But it was at the headquarters of police that the excitement developed into a paroxysm. Men flung themselves about on every side. Messages, telegrams, telephone calls followed one upon the other.
At last, at eleven o’clock in the morning, there was a meeting in the office of the prefect of police, and Prasville was there. The chief-detective read a report of his inquiry, the results of which amounted to this: shortly before midnight yesterday someone had rung at the house on the Boulevard Arago. The portress, who slept in a small room on the ground-floor, behind one of the shops pulled the rope. A man came and tapped at her door. He said that he had come from the police on an urgent matter concerning tomorrow’s execution. The portress opened the door and was at once attacked, gagged and bound.
Ten minutes later a lady and gentleman who lived on the first floor and who had just come home were also reduced to helplessness by the same individual and locked up, each in one of the two empty shops. The third-floor tenant underwent a similar fate, but in his own flat and his own bedroom, which the man was able to enter without being heard. The second floor was unoccupied, and the man took up his quarters there. He was now master of the house.
“And there we are!” said the prefect of police, beginning to laugh, with a certain bitterness. “There we are! It’s as simple as shelling peas. Only, what surprises me is that he was able to get away so easily.”
“I will ask you to observe, monsieur le préfet, that, being absolute master of the house from one o’clock in the morning, he had until five o’clock to prepare his flight.”
“And that flight took place … ?”
“Over the roofs. At that spot the houses in the next street, the Rue de la Glacière, are quite near and there is only one break in the roofs, about three yards wide, with a drop of one yard in height.”
“Well?”
“Well, our man had taken away the ladder leading to the garret and used it as a footbridge. After crossing to the next block of buildings, all he had to do was to look through the windows until he found an empty attic, enter one of the houses in the Rue de la Glacière and walk out quietly with his hands in his pockets. In this way his flight, duly prepared beforehand, was effected very simply and without the least obstacle.”
“But you had taken the necessary measures.”
“Those which you ordered, monsieur le préfet. My men spent three hours last evening visiting all the houses, so as to make sure that there was no stranger hiding there. At the moment when they were leaving the last house I had the street barred. Our man must have slipped through during that few minutes’ interval.”
“Capital! Capital! And there is no doubt in your minds, of course: it’s Arsène Lupin?”
“Not a doubt. In the first place, it was all a question of his accomplices. And then … and then … no one but Arsène Lupin was capable of contriving such a masterstroke and carrying it out with that inconceivable boldness.”
“But, in that case,” muttered the prefect of police—and, turning to Prasville, he continued—“but, in that case, my dear Prasville, the fellow of whom you spoke to me, the fellow whom you and the chief-detective have had watched since yesterday evening, in his flat in the Place de Clichy, that fellow is not Arsène Lupin?”
“Yes, he is, monsieur le préfet. There is no doubt about that either.”
“Then why wasn’t he arrested when he went out last night?”
“He did not go out.”
“I say, this is getting complicated!”
“It’s quite simple, monsieur le préfet. Like all the houses in which traces of Arsène Lupin are to be found, the house in the Place de Clichy has two outlets.”
“And you didn’t know it?”
“I didn’t know it. I only discovered it this morning, on inspecting the flat.”
“Was there no one in the flat?”
“No. The servant, a man called Achille, went away this morning, taking with him a lady who was staying with Lupin.”
“What was the lady’s name?”
“I don’t know,” replied Prasville, after an imperceptible hesitation.
“But you know the name under which Arsène Lupin passed?”
“Yes. M. Nicole, a private tutor, master of arts and so on. Here is his card.”
As Prasville finished speaking, an office-messenger came to tell the prefect of police that he was wanted immediately at the Élysée. The prime minister was there already.
“I’m coming,” he said. And he added, between his teeth, “It’s to decide upon Gilbert’s fate.”
Prasville ventured:
“Do you think they will pardon him, monsieur le préfet?”
“Never! After last night’s affair, it would make a most deplorable impression. Gilbert must pay his debt tomorrow morning.”
The messenger had, at the same time, handed Prasville a visiting-card. Prasville now looked at it, gave a start and muttered:
“Well, I’m hanged! What a nerve!”
“What’s the matter?” asked the prefect of police.
“Nothing, nothing, monsieur le préfet,” declared Prasville, who did not wish to share with another the honour of seeing this business through. “Nothing … an unexpected visit … I hope soon to have the pleasure of telling you the result.”
And he walked away, mumbling, with an air of amazement:
“Well, upon my word! What a nerve the beggar has! What a nerve!”
The visiting-card which he held in his hand bore these words:
M. Nicole,
Master of Arts, Private Tutor.
XIII
The Last Battle
When Prasville returned to his office he saw M. Nicole sitting on a bench in the waiting-room, with his bent back, his ailing air, his gingham umbrella, his rusty hat and his single glove:
“It’s he all right,” said Prasville, who had feared for
