The Arsene Lupin MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан

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      But, during the past few years, a new sensation had been added to the life of the transatlantic traveler. The little floating island is now attached to the world from which it was once quite free. A bond united them, even in the very heart of the watery wastes of the Atlantic. That bond is the wireless telegraph, by means of which we receive news in the most mysterious manner. We know full well that the message is not transported by the medium of a hollow wire. No, the mystery is even more inexplicable, more romantic, and we must have recourse to the wings of the air in order to explain this new miracle. During the first day of the voyage, we felt that we were being followed, escorted, preceded even, by that distant voice, which, from time to time, whispered to one of us a few words from the receding world. Two friends spoke to me. Ten, twenty others sent gay or somber words of parting to other passengers.

      On the second day, at a distance of five hundred miles from the French coast, in the midst of a violent storm, we received the following message by means of the wireless telegraph:

      “Arsène Lupin is on your vessel, first cabin, blonde hair, wound right fore-arm, traveling alone under name of R—”

      At that moment, a terrible flash of lightning rent the stormy skies. The electric waves were interrupted. The remainder of the dispatch never reached us. Of the name under which Arsène Lupin was concealing himself, we knew only the initial.

      If the news had been of some other character, I have no doubt that the secret would have been carefully guarded by the telegraphic operator as well as by the officers of the vessel. But it was one of those events calculated to escape from the most rigorous discretion. The same day, no one knew how, the incident became a matter of current gossip and every passenger was aware that the famous Arsène Lupin was hiding in our midst.

      Arsène Lupin in our midst! the irresponsible burglar whose exploits had been narrated in all the newspapers during the past few months! the mysterious individual with whom Ganimard, our shrewdest detective, had been engaged in an implacable conflict amidst interesting and picturesque surroundings. Arsène Lupin, the eccentric gentleman who operates only in the chateaux and salons, and who, one night, entered the residence of Baron Schormann, but emerged empty-handed, leaving, however, his card on which he had scribbled these words: “Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar, will return when the furniture is genuine.” Arsène Lupin, the man of a thousand disguises: in turn a chauffer, detective, bookmaker, Russian physician, Spanish bull-fighter, commercial traveler, robust youth, or decrepit old man.

      Then consider this startling situation: Arsène Lupin was wandering about within the limited bounds of a transatlantic steamer; in that very small corner of the world, in that dining saloon, in that smoking room, in that music room! Arsène Lupin was, perhaps, this gentleman…or that one…my neighbor at the table…the sharer of my stateroom.…

      “And this condition of affairs will last for five days!” exclaimed Miss Nelly Underdown, next morning. “It is unbearable! I hope he will be arrested.”

      Then, addressing me, she added:

      “And you, Monsieur d’Andrézy, you are on intimate terms with the captain; surely you know something?”

      I should have been delighted had I possessed any information that would interest Miss Nelly. She was one of those magnificent creatures who inevitably attract attention in every assembly. Wealth and beauty form an irresistible combination, and Nelly possessed both.

      Educated in Paris under the care of a French mother, she was now going to visit her father, the millionaire Underdown of Chicago. She was accompanied by one of her friends, Lady Jerland.

      At first, I had decided to open a flirtation with her; but, in the rapidly growing intimacy of the voyage, I was soon impressed by her charming manner and my feelings became too deep and reverential for a mere flirtation. Moreover, she accepted my attentions with a certain degree of favor. She condescended to laugh at my witticisms and display an interest in my stories. Yet I felt that I had a rival in the person of a young man with quiet and refined tastes; and it struck me, at times, that she preferred his taciturn humor to my Parisian frivolity. He formed one in the circle of admirers that surrounded Miss Nelly at the time she addressed to me the foregoing question. We were all comfortably seated in our deck-chairs. The storm of the preceding evening had cleared the sky. The weather was now delightful.

      “I have no definite knowledge, mademoiselle,” I replied, “but can not we, ourselves, investigate the mystery quite as well as the detective Ganimard, the personal enemy of Arsène Lupin?”

      “Oh! oh! you are progressing very fast, monsieur.”

      “Not at all, mademoiselle. In the first place, let me ask, do you find the problem a complicated one?”

      “Very complicated.”

      “Have you forgotten the key we hold for the solution to the problem?”

      “What key?”

      “In the first place, Lupin calls himself Monsieur R—.”

      “Rather vague information,” she replied.

      “Secondly, he is traveling alone.”

      “Does that help you?” she asked.

      “Thirdly, he is blonde.”

      “Well?”

      “Then we have only to peruse the passenger-list, and proceed by process of elimination.”

      I had that list in my pocket. I took it out and glanced through it. Then I remarked:

      “I find that there are only thirteen men on the passenger-list whose names begin with the letter R.”

      “Only thirteen?”

      “Yes, in the first cabin. And of those thirteen, I find that nine of them are accompanied by women, children or servants. That leaves only four who are traveling alone. First, the Marquis de Raverdan—”

      “Secretary to the American Ambassador,” interrupted Miss Nelly. “I know him.”

      “Major Rawson,” I continued.

      “He is my uncle,” some one said.

      “Mon. Rivolta.”

      “Here!” exclaimed an Italian, whose face was concealed beneath a heavy black beard.

      Miss Nelly burst into laughter, and exclaimed: “That gentleman can scarcely be called a blonde.”

      “Very well, then,” I said, “we are forced to the conclusion that the guilty party is the last one on the list.”

      “What is his name?”

      “Mon. Rozaine. Does anyone know him?”

      No one answered. But Miss Nelly turned to the taciturn young man, whose attentions to her had annoyed me, and said:

      “Well, Monsieur Rozaine, why do you not answer?”

      All eyes were now turned upon him. He was a blonde. I must confess that I myself felt a shock of surprise, and the profound silence that followed her question indicated that the others present also viewed the situation with a feeling of sudden alarm. However, the idea was an absurd СКАЧАТЬ