The Arsene Lupin MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан

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      The inspection brought them to the little door in the wall that served as an entrance for the visitors to the ruins. It opened on a sunk road running between the park wall and a copsewood containing some abandoned quarries. M. Filleul stooped forward: the dust of the road bore marks of anti-skid pneumatic tires. Raymonde and Victor remembered that, after the shot, they had seemed to hear the throb of a motor-car.

      The magistrate suggested:

      “The man must have joined his confederates.”

      “Impossible!” cried Victor. “I was here while mademoiselle and Albert still had him in view.”

      “Nonsense, he must be somewhere! Outside or inside: we have no choice!”

      “He is here,” the servants insisted, obstinately.

      The magistrate shrugged his shoulders and went back to the house in a more or less sullen mood. There was no doubt that it was an unpromising case. A theft in which nothing had been stolen; an invisible prisoner: what could be less satisfactory?

      It was late. M. de Gesvres asked the officials and the two journalists to stay to lunch. They ate in silence and then M. Filleul returned to the drawing room, where he questioned the servants. But the sound of a horse’s hoofs came from the courtyard and, a moment after, the gendarme who had been sent to Dieppe entered.

      “Well, did you see the hatter?” exclaimed the magistrate, eager at last to obtain some positive information.

      “I saw M. Maigret. The cap was sold to a cab-driver.”

      “A cab-driver!”

      “Yes, a driver who stopped his fly before the shop and asked to be supplied with a yellow-leather chauffeur’s cap for one of his customers. This was the only one left. He paid for it, without troubling about the size, and drove off. He was in a great hurry.”

      “What sort of fly was it?”

      “A calash.”

      “And on what day did this happen?”

      “On what day? Why, today, at eight o’clock this morning.”

      “This morning? What are you talking about?”

      “The cap was bought this morning.”

      “But that’s impossible, because it was found last night in the park. If it was found there, it must have been there; and, consequently, it must have been bought before.”

      “The hatter told me it was bought this morning.”

      There was a moment of general bewilderment. The nonplussed magistrate strove to understand. Suddenly, he started, as though struck with a gleam of light:

      “Fetch the cabman who brought us here this morning! The man who drove the calash! Fetch him at once!”

      The sergeant of gendarmes and his subordinate ran off to the stables. In a few minutes, the sergeant returned alone.

      “Where’s the cabman?”

      “He asked for food in the kitchen, ate his lunch and then—”

      “And then—?”

      “He went off.”

      “With his fly?”

      “No. Pretending that he wanted to go and see a relation at Ouville, he borrowed the groom’s bicycle. Here are his hat and greatcoat.”

      “But did he leave bare-headed?”

      “No, he took a cap from his pocket and put it on.”

      “A cap?”

      “Yes, a yellow leather cap, it seems.”

      “A yellow leather cap? Why, no, we’ve got it here!”

      “That’s true, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, but his is just like it.”

      The deputy sniggered:

      “Very funny! Most amusing! There are two caps—One, the real one, which constituted our only piece of evidence, has gone off on the head of the sham flyman! The other, the false one, is in your hands. Oh, the fellow has had us nicely!”

      “Catch him! Fetch him back!” cried M. Filleul. “Two of your men on horseback, Sergeant Quevillon, and at full speed!”

      “He is far away by this time,” said the deputy.

      “He can be as far as he pleases, but still we must lay hold of him.”

      “I hope so; but I think, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your efforts should be concentrated here above all. Would you mind reading this scrap of paper, which I have just found in the pocket of the coat?”

      “Which coat?”

      “The driver’s.”

      And the deputy prosecutor handed M. Filleul a piece of paper, folded in four, containing these few words written in pencil, in a more or less common hand:

      “Woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!”

      The incident caused a certain stir.

      “A word to the wise!” muttered the deputy. “We are now forewarned.”

      “Monsieur le Comte,” said the examining magistrate, “I beg you not to be alarmed. Nor you either, mademoiselle. This threat is of no importance, as the police are on the spot. We shall take every precaution and I will answer for your safety. As for you, gentlemen. I rely on your discretion. You have been present at this inquiry, thanks to my excessive kindness toward the Press, and it would be making me an ill return—”

      He interrupted himself, as though an idea had struck him, looked at the two young men, one after the other, and, going up to the first, asked:

      “What paper do you represent, sir?”

      “The Journal de Rouen.”

      “Have you your credentials?”

      “Here.”

      The card was in order. There was no more to be said. M. Filleul turned to the other reporter:

      “And you, sir?”

      “I?”

      “Yes, you: what paper do you belong to?”

      “Why, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I write for a number of papers—all over the place—”

      “Your credentials?”

      “I haven’t any.”

      “Oh! How is that?”

      “For СКАЧАТЬ