacy on an urgent message. Au revoir.”

She left the room.

“I am beaten⁠ ⁠… by a girl,” muttered Sholmes. “Not only did I get nothing out of her but I exposed my hand and put her on her guard.”

And he recalled the affair of the blue diamond and his first interview with Clotilde Destange. Had not the blonde Lady met his question with the same unruffled serenity, and was he not once more face to face with one of those creatures who, under the protection and influence of Arsène Lupin, maintain the utmost coolness in the face of a terrible danger?

“Sholmes⁠ ⁠… Sholmes.⁠ ⁠…”

It was Wilson who called him. Sholmes approached the bed, and, leaning over, said:

“What’s the matter, Wilson? Does your wound pain you?”

Wilson’s lips moved, but he could not speak. At last, with a great effort, he stammered:

“No⁠ ⁠… Sholmes⁠ ⁠… it is not she⁠ ⁠… that is impossible⁠—”

“Come, Wilson, what do you know about it? I tell you that it is she! It is only when I meet one of Lupin’s creatures, prepared and instructed by him, that I lose my head and make a fool of myself.⁠ ⁠… I bet you that within an hour Lupin will know all about our interview. Within an hour? What am I saying?⁠ ⁠… Why, he may know already. The visit to the pharmacy⁠ ⁠… urgent message. All nonsense!⁠ ⁠… She has gone to telephone to Lupin.”

Sholmes left the house hurriedly, went down the avenue de Messine, and was just in time to see Mademoiselle enter a pharmacy. Ten minutes later she emerged from the shop carrying some small packages and a bottle wrapped in white paper. But she had not proceeded far, when she was accosted by a man who, with hat in hand and an obsequious air, appeared to be asking for charity. She stopped, gave him something, and proceeded on her way.

“She spoke to him,” said the Englishman to himself.

If not a certainty, it was at least an intuition, and quite sufficient to cause him to change his tactics. Leaving the girl to pursue her own course, he followed the suspected mendicant, who walked slowly to the avenue des Ternes and lingered for a long time around the house in which Bresson had lived, sometimes raising his eyes to the windows of the second floor and watching the people who entered the