As a matter of fact, the pockets of his dinner-jacket contained the counterfoil of a stall-ticket and a programme of the performance, both bearing the date of that evening.
“An alibi prepared in advance,” objected the examining-magistrate.
“Prove it,” said Prévailles.
The prisoner was confronted with the witnesses for the prosecution. The young lady from the confectioner’s “thought she knew” the gentleman with the eyeglass. The hall-porter in the Rue de Berne “thought he knew” the gentleman who used to come to see Jenny Saphir. But nobody dared to make a more definite statement.
The examination, therefore, led to nothing of a precise character, provided no solid basis whereon to found a serious accusation.
The judge sent for Ganimard and told him of his difficulty.
“I can’t possibly persist, at this rate. There is no evidence to support the charge.”
“But surely you are convinced in your own mind, monsieur le juge d’instruction! Prévailles would never have resisted his arrest unless he was guilty.”
“He says that he thought he was being assaulted. He also says that he never set eyes on Jenny Saphir; and, as a matter of fact, we can find no one to contradict his assertion. Then again, admitting that the sapphire has been stolen, we have not been able to find it at his flat.”
“Nor anywhere else,” suggested Ganimard.
“Quite true, but that is no evidence against him. I’ll tell you what we shall want, M. Ganimard, and that very soon: the other end of this red scarf.”
“The other end?”
“Yes, for it is obvious that, if the murderer took it away with him, the reason was that the stuff is stained with the marks of the blood on his fingers.”
Ganimard made no reply. For several days he had felt that the whole business was tending to this conclusion. There was no other proof possible. Given the silk scarf—and in no other circumstances—Prévailles’ guilt was certain. Now Ganimard’s position required that Prévailles’ guilt should be established. He was responsible for the arrest, it had cast a glamour around him, he had been praised to the skies as the most formidable adversary of criminals; and he would look absolutely ridiculous if Prévailles were released.
Unfortunately, the one and only indispensable proof was in Lupin’s pocket. How was he to get hold of it?
Ganimard cast about, exhausted himself with fresh investigations, went over the inquiry from start to finish, spent sleepless nights in turning over the mystery of the Rue de Berne, studied the records of Prévailles’ life, sent ten men hunting after the invisible sapphire. Everything was useless.
On the 28th of December, the examining-magistrate stopped him in one of the passages of the Law Courts:
“Well, M. Ganimard, any news?”
“No, monsieur le juge d’instruction.”
“Then I shall dismiss the case.”
“Wait one day longer.”
“What’s the use? We want the other end of the scarf; have you got it?”
“I shall have it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Yes, but please lend me the piece in your possession.”
“What if I do?”
“If you do, I promise to let you have the whole scarf complete.”
“Very well, that’s understood.”
Ganimard followed the examining-magistrate to his room and came out with the piece of silk:
“Hang it all!” he growled. “Yes, I will go and fetch the proof and I shall have it too … always presuming that Master Lupin has the courage to keep the appointment.”
In point of fact, he did not doubt for a moment that Master Lupin would have this courage, and that was just what exasperated him. Why had Lupin insisted on this meeting? What was his object, in the circumstances?
Anxious, furious and full of hatred, he resolved to take every precaution necessary not only to prevent his falling into a trap himself, but to make his enemy fall into one, now that the opportunity offered. And, on the next day, which was the 29th of December, the date fixed by Lupin, after spending the night in studying the old manor-house in the Rue de Surène and convincing himself that there was no other outlet than the front door, he warned his men that he was going on a dangerous expedition and arrived with them on the field of battle.
He posted them in a café and gave them formal instructions: if he showed himself at one of the third-floor windows, or if he failed to return within an hour, the detectives were to enter the house and arrest anyone who tried to leave it.
The chief-inspector made sure that his revolver was in working order and that he could take it from his pocket easily. Then he went upstairs.
He was surprised to find things as he had left them, the doors open and the locks broken. After ascertaining that the windows of the principal room looked out on the street, he visited the three other rooms that made up the flat. There was no one there.
“Master Lupin was afraid,” he muttered, not without a certain satisfaction.
“Don’t be silly,” said a voice behind him.
Turning round, he saw an old workman, wearing a house-painter’s long smock, standing in the doorway.
“You needn’t bother your head,” said the man. “It’s I, Lupin. I have been working in the painter’s shop since early morning. This is when we knock off for breakfast. So I came upstairs.”
He looked at Ganimard with a quizzing smile and cried:
“ ’Pon my word, this is a gorgeous moment I owe you, old chap! I wouldn’t sell it for ten years of your life; and yet you know how I love you! What do you think of it, artist? Wasn’t it well thought out and well foreseen? Foreseen from alpha to omega? Did I understand the business? Did I penetrate the mystery of the scarf? I’m not saying that there were no holes in my argument, no links missing in the chain. … But what a masterpiece of intelligence! Ganimard, what a reconstruction of events! What an intuition of everything that had taken place and of everything that was going to take place, from the discovery of the crime to your arrival here in search of a
