The man said, “Yes.”
“The celebrated collector of fishing rods?”
The man half-smiled and nodded at the password. He stepped aside to let Blanchard into the hall. Blanchard tripped on the threshold and the man took his arm. He drew in a sharp breath as he saw the blood, but said nothing. He led Blanchard down the hall into a shabby but spotless room.
Blanchard saw nothing in the room save the two men in Gestapo uniforms. He heard nothing but Duval’s unctuous voice saying, “Messieurs, behold the American spy!” Then as they stepped forward he saw and heard nothing at all...
Oberleutnant Siegmund von Keller tapped nervously on his desk. “I do not see,” he said, “why I was not informed directly of Colonel Linnaus’ tour of inspection.”
The thin bearded old Frenchman made a conciliatory gesture. “Misguided though they may be, the Underground is singularly efficient. Doubtless the Colonel’s inspection is intended to catch you unawares; it is fortunate that I have been able to forewarn you through my... unorthodox channels.”
Keller smiled stiffly. “You are invaluable, M. Lenormand. You are, if I may speak frankly, a higher caliber of individual than is often willing to assist us among a conquered people. Your training as one-time Chief of the Sûreté, your uncanny ability to nose out traitors, so often among those whom we have prized as our most loyal collaborators—”
M. Lenormand waved a deprecating hand. “I have a duty to my country. I feel I can serve her best through my assistance to you.”
“I could wish,” said Keller, “that such good sense were more common. These stubborn dogs clinging to the past, listening to the empty mouthings of Moscow and Washington...”
M. Lenormand said, “You have the American spy now. He will be a fine exhibit to display to Colonel Linnaus.”
The thought warmed Oberleutnant von Keller. He sat basking in it for some minutes after the local police chief had left him. He roused himself and sat up stiffly when a guard entered to announce M. Duval.
Keller managed to be both stern and affable as he congratulated Duval upon his sensible heroism in betraying the local Underground station. He was somewhat more stem than affable as he went on to point out that Duval’s life depended upon his future usefulness, which would best consist in maintaining that station as a trap.
“But monsieur...” Duval hesitated. “You do not know these men of the Underground. They are fierce and terrible. When they realize that travelers go no farther than my station...”
“Do you think they can be more terrible than we?” The Oberleutnant’s voice was quiet and deadly.
“It shall be as you wish, M. le lieutenant,” Duval hastened to assure him. “I shall maintain the station.”
“And you will give us complete information on all disloyal French when you know.” A fine bag for Colonel Linnaus, he thought. “Rut wait. I am sure that your American friend will be interested in learning to what manner of man he trusted his life.” He beckoned to a guard.
Max Blanchard had not been mistreated since he was brought to Gestapo headquarters. There was little need to mistreat a man with bleeding wounds and a soaring fever; neglect was simpler. Blanchard was conscious now, and dripping from the pail of cold water which had made him conscious. His legs buckled under him as the guards released their hold. One of the guards struck him, and he stood wavering in front of Keller’s desk.
“Oberleutnant von Keller,” the officer identified himself. “And this is M. Duval, journalist and reformed traitor.” He paused. “Well?” he snapped. “And your name, American?” He made the word an epithet beside which Schweinehund would have seemed endearing.
Blanchard said nothing.
Keller smiled. “We can take up your questioning later. At leisure... Meanwhile I want you to hear what we know of your subversive plots, so that you may see how futile it is to oppose the Master Race, Go on, Duval.”
Duval hesitated and looked about him.
“Your fierce terrible men are not here,” Keller laughed. “You are safe — and I trust you remember the matter of the reward. Come: who is the local leader of your so-called Underground?”
“M... monsieur Lenormand,” Duval stammered.
Keller started from his seat. “Lenormand? Impossible. You’re lying, you French dog. The chief of police is our friend, our ally. He has been invaluable to us. He—”
A strange voice barked, “Guard! Go to the prefecture at once and arrest M. Lenormand. I want him here.”
Max Blanchard’s eyes turned to the doorway. A tall slender man stood there in a resplendent black uniform. His moustache was meticulously waxed, and his waist could have resulted only from a corset. One even suspected a touch of makeup on the face; the fresh cheeks, scars and all, were so much younger than the shrewd old eyes.
“I give orders—” the Oberleutnant started to say.
The newcomer was drawing off his gloves with negligent grace. “Oberst Linnaus,” he said tersely. “You were not expecting me?”
“I beg the Colonel’s pardon. I—”
“I know. Oberleutnant von Keller. Standard brand. Devotion to duty, ninety-five per cent. Devotion to the Fatherland, one hundred. To the party, one hundred and five. Imagination, zero.”
Keller stiffened, and visibly repressed his retort.
“Did I understand this Frenchman correctly?” Linnaus went on. “Did he tell you that you have been putting your trust in a traiter?”
“So he says, Herr Oberst.”
“He says? God in heaven, Lieutenant, have you no flair for your own profession? You have been trusting, I gather, a police chief named Lenormand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An old man? Even older than I? Thin and stooped? Sparse gray goatee? Formerly chief of the Sûreté in Paris?”
Keller nodded yes to each of the questions. Colonel Linnaus threw his head back and laughed a harsh high laugh. “Within five minutes,” he announced, “that guard will return to tell us that M. Lenormand is not at the prefecture. He will not be found at his house either. You will search in vain for him for months, while he laughs at you.”
Keller bridled. “I may not, as the Colonel says, have imagination; but I am efficient. Any man who lives I can arrest. What is this Lenormand? A ghost?”
The Colonel smiled. “A ghost? No... not quite...”
“Then why can I not arrest him?”
“Because,” Colonel Linnaus said slowly, “no one has ever successfully arrested Arsène Lupin.”
Max Blanchard blinked his fever-reddened eyes. He saw the startled face of M. Duval, the puzzlement of the Oberleutnant. “Arsène Lupin?” Keller asked.
“You may check the records in Paris,” Linnaus said. “M. Lenormand[2] was indeed Chief of the Sûreté, in 1906 if my memory is correct. He was also one of the many avatars of that multifaceted genius whom we know as Lupin.”
“But Arsène Lupin...” Keller protested. “He’s not real. He’s in a book.”
“Our Fuehrer,” the Colonel said gravely, “has been in many books, and shall figure in more till the end of the making of books.”
“That’s history. But Lupin is in novels.”
“There is a worthy novel of Ewers’ entitled Horst Wessel. Does that make you doubt the true life of our hero?”
“But even if he’s real, he must be dead by now. You said 1906?”
Colonel Linnaus sighed lightly. “Let me explain, while we wait for the guard’s report to confirm me. These French... they are a strange people. I do not understand them well. When I was working in Norway with Jonas Lie, I knew where I was. I am a collateral descendant of Linnaeus, and my Norse mother named me Peer to honor Ibsen’s hero. Yes, I understand the Scandinavians, even those who most bitterly resist us, as I understand our own race, but these French...—”
2
Maurice Leblanc’s 813; Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1911, first U.S. edition, orange cloth.