Arsène Lupin Versus Herlock Sholmes

On the eighth day of last December, Mon. Gerbois, professor of mathematics at the College of Versailles, while rummaging in an old curiosity-shop, unearthed a small mahogany writing-desk which pleased him very much on account of the multiplicity of its drawers.

“Just the thing for Suzanne’s birthday present,” thought he. And as he always tried to furnish some simple pleasures for his daughter, consistent with his modest income, he enquired the price, and, after some keen bargaining, purchased it for sixty-five francs. As he was giving his address to the shopkeeper, a young man, dressed with elegance and taste, who had been exploring the stock of antiques, caught sight of the writing-desk, and immediately enquired its price.

“It is sold,” replied the shopkeeper.

“Ah! to this gentleman, I presume?”

Monsieur Gerbois bowed, and left the store, quite proud to be the possessor of an article which had attracted the attention of a gentleman of quality. But he had not taken a dozen steps in the street, when he was overtaken by the young man who, hat in hand and in a tone of perfect courtesy, thus addressed him:

“I beg your pardon, monsieur; I am going to ask you a question that you may deem impertinent. It is this: Did you have any special object in view when you bought that writing-desk?”

“No, I came across it by chance and it struck my fancy.”

“But you do not care for it particularly?”

“Oh! I shall keep it⁠—that is all.”

“Because it is an antique, perhaps?”

“No; because it is convenient,” declared Mon. Gerbois.

“In that case, you would consent to exchange it for another desk that would be quite as convenient and in better condition?”

“By what lucky chance? Ah! I am delighted to see you. Permit me to introduce a friend of mine.”

For a moment the Englishman was disconcerted; then he made a movement as if he would seize Arsène Lupin. The latter shook his head, and said:

“That would not be fair; besides, the movement would be an awkward one and⁠ ⁠… quite useless.”

The Englishman looked about him, as if in search of assistance.

“No use,” said Lupin. “Besides, are you quite sure you can place your hand on me? Come, now, show me that you are a real Englishman and, therefore, a good sport.”

This advice seemed to commend itself to the detective, for he partially rose and said, very formally:

“Monsieur Wilson, my friend and assistant⁠—Monsieur Arsène Lupin.”

Wilson’s amazement evoked a laugh. With bulging eyes and gaping mouth, he looked from one to the other, as if unable to comprehend the situation. Herlock Sholmes laughed and said:

“Wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is one of the most natural in the world.”

“Why do you not arrest him?” stammered Wilson.

“Have you not observed, Wilson, that the gentleman is between me and the door, and only a few steps from the door. By the time I could move my little finger he would be outside.”

“Don’t let that make any difference,” said Lupin, who now walked around the table and seated himself so that the Englishman was between him and the door⁠—thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner.

“Of course not,” she replied.

Then an idea occurred to him. He rose and made a careful scrutiny of the chauffeur. His shoulders were not so broad; his bearing was not so stiff and mechanical. A cold perspiration covered his forehead and his hands clenched with sudden fear, as his mind was seized with the conviction that the chauffeur was Arsène Lupin.

“Well, Monsieur Sholmes, what do you think of our little ride?”

“Delightful, monsieur, really delightful,” replied Sholmes.

Never in his life had he experienced so much difficulty in uttering a few simple words without a tremor, or without betraying his feelings in his voice. But quickly, by a sort of reaction, a flood of hatred and rage burst its bounds, overcame his self-control, and, brusquely drawing his revolver, he pointed it at Mademoiselle Destange.

“Lupin, stop, this minute, this second, or I fire at mademoiselle.”

“I advise you to aim at the cheek if you wish to hit the temple,” replied Lupin, without turning his head.

“Maxime, don’t go so fast,” said Clotilde, “the pavement is slippery and I am very timid.”

She was smiling; her eyes were fixed on the pavement, over which the carriage was traveling at enormous speed.

“Let him stop! Let him stop!” said Sholmes to her, wild with rage, “I warn you that I am desperate.”

The barrel of the revolver brushed the waving locks of her hair. She replied, calmly:

“Maxime is so imprudent. He is going so fast, I am really afraid of some accident.”

Sholmes returned the weapon to his pocket and seized the handle of the door, as if to alight, despite the absurdity of such an act. Clotilde said to him:

His outburst of joy was interrupted by the sharp ringing of a bell, which stopped twice, started again and then ceased. It was the alarm bell.

What was wrong? What unforeseen danger? Ganimard? No; that wasn’t possible!

He was on the point of returning to his library and making his escape. But, first, he went to the window. There was no one in the street. Was the enemy already in the house? He listened and thought he could discern certain confused sounds. He hesitated no longer. He ran to his library, and as he crossed the threshold he heard the noise of a key being inserted in the lock of the vestibule door.

“The deuce!” he murmured; “I have no time to lose. The house may be surrounded. The servants’ stairway⁠—impossible! Fortunately, there is the chimney.”

He pushed the moulding; it did not move. He made a greater effort⁠—still it refused to move. At the same time he had the impression that the door below opened and that he could hear footsteps.

“Good God!” he cried; “I am lost if this cursed mechanism⁠—”

He pushed with all his strength. Nothing moved⁠—nothing! By some incredible accident, by some evil stroke of fortune, the mechanism, which had worked only a few moments ago, would not work now.

He was furious. The block of marble remained immovable. He uttered frightful imprecations on the senseless stone. Was his escape to be prevented by that stupid obstacle? He struck the marble wildly, madly; he hammered it, he cursed it.

“Ah! what’s the matter, Monsieur Lupin? You seem to be displeased about something.”

Lupin turned around. Herlock Sholmes stood before him!

“I am waiting for your answer.”

“My answer? Mon Dieu! but you are particular!⁠ ⁠… And so this is the last move in our little game⁠—and the stake is my liberty!”

“Or the blue diamond.”

“Very well. It’s your play. What are you going to do?”

“I play the king,” said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver.

“And I the ace,” replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist.

Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin’s fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.⁠ ⁠… Too late! The door opened.

“Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!”

Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance.

“Hands down! I surrender!” said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast.

Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Arsène Lupin’s words sounded like an echo.⁠ ⁠… “I surrender!”⁠ ⁠… It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered!

Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: