The Arsene Lupin MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
him up. He was a man of about forty years of age with a very dark complexion, lively features, and whose correct dress, slightly frayed, proclaimed a taste that contrasted strangely with his rather vulgar manners. Without any preamble, he said to me—in a rough voice that confirmed my suspicion as to his social position:
“Monsieur, whilst in a café, I picked up a copy of the `Gil Blas,’ and read your article. It interested me very much.
“Thank you.”
“And here I am.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, to talk to you. Are all the facts related by you quite correct?”
“Absolutely so.”
“Well, in that case, I can, perhaps, give you some information.”
“Very well; proceed.”
“No, not yet. First, I must be sure that the facts are exactly as you have related them.”
“I have given you my word. What further proof do you want?”
“I must remain alone in this room.”
“I do not understand,” I said, with surprise.
“It’s an idea that occurred to me when reading your article. Certain details established an extraordinary coincidence with another case that came under my notice. If I am mistaken, I shall say nothing more. And the only means of ascertaining the truth is by my remaining in the room alone.”
What was at the bottom of this proposition? Later, I recalled that the man was exceedingly nervous; but, at the same time, although somewhat astonished, I found nothing particularly abnormal about the man or the request he had made. Moreover, my curiosity was aroused; so I replied:
“Very well. How much time do you require?”
“Oh! three minutes—not longer. Three minutes from now, I will rejoin you.”
I left the room, and went downstairs. I took out my watch. One minute passed. Two minutes. Why did I feel so depressed? Why did those moments seem so solemn and weird? Two minutes and a half.… Two minutes and three quarters. Then I heard a pistol shot.
I bounded up the stairs and entered the room. A cry of horror escaped me. In the middle of the room, the man was lying on his left side, motionless. Blood was flowing from a wound in his forehead. Near his hand was a revolver, still smoking.
But, in addition to this frightful spectacle, my attention was attracted by another object. At two feet from the body, upon the floor, I saw a playing-card. It was the seven of hearts. I picked it up. The lower extremity of each of the seven spots was pierced with a small round hole.
* * * *
A half-hour later, the commissary of police arrived, then the coroner and the chief of the Sûreté, Mon. Dudouis. I had been careful not to touch the corpse. The preliminary inquiry was very brief, and disclosed nothing. There were no papers in the pockets of the deceased; no name upon his clothes; no initial upon his linen; nothing to give any clue to his identity. The room was in the same perfect order as before. The furniture had not been disturbed. Yet this man had not come to my house solely for the purpose of killing himself, or because he considered my place the most convenient one for his suicide! There must have been a motive for his act of despair, and that motive was, no doubt, the result of some new fact ascertained by him during the three minutes he was alone.
What was that fact? What had he seen? What frightful secret had been revealed to him? There was no answer to these questions. But, at the last moment, an incident occurred that appeared to us of considerable importance. As two policemen were raising the body to place it on a stretcher, the left hand thus being disturbed, a crumpled card fell from it. The card bore these words: “Georges Andermatt, 37 Rue de Berry.”
What did that mean? Georges Andermatt was a rich banker in Paris, the founder and president of the Metal Exchange which had given such an impulse to the metallic industries in France. He lived in princely style; was the possessor of numerous automobiles, coaches, and an expensive racing-stable. His social affairs were very select, and Madame Andermatt was noted for her grace and beauty.
“Can that be the man’s name?” I asked.
The chief of the Sûreté leaned over him.
“It is not he. Mon. Andermatt is a thin man, and slightly grey.”
“But why this card?”
“Have you a telephone, monsieur?”
“Yes, in the vestibule. Come with me.”
He looked in the directory, and then asked for number 415.21.
“Is Mon. Andermatt at home?… Please tell him that Mon. Dudouis wished him to come at once to 102 Boulevard Maillot. Very important.”
Twenty minutes later, Mon. Andermatt arrived in his automobile. After the circumstances had been explained to him, he was taken in to see the corpse. He displayed considerable emotion, and spoke, in a low tone, and apparently unwillingly:
“Etienne Varin,” he said.
“You know him?”
“No…or, at least, yes…by sight only. His brother.…”
“Ah! he has a brother?”
“Yes, Alfred Varin. He came to see me once on some matter of business.… I forget what it was.”
“Where does he live?”
“The two brothers live together—rue de Provence, I think.”
“Do you know any reason why he should commit suicide?”
“None.”
“He held a card in his hand. It was your card with your address.”
“I do not understand that. It must have been there by some chance that will be disclosed by the investigation.”
A very strange chance, I thought; and I felt that the others entertained the same impression.
I discovered the same impression in the papers next day, and amongst all my friends with whom I discussed the affair. Amid the mysteries that enveloped it, after the double discovery of the seven of hearts pierced with seven holes, after the two inscrutable events that had happened in my house, that visiting card promised to throw some light on the affair. Through it, the truth may be revealed. But, contrary to our expectations, Mon. Andermatt furnished no explanation. He said:
“I have told you all I know. What more can I do? I am greatly surprised that my card should be found in such a place, and I sincerely hope the point will be cleared up.”
It was not. The official investigation established that the Varin brothers were of Swiss origin, had led a shifting life under various names, frequenting gambling resorts, associating with a band of foreigners who had been dispersed by the police after a series of robberies in which their participation was established only by their flight. At number 24 rue de Provence, where the Varin brothers had lived six years before, no one knew what had become of them.
I confess that, for my part, the case seemed to me so complicated and so mysterious that I did not think the problem would ever be solved, so I concluded to waste no more time upon it. But Jean Daspry, whom I frequently met at that period, became more and more interested in it each day. It was he who pointed out to me that item from a foreign newspaper which was reproduced and commented upon by the entire press. It was as follows:
“The first trial of a new model of submarine boat, which is expected to revolutionize naval warfare, will be given in presence of the former Emperor at a place that will be kept secret until the last minute. An indiscretion has revealed its name; it is called `The Seven-of-Hearts.’”
The Seven-of-Hearts! That presented a new problem. Could a connection be established between the name of the sub-marine and the incidents which we have related? But a connection of what nature? What had happened here could