The Mysterious Mansion E-Book

Leblanc Maurice

• Herausgeber: Raanan Editeur
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The Mysterious Mansion (also known as The Mélamare Mystery) is the eighteenth novel in the Arsene Lupin series of books by Maurice Leblanc. The book tells the story of a diamond theft and the kidnapping of Régine Aubry, an actress. Arsene Lupin, under the pseudonym Jean d'Enneris, is hired by jewel magnate Van Houben in an attempt to solve the crime. The mystery deepens however when a second kidnapping takes place, and a history of rivalry and hatred between two families is uncovered.

Leseprobe

SOMMMAIRE

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

INTRODUCTION

|1|. ENTER RÉGINE !

|2|. INTRODUCING ARLETTE

|3|. D’ENNERIS DETECTS

|4|. BÉCHOUX THE BLOODHOUND

|5|. THE HUNT IS UP !

|6|. THE MÉLAMARE SECRET

|7|. FAGERAULT TAKES A HAND

|8|. FIRE !

|9|. ARLETTE ENGAGED

|10|. WITH THE GLOVES OFF

|11|. IN LA VALNÉRY’S DAY

|12|. ARSENE LUPIN

EPILOGUE : ARLETTE AND JEAN

MAURICE LEBLANC

|14|

ARSENE LUPIN

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

|THE MÉLAMARE MYSTERY|

|LA DEMEURE MYSTÉRIEUSE|

1929

Raanan Éditeur

Digital book885| Publishing 1

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

INTRODUCTION

ALL the world knows the exploits of Arsène Lupin, man of mystery, adventurer, and private detective—when it suits him! But of Lupin’s own personality not so much is known. He is obviously a man of infinite ingenuity; of iron will and determination; of irresponsible gaiety and imperturbable good-humour. He has a genuine fondness for poetic justice, as opposed to the brand represented by the Paris police force. He is whimsical, ironical, curiously detached—in fact, that’s half the secret of his success, that he never allows his life to be linked with the lives of other people. He is always the free-lance, playing a lone hand, trusting no one, relying solely on his own wits to extricate himself from the most perilous situation. For other people, including the public who delight to read of his escapades, he is always an urbane enigma, taking foul weather and fair with the same bland unconcern.

But now, a corner of the veil of mystery is lifted. For the first time, readers will find in this new adventure of the master-crook some indication of the Man behind the Mask. Arsène Lupin goes through life under a hundred aliases, a shadowy figure. But he is a human being like his fellows and can be moved by love and fear like other men.

As “Jean d’Enneris,” Lupin finds himself engaged in a curious duel with his old opponent, Chief Inspector Béchoux. The Mélamare Mystery finds Lupin working both for and against the police—rather in his “Barnett” manner. But whereas in previous cases of the kind he has had no personal interest in the protagonists, this time he finds himself losing his heart to the delightful little mannequin, Arlette Mazolle. At once, the case is much more than an affair of missing diamonds. Lupin must solve the mystery, but in doing so, he must protect Arlette. He is distraught to realize that she shares the dangers of the game. He is further harassed by the advent of a rival, almost as enigmatical as himself, on whom Arlette appears to bestow her affections!

So, though the beginning of the story finds “Jean d’Enneris” gaily flirting with Régine the actress in a box at the Opéra, the end finds him in a boat on the Seine with quite a different companion. But to arrive at this happy issue, he has had to wander in a maze of misunderstanding and dark intrigue; to solve a grim secret; and himself to face death with his beloved—to be rescued therefrom by his hated rival!

The Curse of a Century overshadowed the House of Mélamare, and struck chill on all who strove to thwart its purpose of evil—on “Jean d’Enneris” and Inspector Béchoux; on Van Houben, the diamond merchant, and Régine; on the Adrien and Gilberte de Mélamare; and—on Arlette.

|1|. ENTER RÉGINE !

THE Parisian is ever ready to put his hand in his pocket provided he is given the opportunity to give gaily. A charitable campaign with a new idea bears all before it. The idea in the present instance was a Dress Display at the Opéra. It was to be in the nature of a competition, presented between a couple of ballets. Twenty lovely ladies of stage and society would in turn display the creations of well-known couturiers. The audience were to vote for the three most attractive toilettes. The philanthropical point of the entertainment would be the division of the box-office receipts between the three ateliers responsible for the three prize-winning models. And that would mean a fortnight on the Riviera for a limited number of lucky midinettes.

The enterprise was a success from the outset. Books of tickets found enthusiastic purchasers, and in forty-eight hours the theatre was sold out down to standing-room at the back of the gallery. On the evening of the performance smart cars drove up in a steady stream. The foyer was packed with a brilliant throng. The air buzzed with talk and laughter and through it all sounded a note of undisguised curiosity.

