Luck had favoured them that day, for, three times, Dugrival’s neighbours saw the young man come back and hand him money.
The fifth race was just finishing. Dugrival lit a cigar. At that moment, a gentleman in a tight-fitting brown suit, with a face ending in a peaked grey beard, came up to him and asked, in a confidential whisper:
“Does this happen to belong to you, sir?”
And he displayed a gold watch and chain.
Dugrival gave a start:
“Why, yes … it’s mine. … Look, here are my initials, N. G.: Nicolas Dugrival!”
And he at once, with a movement of terror, clapped his hand to his jacket-pocket. The notecase was still there.
“Ah,” he said, greatly relieved, “that’s a piece of luck! … But, all the same, how on earth was it done? … Do you know the scoundrel?”
“Yes, we’ve got him locked up. Pray come with me and we’ll soon look into the matter.”
“Whom have I the honour … ?”
“M. Delangle, detective-inspector. I have sent to let M. Marquenne, the magistrate, know.”
Nicolas Dugrival went out with the inspector; and the two of them started for the commissary’s office, some distance behind the grandstand. They were within fifty yards of it, when the inspector was accosted by a man who said to him, hurriedly:
“The fellow with the watch has blabbed; we are on the tracks of a whole gang. M. Marquenne wants you to wait for him at the parimutuel and to keep a lookout near the fourth booth.”
There was a crowd outside the betting-booths and Inspector Delangle muttered:
“It’s an absurd arrangement. … Whom am I to look out for? … That’s just like M. Marquenne! …”
He pushed aside a group of people who were crowding too close upon him:
“By Jove, one has to use one’s elbows here and keep a tight hold on one’s purse. That’s the way you got your watch pinched, M. Dugrival!”
“I can’t understand. …”
“Oh, if you knew how those gentry go to work! One never guesses what they’re up to next. One of them treads on your foot, another gives you a poke in the eye with his stick and the third picks your pocket before you know where you are. … I’ve been had that way myself.” He stopped and then continued, angrily. “But, bother it, what’s the use of hanging about here! What a mob! It’s unbearable! … Ah, there’s M. Marquenne making signs to us! … One moment, please … and be sure and wait for me here.”
He shouldered his way through the crowd. Nicolas Dugrival followed him for a moment with his eyes. Once the inspector was out of sight, he stood a little to one side, to avoid being hustled.
A few minutes passed. The sixth race was about to start, when Dugrival saw his wife and nephew looking for him. He explained to them that Inspector Delangle was arranging matters with the magistrate.
“Have you your money still?” asked his wife.
“Why, of course I have!” he replied. “The inspector and I took good care, I assure you, not to let the crowd jostle us.”
He felt his jacket, gave a stifled cry, thrust his hand into his pocket and began to stammer inarticulate syllables, while Mme. Dugrival gasped, in dismay:
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Stolen!” he moaned. “The pocketbook … the fifty notes! …”
“It’s not true!” she screamed. “It’s not true!”
“Yes, the inspector … a common sharper … he’s the man. …”
She uttered absolute yells:
“Thief! Thief! Stop thief! … My husband’s been robbed! … Fifty thousand francs! … We are ruined! … Thief! Thief …”
In a moment they were surrounded by policemen and taken to the commissary’s office. Dugrival went like a lamb, absolutely bewildered. His wife continued to shriek at the top of her voice, piling up explanations, railing against the inspector:
“Have him looked for! … Have him found! … A brown suit. … A pointed beard. … Oh, the villain, to think what he’s robbed us of! … Fifty thousand francs! … Why … why, Dugrival, what are you doing?”
With one bound, she flung herself upon her husband. Too late! He had pressed the barrel of a revolver against his temple. A shot rang out. Dugrival fell. He was dead.
The reader cannot have forgotten the commotion made by the newspapers in connection with this case, nor how they jumped at the opportunity once more to accuse the police of carelessness and blundering. Was it conceivable that a pickpocket could play the part of an inspector like that, in broad daylight and in a public place, and rob a respectable man with impunity?
Nicolas Dugrival’s widow kept the controversy alive, thanks to her jeremiads and to the interviews which she granted on every hand. A reporter had secured a snapshot of her in front of her husband’s body, holding up her hand and swearing to revenge his death. Her nephew Gabriel was standing beside her, with hatred pictured in his face. He, too, it appeared, in a few words uttered in a whisper, but in a tone of fierce determination, had taken an oath to pursue and catch the murderer.
The accounts described the humble apartment which they occupied at the Batignolles; and, as they had been robbed of all their means, a sporting-paper opened a subscription on their behalf.
As for the mysterious Delangle, he remained undiscovered. Two men were arrested, but had to be released forthwith. The police took up a number of clues, which were at once abandoned; more than one name was mentioned; and, lastly, they accused Arsène Lupin, an action which provoked the famous burglar’s celebrated cable, dispatched from New York six days after the incident:
“Protest indignantly against calumny invented by baffled police. Send my condolences to unhappy victims. Instructing my bankers to remit them fifty thousand francs.
True enough, on the day after the publication of the cable, a stranger rang at Mme. Dugrival’s door and handed her an envelope. The envelope contained fifty thousand-franc notes.
This theatrical stroke was not at all calculated to allay the universal comment. But an event soon occurred which provided any amount of additional excitement. Two days later, the people living in the same house
