Outside, municipal guards receive the object and pack it into one of the compartments of the “salad-basket.”7
This is the ordinary routine.
In Lupin’s case it was disregarded entirely. The police were afraid of that walk along the corridors. They were afraid of the prison-van. They were afraid of everything.
M. Weber came in person, accompanied by twelve constables—the best he had, picked men, armed to the teeth—fetched the formidable prisoner at the door of his cell and took him in a cab, the driver of which was one of his own men, with mounted municipal guards trotting on each side, in front and behind.
“Bravo!” cried Lupin. “I am quite touched by the compliment paid me. A guard of honor. By Jove, Weber, you have the proper hierarchical instinct! You don’t forget what is due to your immediate chief.” And, tapping him on the shoulder: “Weber, I intend to send in my resignation. I shall name you as my successor.”
“It’s almost done,” said Weber.
“That’s good news! I was a little anxious about my escape. Now I am easy in my mind. From the moment when Weber is chief of the detective-service … !”
M. Weber did not reply to the gibe. At heart, he had a queer, complex feeling in the presence of his adversary, a feeling made up of the fear with which Lupin inspired him, the deference which he entertained for Prince Sernine and the respectful admiration which he had always shown to M. Lenormand. All this was mingled with spite, envy and satisfied hatred.
They arrived at the Palais de Justice. At the foot of the “mousetrap,” a number of detectives were waiting, among whom M. Weber rejoiced to see his best two lieutenants, the brothers Doudeville.
“Has M. Formerie come?” he asked.
“Yes, chief, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction is in his room.”
M. Weber went up the stairs, followed by Lupin, who had the Doudevilles on either side of him.
“Geneviève?” whispered the prisoner.
“Saved. …”
“Where is she?”
“With her grandmother.”
“Mrs. Kesselbach?”
“In Paris, at the Bristol.”
“Suzanne?”
“Disappeared.”
“Steinweg?”
“Released.”
“What has he told you?”
“Nothing. Won’t make any revelations except to you.”
“Why?”
“We told him he owed his release to you.”
“Newspapers good this morning?”
“Excellent.”
“Good. If you want to write to me, here are my instructions.”
They had reached the inner corridor on the first floor and Lupin slipped a pellet of paper into the hand of one of the brothers.
M. Formerie uttered a delicious phrase when Lupin entered his room accompanied by the deputy-chief:
“Ah, there you are! I knew we should lay hands on you some day or other!”
“So did I, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,” said Lupin, “and I am glad that you have been marked out by fate to do justice to the honest man that I am.”
“He’s getting at me,” thought M. Formerie. And, in the same ironical and serious tone as Lupin, he retorted, “The honest man that you are, sir, will be asked what he has to say about three hundred and forty-four separate cases of larceny, burglary, swindling and forgery, blackmail, receiving and so on. Three hundred and forty-four!”
“What! Is that all?” cried Lupin. “I really feel quite ashamed.”
“Don’t distress yourself! I shall discover more. But let us proceed in order. Arsène Lupin, in spite of all our inquiries, we have no definite information as to your real name.”
“How odd! No more have I!”
“We are not even in a position to declare that you are the same Arsène Lupin who was confined in the Santé a few years back, and from there made his first escape.”
“ ‘His first escape’ is good, and does you credit.”
“It so happens, in fact,” continued M. Formerie, “that the Arsène Lupin card in the measuring department gives a description of Arsène Lupin which differs at all points from your real description.”
“How more and more odd!”
“Different marks, different measurements, different fingerprints. … The two photographs even are quite unlike. I will therefore ask you to satisfy us as to your exact identity.”
“That’s just what I was going to ask you. I have lived under so many distinct names that I have ended by forgetting my own. I don’t know where I am.”
“So I must enter a refusal to answer?”
“An inability.”
“Is this a thought-out plan? Am I to expect the same silence in reply to all my questions?”
“Very nearly.”
“And why?”
Lupin struck a solemn attitude and said:
“M. le Juge d’Instruction, my life belongs to history. You have only to turn over the annals of the past fifteen years and your curiosity will be satisfied. So much for my part. As to the rest, it does not concern me: it is an affair between you and the murderers at the Palace Hotel.”
“Arsène Lupin, the honest man that you are will have today to explain the murder of Master Altenheim.”
“Hullo, this is new! Is the idea yours, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction?”
“Exactly.”
“Very clever! Upon my word, M. Formerie, you’re getting on!”
“The position in which you were captured leaves no doubt.”
“None at all; only, I will venture to ask you this: what sort of wound did Altenheim die of?”
“Of a wound in the throat caused by a knife.”
“And where is the knife?”
“It has not been found.”
“How could it not have been found, if I had been the assassin, considering that I was captured beside the very man whom I am supposed to have killed?”
“Who killed him, according to you?”
“The same man that killed Mr. Kesselbach, Chapman, and Beudot. The nature of the wound is a sufficient proof.”
“How did he get away?”
“Through a trap-door, which you will discover in the room where the tragedy took place.”
M. Formerie assumed an air of slyness:
“And how was it that you did not follow that useful example?”
“I tried to follow it. But the outlet was blocked by a door which I could not open. It was during this attempt that ‘the other one’ came back to the room and killed his accomplice for fear of the revelations which he would have been sure to make. At the same time, he hid in a cupboard, where it was