This curiosity was perhaps a trifle indiscreet. It was certainly Parisian. Every one knew that the peerless Régine Aubry, a second-rate singer in second-rate revue, was going to display her remarkable beauty in a Valmenet frock, over which she would wear a marvellous tunic sewn with priceless diamonds.

The highly intriguing problem under discussion was: had the peerless Régine Aubry, for months the particular quarry of Van Houben, the gem merchant,—had she yielded to the ardour of the “King of Diamonds”? It certainly looked like it. In an interview with the Press on the preceding day, the peerless Régine had said:

“To-morrow I am wearing diamonds; perhaps I should say I shall be dressed in them. In my bedroom at this moment there are four men, specially chosen by Van Houben, working against time to sew the diamonds on to a silver corselet and tunic. Valmenet is there in person to supervise the work. May you write about me as the Queen of Diamonds? Oh, you must ask Van Houben that.”

And now Régine sat in the stage box at the Opéra, waiting for her call, while the crowd passed and repassed just below as before a goddess in her shrine. Régine certainly merited the epithet of “peerless” with which her name was always coupled. Her features combined a classical nobility and purity with that plasticity and elusive grace that charm the modern connoisseur of beauty. An ermine cloak veiled her famous shoulders and hid the marvellous tunic. She was radiant and smiling—a very gracious goddess. The whisper went round the theatre that three detectives were on guard in the corridor.

At the back of the box stood two men, their shirt-fronts gleaming in the shadow. One was the “King of Diamonds,” big Van Houben, whose bright, glancing eyes and loose-lipped, crooked mouth gave him an odd resemblance to an over-grown faun. Nobody seemed to know just where Van Houben’s money came from. At one time he had traded in imitation pearls. Then he had gone to the East, to return a good while later in the guise of a wealthy diamond merchant. But the transformation was as unexplained as it was impressive.

Régine’s other companion stood with his face slightly averted—it was just discernible as that of a young man with strong, clean-cut features. Actually, he was Jean d’Enneris, a celebrity whose fame eclipsed even that of the peerless Régine. Three months only had gone by since he landed from the motor-boat in which he had made a solitary round-the-world cruise. Van Houben, who had just made his acquaintance, had introduced him to the “Queen of Diamonds.”

The curtain went up on the first ballet, which was performed in the midst of general inattention. The half-hearted applause was succeeded by an interval. Régine, ready for her call, stood with the two men at the back of the box. To Van Houben she was distinctly terse in her remarks, but she seemed out to please d’Enneris and was sweetness itself to the young man.

“Look here, Régine,” said Van Houben, irritated by her tactics, “you are giving the boy a swelled head. After a whole year on the rolling wave a chap’s likely to be more than a spot inflammable!”

He cackled loudly in self-appreciative mirth.

“Fancy, now,” observed Régine smoothly, “if you weren’t always the first to laugh, I should never know when you were trying to be funny.”

Van Houben heaved a sigh, and, assuming an air of mock tragedy,—

“Take my advice, old top,” he said to d’Enneris. “Keep your hair on over that girl. I lost mine, and look where it’s landed me. Treats me like a blooming bit of stone, she does—precious stone,” he added, with a leer, and turned a clumsy pirouette on his friend’s glossy pump.

By now the dress display had begun. Each competitor was allowed about two minutes to hold the stage. For this brief while she walked up and down, sat on a couch, leaned against a pillar, and posed and turned about in the usual manner of a mannequin on parade.

As the time drew near for her turn, Régine began taking leave of her friends.

“I am in a frightful funk,” she said. “I shall break my heart if I don’t take first prize! Who are you going to vote for, Monsieur d’Enneris?”

“For the fairest,” he answered, bowing low.

“I am talking about the frock. . . .”

“Mere frocks mean nothing to me. What does matter is the beauty and charm of the wearer.”

“Oh well,” said Régine generously, “if you’re interested in beauty and charm, just take a look at the girl they’re clapping this minute. She’s a mannequin at Chernitz’—there’s been a lot about her in the papers—she designed that dress herself and the other girls in the workroom made it for her. She’s a peach of a kid.”

Régine was right. The young girl on the stage had a wild-flower grace and simplicity in striking contrast to the assurance of the other competitors that evening. Her movements were graceful and supple. The frock she wore, severely plain but exquisitely cut, revealed perfect taste coupled with real originality.

“Let’s see—Arlette Mazolle, isn’t it?” said Jean d’Enneris, looking at the programme.

