He showed his card and stated his quality. Then he said, on the off-chance:
“So you have not seen them come in?”
“No.”
“But you saw them go out?”
“No, I can’t say I did.”
“In that case, how do you know that they went out?”
“From a gentleman who called yesterday afternoon.”
“A gentleman with a dark mustache?”
“Yes. I met him as he was going away, about three o’clock. He said: ‘The people in 415 have gone out. Mr. Kesselbach will stay at Versailles tonight, at the Reservoirs; you can send his letters on to him there.’ ”
“But who was this gentleman? By what right did he speak?”
“I don’t know.”
Gourel felt uneasy. It all struck him as rather queer.
“Have you the key?”
“No. Mr. Kesselbach had special keys made.”
“Let’s go and look.”
Gourel rang again furiously. Nothing happened. He was about to go when, suddenly, he bent down and clapped his ear to the keyhole:
“Listen. … I seem to hear … Why, yes … it’s quite distinct. … I hear moans. …”
He gave the door a tremendous blow with his fist.
“But, sir, you have not the right …”
“Oh, hang the right!”
He struck the door with renewed force, but to so little purpose that he abandoned the attempt forthwith:
“Quick, quick, a locksmith!”
One of the waiters started off at a run. Gourel, blustering and undecided, walked to and fro. The servants from the other floors collected in groups. People from the office, from the manager’s department arrived. Gourel cried:
“But why shouldn’t we go in though the adjoining rooms? Do they communicate with this suite?”
“Yes; but the communicating doors are always bolted on both sides.”
“Then I shall telephone to the detective-office,” said Gourel, to whose mind obviously there existed no salvation without his chief.
“And to the commissary of police,” observed someone.
“Yes, if you like,” he replied, in the tone of a gentleman who took little or no interest in that formality.
When he returned from the telephone, the locksmith had nearly finished trying the keys. The last worked the lock. Gourel walked briskly in.
He at once hastened in the direction from which the moans came and hit against the bodies of Chapman the secretary, and Edwards the manservant. One of them, Chapman, had succeeded, by dint of patience, in loosening his gag a little and was uttering short, stifled moans. The other seemed asleep.
They were released. But Gourel was anxious:
“Where’s Mr. Kesselbach?”
He went into the sitting-room. Mr. Kesselbach was sitting strapped to the back of the armchair, near the table. His head hung on his chest.
“He has fainted,” said Gourel, going up to him. “He must have exerted himself beyond his strength.”
Swiftly he cut the cords that fastened the shoulders. The body fell forward in an inert mass. Gourel caught it in his arms and started back with a cry of horror:
“Why, he’s dead! Feel … his hands are ice-cold! And look at his eyes!”
Someone ventured the opinion:
“An apoplectic stroke, no doubt … or else heart-failure.”
“True, there’s no sign of a wound … it’s a natural death.”
They laid the body on the sofa and unfastened the clothes. But red stains at once appeared on the white shirt; and, when they pushed it back, they saw that, near the heart, the chest bore a little scratch through which had trickled a thin stream of blood.
And on the shirt was pinned a card. Gourel bent forward. It was Arsène Lupin’s card, bloodstained like the rest.
Then Gourel drew himself up, authoritatively and sharply:
“Murdered! … Arsène Lupin! … Leave the flat. … Leave the flat, all of you! … No one must stay here or in the bedroom. … Let the two men be removed and seen to elsewhere! … Leave the flat … and don’t touch a thing …
“The chief is on his way! …”
II
The Blue-Edged Label
“Arsène Lupin!”
Gourel repeated these two fateful words with an absolutely petrified air. They rang within him like a knell. Arsène Lupin! The great, the formidable Arsène Lupin. The burglar-king, the mighty adventurer! Was it possible?
“No, no,” he muttered, “it’s not possible, because he’s dead!”
Only that was just it … was he really dead?
Arsène Lupin!
Standing beside the corpse, he remained dull and stunned, turning the card over and over with a certain dread, as though he had been challenged by a ghost. Arsène Lupin! What ought he to do? Act? Take the field with his resources? No, no … better not act. … He was bound to make mistakes if he entered the lists with an adversary of that stamp. Besides, the chief was on his way!
The chief was on his way! All Gourel’s intellectual philosophy was summed up in that short sentence. An able, persevering officer, full of courage and experience and endowed with Herculean strength, he was one of those who go ahead only when obeying directions and who do good work only when ordered. And this lack of initiative had become still more marked since M. Lenormand had taken the place of M. Dudouis in the detective-service. M. Lenormand was a chief indeed! With him, one was sure of being on the right track. So sure, even, that Gourel stopped the moment that the chief’s incentive was no longer behind him.
But the chief was on his way! Gourel took out his watch and calculated the exact time when he would arrive. If only the commissary of police did not get there first, if only the examining-magistrate, who was no doubt already appointed, or the divisional surgeon, did not come to make inopportune discoveries before the chief had time to fix the essential points of the case in his mind!
“Well, Gourel, what are you dreaming about?”
“The chief!”
M. Lenormand was still a young man, if you took stock only of the expression of his face and his eyes gleaming through his spectacles; but he was almost an old man when you saw his bent back, his skin dry and yellow as wax, his grizzled hair and beard, his whole decrepit, hesitating, unhealthy appearance. He had spent his life laboriously in the colonies as government commissary, in the most dangerous posts. He had there acquired a series of fevers; an indomitable energy, notwithstanding his physical weariness; the
