The injustice was then repaired; and he was straightway transferred to Bordeaux, was next appointed deputy in Paris, and lastly, on the death of M. Dudouis, chief of the detective-service. And in each of these posts he displayed such a curious faculty of inventiveness in his proceedings, such resourcefulness, so many new and original qualities; and above all, he achieved such correct results in the conduct of the last four or five cases with which public opinion had been stirred, that his name was quoted in the same breath with those of the most celebrated detectives.
Gourel, for his part, had no hesitation. Himself a favourite of the chief, who liked him for his frankness and his passive obedience, he set the chief above them all. The chief to him was an idol, an infallible god.
M. Lenormand seemed more tired than usual that day. He sat down wearily, parted the tails of his frock-coat—an old frock-coat, famous for its antiquated cut and its olive-green hue—untied his neckerchief—an equally famous maroon-coloured neckerchief, rested his two hands on his stick, and said:
“Speak!”
Gourel told all that he had seen, and all that he had learnt, and told it briefly, according to the habit which the chief had taught him.
But, when he produced Lupin’s card, M. Lenormand gave a start:
“Lupin!”
“Yes, Lupin. The brute’s bobbed up again.”
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” said M. Lenormand, after a moment’s thought.
“That’s all right, of course,” said Gourel, who loved to add a word of his own to the rare speeches of a superior whose only fault in his eyes was an undue reticence. “That’s all right, for at last you will measure your strength with an adversary worthy of you. … And Lupin will meet his master. … Lupin will cease to exist. … Lupin …”
“Ferret!” said M. Lenormand, cutting him short.
It was like an order given by a sportsman to his dog. And Gourel ferreted after the manner of a good dog, a lively and intelligent animal, working under his master’s eyes. M. Lenormand pointed his stick to a corner, to an easy chair, just as one points to a bush or a tuft of grass, and Gourel beat up the bush or the tuft of grass with conscientious thoroughness.
“Nothing,” said the sergeant, when he finished.
“Nothing for you!” grunted M. Lenormand.
“That’s what I meant to say. … I know that, for you, chief, there are things that talk like human beings, real living witnesses. For all that, here is a murder well and duly added to our score against Master Lupin.”
“The first,” observed M. Lenormand.
“The first, yes. … But it was bound to come. You can’t lead that sort of life without, sooner or later, being driven by circumstances to serious crime. Mr. Kesselbach must have defended himself. …”
“No, because he was bound.”
“That’s true,” owned Gourel, somewhat disconcertedly, “and it’s rather curious too. … Why kill an adversary who has practically ceased to exist? … But, no matter, if I had collared him yesterday, when we were face to face at the hall-door …”
M. Lenormand had stepped out on the balcony. Then he went to Mr. Kesselbach’s bedroom, on the right, and tried the fastenings of the windows and doors.
“The windows of both rooms were shut when I came in,” said Gourel.
“Shut, or just pushed to?”
“No one has touched them since. And they are shut, chief.”
A sound of voices brought them back to the sitting-room. Here they found the divisional surgeon, engaged in examining the body, and M. Formerie, the magistrate. M. Formerie exclaimed:
“Arsène Lupin! I am glad that at last a lucky chance has brought me into touch with that scoundrel again! I’ll show the fellow the stuff I’m made of! … And this time it’s a murder! … It’s a fight between you and me now, Master Lupin!”
M. Formerie had not forgotten the strange adventure of the Princesse de Lamballe’s diadem, nor the wonderful way in which Lupin had tricked him a few years before.1 The thing had remained famous in the annals of the law-courts. People still laughed at it; and in M. Formerie it had left a just feeling of resentment, combined with the longing for a striking revenge.
“The nature of the crime is self-evident,” he declared, with a great air of conviction, “and we shall have no difficulty in discovering the motive. So all is well. … M. Lenormand, how do you do? … I am delighted to see you. …”
M. Formerie was not in the least delighted. On the contrary, M. Lenormand’s presence did not please him at all, seeing that the chief detective hardly took the trouble to disguise the contempt in which he held him. However, the magistrate drew himself up and, in his most solemn tones:
“So, doctor, you consider that death took place about a dozen hours ago, perhaps more! … That, in fact, was my own idea. … We are quite agreed. … And the instrument of the crime?”
“A knife with a very thin blade, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,” replied the surgeon. “Look, the blade has been wiped on the dead man’s own handkerchief. …”
“Just so … just so … you can see the mark. … And now let us go and question Mr. Kesselbach’s secretary and manservant. I have no doubt that their examination will throw some more light on the case.”
Chapman, who together with Edwards, had been moved to his own room, on the left of the sitting-room, had already recovered from his experiences. He described in detail the events of the previous day, Mr. Kesselbach’s restlessness, the expected visit of the Colonel and, lastly, the attack of which they had been the victims.
“Aha!” cried M. Formerie. “So there’s an accomplice! And you heard his name! … Marco, you say? … This is very important. When we’ve got the accomplice, we shall be a good deal further advanced. …”
“Yes, but we’ve not got him,” M. Lenormand ventured to remark.
“We shall see. … One
