Arsène Lupin intervenes

The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s imposing residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a moment later the maid brought in an envelope.

“The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four o’clock.”

Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it gingerly between her finger-tips, and read:

Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some thirty years—still retained a measure of good looks, although she was now thick-set, past middle-age and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and at times harsh expression had yet a certain candor which was not without charm.

As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house with its luxurious appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances and in all the pomp and circumstance of her social position. Behind her back society gossips whispered that Valérie had been guilty of various rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even hardened Parisian scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There were those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated getting a divorce.

Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with heart trouble, and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin shoulders and asked him, rather absent-mindedly, how he was feeling, before proceeding to her boudoir.

Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built, square-shouldered man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and shiny, which hung in depressed creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young, but the rugged energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye indifferently, his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a boyish gaiety.

“Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort to keep the scorn out of her voice.

He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand with a flourish, following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible click of the tongue—suggesting his appreciation of the perfumed flavor.

“Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter I stopped just long enough to give my coat a brush ... that was all....”

The baronne wondered for a moment whether she should show her visitor the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man of rank, and, a little taken aback, she merely said:

“I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather delicate and complicated matters....”

He gave a self-satisfied smirk.

“Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing through and into things—and people.”

While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor conveyed a suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and his powers that it was impossible not to share his confidence, and Valérie felt herself coming under the influence of this unknown common detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau. Resenting the feeling, she interrupted him:

“Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms....”

“Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett.

“But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for glory?”

“The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely free.”

She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some remuneration—your out-of-pocket expenses, at least.”

“A tip?” he sneered.

She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet.

“I cannot possibly ...” she began.

“Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame la baronne, I shall see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may be able to render you.”

Was there a note of menace in the suave voice?

Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this obscure remark? How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really, this Jim Barnett aroused in her almost the same sort of dread, the same queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might feel if suddenly confronted with a burglar! He might even be ... yes, he was quite possibly some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had better do. Ring for her maid? But he had so far dominated her that, regardless of the consequences, she found herself submitting passively to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply to his agency. Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she spoke frankly and to the point.

“It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of bridge with some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as usual. About four o’clock—at ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke me and then I heard a bang which sounded to me like a door closing. It came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates with my bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase. I’m not nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here and turned on the light. The room was empty, but this small show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and several of the curios and statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and found him reading in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very much upset and rang for the butler, who immediately made a thorough search of the house. In the morning we called in the police.”

“And the result?” asked Barnett.

“They could find no trace of the arrival or departure of any intruder. How he entered and got away is a mystery. But under a footstool among the débris of the curios some one found half a candle, and an awl set in a very dirty wooden handle. Now on the previous afternoon a plumber had been to repair the taps of the washbasin in my husband’s dressing-room. The man’s employer, when questioned, identified the tool and, moreover, the other half of the candle was found in his shop.”

“On that point, then,” interrupted Jim Barnett, “you have definite evidence.”

“Yes, but against that is the indisputable and disconcerting fact that the investigation also proved that the workman in question took the six o’clock express to Brussels, arriving there at midnight—four hours before the disturbance which awakened me.”

“Really? Has the man returned?”

“No. They lost track of him at Antwerp, where he was spending money lavishly.”

“Is that all you can tell me?”