He replaced the instrument, went into the lobby and into the bedroom, made sure that the secretary and the manservant had not unloosed their bonds and, on the other hand, that they were in no danger of being choked by their gags. Then he returned to his chief prisoner.
He wore a determined and relentless look:
"We've finished joking, Kesselbach. If you don't speak, it will be the worse for you. Have you made up your mind?"
"What about?"
"No nonsense, please. Tell me what you know."
"I know nothing."
"You lie. What does this word 'APOON' mean?"
"If I knew, I should not have written it down."
"Very well; but whom or what does it refer to? Where did you copy it? Where did you get it from?"
Mr. Kesselbach made no reply. Lupin, now speaking in nervous, jerky tones, resumed:
"Listen, Kesselbach, I have a proposal to make to you. Rich man, big man though you may be, there is not so much difference between us. The son of the Augsburg ironmonger and Arsène Lupin, prince of burglars, can come to an understanding without shame on either side. I do my thieving indoors; you do yours on the Stock Exchange. It's all much of a muchness. So here we are, Kesselbach. Let's be partners in this business. I have need of you, because I don't know what it's about. You have need of me, because you will never be able to manage it alone. Barbareux is an ass. I am Lupin. Is it a bargain?"
No answer. Lupin persisted, in a voice shaking with intensity:
"Answer, Kesselbach, is it a bargain? If so, I'll find your Pierre Leduc for you in forty-eight hours. For he's the man you're after, eh? Isn't that the business? Come along, answer! Who is the fellow? Why are you looking for him? What do you know about him?"
He calmed himself suddenly, laid his hand on Kesselbach's shoulder and, harshly:
"One word only. Yes or no?"
"No!"
He drew a magnificent gold watch from Kesselbach's fob and placed it on the prisoner's knees. He unbuttoned Kesselbach's waistcoat, opened his shirt, uncovered his chest and, taking a steel dagger, with a gold-crusted handle, that lay on the table beside him, he put the point of it against the place where the pulsations of the heart made the bare flesh throb:
"For the last time?"
"No!"
"Mr. Kesselbach, it is eight minutes to three. If you don't answer within eight minutes from now, you are a dead man!"
The next morning, Sergeant Gourel walked into the Palace Hotel punctually at the appointed hour. Without stopping, scorning to take the lift, he went up the stairs. On the fourth floor he turned to the right, followed the passage and rang at the door of 415.
Hearing no sound, he rang again. After half-a-dozen fruitless attempts, he went to the floor office. He found a head-waiter there:
"Mr. Kesselbach did not sleep here last night. We have not seen him since yesterday afternoon."
"But his servant? His secretary?"
"We have not seen them either."
"Then they also did not sleep in the hotel?"
"I suppose not."
"You suppose not? But you ought to be certain."
"Why? Mr. Kesselbach is not staying in the hotel; he is at home here, in his private flat. He is not waited on by us, but by his own man; and we know nothing of what happens inside."
"That's true… That's true.."
Gourel seemed greatly perplexed. He had come with positive orders, a precise mission, within the limits of which his mind was able to exert itself. Outside those limits he did not quite know how to act:
"If the chief were here," he muttered, "if the chief were here.."
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 to-night, 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 some one.
"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 arm-chair, 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!"
Some one 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