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!."
CHAPTER 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 habit of living alone, of talking little and acting in silence; a certain misanthropy; and, suddenly, at the age of fifty-five, in consequence of the famous case of the three Spaniards at Biskra, a great and well-earned notoriety.
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