“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re sure? The two are one and the same? …”
The eyes did not move. A little blood trickled from one corner of the man’s mouth. … He gave two or three sobs. … A last spasm; and all was over …
A long silence reigned in that basement room filled with people.
Almost all the policemen guarding Sernine had turned round and, stupefied, not understanding or not willing to understand, they still listened to the incredible accusation which the dying scoundrel had been unable to put into words.
M. Weber took the little box which was in the parcel and opened it. It contained a gray wig, a pair of spectacles, a maroon-colored neckerchief and, in a false bottom, a pot or two of makeup and a case containing some tiny tufts of gray hair: in short, all that was needed to complete a perfect disguise in the character of M. Lenormand.
He went up to Sernine and, looking at him for a few seconds without speaking, thoughtfully reconstructing all the phases of the adventure, he muttered:
“So it’s true?”
Sernine, who had retained his smiling calmness, replied:
“The suggestion is a pretty one and a bold one. But, before I answer, tell your men to stop worrying me with those toys of theirs.”
“Very well,” said M. Weber, making a sign to his men. “And now answer.”
“What?”
“Are you M. Lenormand?”
“Yes.”
Exclamations arose. Jean Doudeville, who was there, while his brother was watching the secret outlet, Jean Doudeville, Sernine’s own accomplice, looked at him in dismay. M. Weber stood undecided.
“That takes your breath away, eh?” said Sernine. “I admit that it’s rather droll. … Lord, how you used to make me laugh sometimes, when we were working together, you and I, the chief and the deputy-chief! … And the funniest thing is that you thought our worthy M. Lenormand dead … as well as poor Gourel. But no, no, old chap: there’s life in the old dog yet!” He pointed to Altenheim’s corpse. “There, it was that scoundrel who pitched me into the water, in a sack, with a paving-stone round my waist. Only, he forgot to take away my knife. And with a knife one rips open sacks and cuts ropes. So you see, you unfortunate Altenheim: if you had thought of that, you wouldn’t be where you are! … But enough said. … Peace to your ashes!”
M. Weber listened, not knowing what to think. At last, he made a gesture of despair, as though he gave up the idea of forming a reasonable opinion.
“The handcuffs,” he said, suddenly alarmed.
“If it amuses you,” said Sernine.
And, picking out Doudeville in the front row of his assailants, he put out his wrists:
“There, my friend, you shall have the honour … and don’t trouble to exert yourself. … I’m playing square … as it’s no use doing anything else. …”
He said this in a tone that gave Doudeville to understand that the struggle was finished for the moment and that there was nothing to do but submit.
Doudeville fastened the handcuffs.
Without moving his lips or contracting a muscle of his face, Sernine whispered:
“27, Rue de Rivoli … Geneviève. …”
M. Weber could not suppress a movement of satisfaction at the sight:
“Come along!” he said. “To the detective-office!”
“That’s it, to the detective-office!” cried Sernine. “M. Lenormand will enter Arsène Lupin in the jail-book; and Arsène Lupin will enter Prince Sernine.”
“You’re too clever, Lupin.”
“That’s true, Weber; we shall never get on, you and I.”
During the drive in the motorcar, escorted by three other cars filled with policemen, he did not utter a word.
They did not stay long at the detective office. M. Weber, remembering the escapes effected by Lupin, sent him up at once to the fingerprint department and then took him to the Dépôt, whence he was sent on to the Santé Prison.
The governor had been warned by telephone and was waiting for him. The formalities of the entry of commitment and of the searching were soon got over; and, at seven o’clock in the evening, Prince Paul Sernine crossed the threshold of cell 14 in the second division:
“Not half bad, your rooms,” he declared, “not bad at all! … Electric light, central heating, every requisite … capital! Mr. Governor, I’ll take this room.”
He flung himself on the bed:
“Oh, Mr. Governor, I have one little favor to ask of you!”
“What is that?”
“Tell them not to bring me my chocolate before ten o’clock in the morning. … I’m awfully sleepy.”
He turned his face to the wall. Five minutes later he was sound asleep.
IX
“Santé Palace”
There was one wild burst of laughter over the whole face of the world.
True, the capture of Arsène Lupin made a big sensation; and the public did not grudge the police the praise which they deserved for this revenge so long hoped-for and now so fully obtained. The great adventurer was caught. That extraordinary, genial, invisible hero was shivering, like any ordinary criminal, between the four walls of a prison cell, crushed in his turn by that formidable power which is called the law and which, sooner or later, by inevitable necessity shatters the obstacles opposed to it and destroys the work of its adversaries.
All this was said, printed, repeated and discussed ad nauseam. The prefect of police was created a commander, M. Weber an officer of the Legion of Honor. The skill and courage of their humblest coadjutors were extolled to the skies. Cheers were raised and paeans of victory struck up. Articles were written and speeches made.
Very well. But one thing, nevertheless, rose above the wonderful concert of praise, these noisy demonstrations of satisfaction; and that was an immense, spontaneous, inextinguishable and tumultuous roar of laughter.
Arsène Lupin had been chief of the detective-service for four years!!!
He had been chief detective for four years and, really, legally, he was chief detective still, with all the rights which the
