“There is something in them that we cannot touch. Something that can be said only in their own language. Esprit... élan... panache... gloire... How can one translate a single one of those words into German? And all those words mean: Arsine Lupin. He is madness and wit and grace and moon-touched audacity. He is—”
The Colonel paused, coughed, and resumed more soberly: “He is the effrontery of the individual who dares oppose himself to the State. He is the outrage of anarchy, the fallacy of individualism. And he refuses to die.
“There was a French legend that in times of great peril the horn of Roland would sound and Charlemagne himself would return to save France. Well, the times of great peril came for the contemptible Third Republic. But the horn that sounded was the claxon of a Paris cab, and there returned... Arsène Lupin.”
For a moment there was silence in the room. Blanchard saw the Colonel’s painted face lit with a half-admiration for the man he must pursue and destroy. Then a guard came in, heiled, and said, “Herr Oberst, M. Lenormand is nowhere to be found.”
Keller looked convinced. Still he protested. “But he worked for us—”
“There is no limit,” Linnaus snapped, “to the man’s highfantastic enterprise. Did he not make himself head of the very Sûreté that had sworn his capture? Did he not once force our Kaiser himself to become his accomplice in an escape? Working ‘for’ us would suit his humor. And what did he do for you?”
“He betrayed de Gaullists, Underground workers—”
“— whom you had hitherto considered loyal collaborators? Of course. Ass! Cannot you see what he was doing? He simply turned genuine collaborators over to you and tricked you into executing them. Ah, the devil is sly. And he has never met his match. What was Ganimard?[3] A plodding bourgeois. Herlock Sholmes?[4] An Englishman. Never has he been faced with a detective of his own caliber... until now.”
Colonel Linnaus’ thin lips curved into a smile, twisting his saber scars into the grimace of a sadistic clown. “First these,” he said. “The American and your helpful betrayer of the Underground. And then... Arsène Lupin!”
Fever and all, Max Blanchard shuddered. There was a chill resolution about this ancient dandy that made his spine crawl.
“Shall I summon Grussmann?” Keller asked. “He has a skill all his own in extracting information.”
“I am not without skill myself,” Colonel Linnaus said coldly. “You may leave us, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Keller’s voice hardened. “Does not the Colonel presume upon his rank? May I remind him that these are my prisoners?”
Linnaus slapped his black glove against his palm. “May I remind the Lieutenant that these men should yield valuable information, and that one does not care to reveal that information before a self-avowed colleague of Arsène Lupin?”
Keller said stubbornly, “I stand upon my rights as senior in command of this station.”
Linnaus began to draw on his gloves. “There will be time later to consider your proper reward. Poland, I imagine; the death rate will be high there — the Red Army draws near. At present I have no time to palter.” He turned to the door and shouted a command outside. “These men go with me.”
Max Blanchard saw Duval’s face turn ashen and almost sympathized with the traitor. The evil efficiency of Oberleutnant von Keller had been dangerous enough; but this rouged and scarred old man who added imagination to his evil...
There was only one solution. Blanchard knew too much to take chances on what he might reveal under torture or in the delirium of fever. He groped in his bloodstained rags for the capsule of cyanide, praying that his captors had overlooked it. If only he could somehow share it with Duval before that craven revealed all the secrets of the Underground...
His fingers found the minute secret pocket and closed on something that was not a capsule. The cyanide had been removed, and in its place was a wad of paper. The two Gestapo men were too intent on their private duel to notice him closely. He unfolded the paper in his palm and glanced down at it. It bore two words:
Courage!
Lupin
Blanchard’s head swam as the guards lifted him and bore him to Colonel Linnaus’ waiting black automobile.
Oberleutnant Siegmund von Keller’s eyes were bitter as he watched the car drive away. Already he was planning his revenge upon the highhanded Colonel. His brother Wölfling von Keller was excellently placed in the higher councils of the Party. A few words whispered in the proper ears... But first he must put on record his own efficiency.
He phoned his immediate superior, Colonel Grimmhausen, and made his report. The local police chief, M. Lenormand, had been unmasked (by Oberleutnant von Keller, of course) as that notorious criminal Arsène Lupin. A general alarm should be sent out at once for his capture. Meanwhile the Oberleutnant had secured the services of an invaluable traitor who could reveal all the facts and names of the Underground, and had trapped an American spy, the nature of whose mission one might surmise.
Colonel Grimmhausen was pleased. He said this was but brave. And then he asked, “The traitor. The American. You have them there?”
“Colonel Linnaus has undertaken their questioning himself, in a manner contrary to regulations. If the Colonel would authorize me—”
“Colonel who?”
“Linnaus.”
“Don’t know him. Where did he come from?”
“He — Will the Colonel hold the line a moment? — Yes?”
The guard heiled and said, “Colonel Linnaus asked me to give the Lieutenant this message.”
Keller slit open the note and looked at the brief text and list of names.
“Shouldn’t let valuable men like that out of your sight, Keller,” Colonel Grimmhausen was growling into the phone. “Hello? Hello? Are you there, Keller?”
But Keller did not answer. He was staring at the message, which read:
Arsène Lupin was always fond of the anagrammatic nom de guerre. Among his anagrams are Paul Sernine,[5] Luis Perenna,[6] and
Your servant,
The Garnet Ring
by M. Lindsay
The first book of detective stories published on this planet was Edgar Allan Poe’s TALES, which appeared in 1845 and contained the great Dupin trilogy. Incredible as it may seem today, Poe’s experiments in fictional ratiocination fell on deaf ears: they were not popular with contemporary readers and they failed to impress contemporary writers. For consider: in the seventeen years that followed the first edition of Poe’s TALES, not a single book was published in the United States that contained a detective story!
In the eighteenth year A.P. (After Poe) — in 1863 — two books finally appeared to crack the long silence. One was STRANGE STORIES OF A DETECTIVE; OR, CURIOSITIES OF CRIME, by “a retired member of the detective police,” brought out by Dick & Fitzgerald of New York; the other was THE AMBER GODS AND OTHER STORIES, by Harriet Prescott (Spofford), issued by Ticknor and Fields of Boston, and containing one detective story called “In a Cellar” Two years later, in 1863, Dick & Fitzgerald published LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NEW YORK DETECTIVE: THE PRIVATE RECORD OF J.B., written by a Dr. John B. Williams, and containing no less than 22 exploits of detective James Brampton, This book has barely survived the years — have you ever even heard of sleuth James Brampton?
3
Maurice Leblanc’s THE EXPLOITS OF ARSÈNE LUPIN; New York: Harper & Brothers, 1907, first U.S. edition, dark blue pictorial cloth.
4
Maurice Leblanc’s THE BLONDE LADY; New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1910, first U.S. edition, dark brown cloth with illustration pasted on.
5
Maurice Leblanc’s 813; Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1911, first U.S. edition, orange cloth.
6
Maurice Leblanc’s THE TEETH OF THE TIGER; Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1914, first U.S. edition, dark blue pictorial cloth.