“What proof? I see nothing.”
“I do. … That’s enough. …”
He turned up the collar of his coat, lowered the brim of his soft hat and said:
“By Jove, it’ll be a stiff fight! Go to bed, my friend. I’ll tell you about my expedition tomorrow … if it doesn’t cost me my life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I know what I’m saying! I’m risking a lot. First of all, getting arrested, which isn’t much. Next, getting killed, which is worse. But. …” He gripped my shoulder. “But there’s a third thing I’m risking, which is getting hold of two millions. … And, once I possess a capital of two millions, I’ll show people what I can do! Good night, old chap, and, if you never see me again. …” He spouted Musset’s lines:
“Plant a willow by my grave,
The weeping willow that I love. …”
I walked away. Three minutes later—I am continuing the narrative as he told it to me next day—three minutes later, Lupin rang at the door of the Hôtel Repstein.
“Is monsieur le baron at home?”
“Yes,” replied the butler, examining the intruder with an air of surprise, “but monsieur le baron does not see people as late as this.”
“Does monsieur le baron know of the murder of M. Lavernoux, his land-agent?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, please tell monsieur le baron that I have come about the murder and that there is not a moment to lose.”
A voice called from above:
“Show the gentleman up, Antoine.”
In obedience to this peremptory order, the butler led the way to the first floor. In an open doorway stood a gentleman whom Lupin recognized from his photograph in the papers as Baron Repstein, husband of the famous baroness and owner of Etna, the horse of the year.
He was an exceedingly tall, square-shouldered man. His clean-shaven face wore a pleasant, almost smiling expression, which was not affected by the sadness of his eyes. He was dressed in a well-cut morning-coat, with a tan waistcoat and a dark tie fastened with a pearl pin, the value of which struck Lupin as considerable.
He took Lupin into his study, a large, three-windowed room, lined with bookcases, sets of pigeonholes, an American desk and a safe. And he at once asked, with ill-concealed eagerness:
“Do you know anything?”
“Yes, monsieur le baron.”
“About the murder of that poor Lavernoux?”
“Yes, monsieur le baron, and about madame le baronne also.”
“Do you really mean it? Quick, I entreat you. …”
He pushed forward a chair. Lupin sat down and began:
“Monsieur le baron, the circumstances are very serious. I will be brief.”
“Yes, do, please.”
“Well, monsieur le baron, in a few words, it amounts to this: five or six hours ago, Lavernoux, who, for the last fortnight, had been kept in a sort of enforced confinement by his doctor, Lavernoux—how shall I put it?—telegraphed certain revelations by means of signals which were partly taken down by me and which put me on the track of this case. He himself was surprised in the act of making this communication and was murdered.”
“But by whom? By whom?”
“By his doctor.”
“Who is this doctor?”
“I don’t know. But one of M. Lavernoux’s friends, an Englishman called Hargrove, the friend, in fact, with whom he was communicating, is bound to know and is also bound to know the exact and complete meaning of the communication, because, without waiting for the end, he jumped into a motor-cab and drove to the Prefecture of Police.”
“Why? Why? … And what is the result of that step?”
“The result, monsieur le baron, is that your house is surrounded. There are twelve detectives under your windows. The moment the sun rises, they will enter in the name of the law and arrest the criminal.”
“Then is Lavernoux’s murderer concealed in my house? Who is he? One of the servants? But no, for you were speaking of a doctor! …”
“I would remark, monsieur le baron, that when this Mr. Hargrove went to the police to tell them of the revelations made by his friend Lavernoux, he was not aware that his friend Lavernoux was going to be murdered. The step taken by Mr. Hargrove had to do with something else. …”
“With what?”
“With the disappearance of madame la baronne, of which he knew the secret, thanks to the communication made by Lavernoux.”
“What! They know at last! They have found the baroness! Where is she? And the jewels? And the money she robbed me of?”
Baron Repstein was talking in a great state of excitement. He rose and, almost shouting at Lupin, cried:
“Finish your story, sir! I can’t endure this suspense!”
Lupin continued, in a slow and hesitating voice:
“The fact is … you see … it is rather difficult to explain … for you and I are looking at the thing from a totally different point of view.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And yet you ought to understand, monsieur le baron. … We begin by saying—I am quoting the newspapers—by saying, do we not, that Baroness Repstein knew all the secrets of your business and that she was able to open not only that safe over there, but also the one at the Crédit Lyonnais in which you kept your securities locked up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, one evening, a fortnight ago, while you were at your club, Baroness Repstein, who, unknown to yourself, had converted all those securities into cash, left this house with a travelling-bag, containing your money and all the Princesse de Berny’s jewels?”
“Yes.”
“And, since then, she has not been seen?”
“No.”
“Well, there is an excellent reason why she has not been seen.”
“What reason?”
“This, that Baroness Repstein has been murdered. …”
“Murdered! … The baroness! … But you’re mad!”
“Murdered … and probably that same evening.”
“I tell you again, you are mad! How can the baroness have been murdered, when the police are following her tracks, so to speak, step by step?”
“They are following the tracks of another woman.”
“What woman?”
“The murderer’s accomplice.”
“And who is the murderer?”
“The same man who, for the last fortnight, knowing that Lavernoux, through the situation which he occupied in this house, had discovered the truth, kept him imprisoned,