“Yes,” said Régine. And she added, without a hint of envy or malice: “If I were on the selection committee, I’d see they put that kid Arlette Mazolle top of the lot.”

Van Houben promptly registered indignation.

“Aren’t you forgetting your tunic, Régine? What’s that little mannequin’s get-up worth compared to your tunic?”

“It isn’t a question of the value——”

“Excuse me, Régine, but the value is just what counts. That’s why I want to impress on you to be jolly careful and keep a sharp look-out.”

“What for?”

“Sneak thieves. Just remember that tunic isn’t sewn with pea-nuts.”

He guffawed heartily, to Régine’s evident annoyance, but Jean d’Enneris backed him up.

“Van Houben’s quite right,” he said. “We ought really to go behind with you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” protested the lady. “Why, I am counting on you two as my dramatic critics. You’ve got to tell me whether I look an awkward Annie on the sacred boards of the Opéra.”

“Oh, well,” said Van Houben, “there’s no need to worry. Chief Inspector Béchoux of the Sûreté is responsible for this evening’s arrangements.”

“Oh, do you know Béchoux?” asked d’Enneris, on a note of genuine interest. “Let’s see, wasn’t Béchoux the Inspector who won fame by his collaboration with the mysterious Jim Barnett—The Barnett Agency man?”

“For goodness’ sake don’t mention Barnett to the Inspector or you’ll upset the poor chap thoroughly. Apparently Barnett made rings round Béchoux!”

“I think I remember hearing about it. . . . There was that business of the Man with the Gold Teeth, and the disappearance of the Twelve Little Nigger Boys. . . . So Béchoux is looking after your diamonds for you?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, Béchoux himself has had to leave Paris for a fortnight, but he’s detailed three ex-policemen to keep guard outside. Signed them up, and then sent the bill in to me!”

With a pitying smile, d’Enneris remarked: “My dear Van Houben, if you’d signed up an entire regiment you would still have been powerless against certain—er—tactics. . . .”

As they spoke, Régine swept out. Accompanied by her stalwart bodyguard of detectives, she passed from the front of the house into the wings. As she was the eleventh turn and there was a short interval after the tenth, a kind of breathless, solemn pause preceded her entrance. A hush fell on the brilliant audience. All eyes were riveted on the stage. Suddenly there came a great burst of clapping as Régine walked slowly down to the footlights and stood there for a second, motionless.

The crowd is always swayed by beauty. The peerless Régine and her splendid toilette were in that absolute harmony which defies analysis. But more compelling than even Régine’s own loveliness was the glitter of the jewels she wore. The silver tunic was caught in at the waist by a shining belt, and merged into a corselet which seemed entirely composed of diamonds. They were quite dazzling. Their glancing, reflecting lights played around the actress like a shimmering, rainbow flame.

“Good Lord,” said Van Houben, “those blessed stones are even finer than I thought. And doesn’t the little devil show them off! Fine filly, eh? Regular queen!” He waxed confidential. “See here, d’Enneris, I’ll let you into a secret. Can you guess why I tricked Régine out in all those sparklers? Well, one reason was that I wanted to mark an—auspicious occasion, shall we say? And the other reason was that it made an excuse for giving her a bodyguard, which pleases her and helps me keep track of her movements. It’s not that I’m scared of rivals, but I believe in keeping a weather eye open!”

He brought one big hand lightly down on his friend’s shoulder, as much as to say: “Keep off the grass, my lad. . . .”

D’Enneris hastened to reassure him.

“You needn’t worry about me,” he said. “I never make love to the wives or the—friends—of my friends.”

Van Houben frowned. D’Enneris had spoken lightly, but the remark lent itself to a possible distressing interpretation. Determined to set his mind at rest, he blurted out: “Then it all depends whether you count me among your friends.”

D’Enneris clutched his arm violently.

“Be quiet,” he said, and cut short Van Houben’s stammered protest with a further curt admonition to silence.

“Something’s happening,” he vouchsafed, “behind the scenes. Something to do with your diamonds.”

Van Houben gave a leap on the spot.

“Listen,” said d’Enneris, and the “King of Diamonds” inclined his ear.

“Don’t hear anything,” he said, after a moment, and looked back at Régine.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” admitted d’Enneris, “and yet I certainly thought . . .”

As he spoke, there was a sudden commotion in the orchestra and in some of the boxes. People were looking round as though there were something going on in the wings. Some of the audience were rising from their seats in seeming perturbation. Then two men in evening dress dashed across the stage, there was a sudden noise of shouting and cries of “Fire, fire!”

On the right of the stage appeared an angry glow, and small spirals of smoke wound hungrily up. Then a crowd of stage-hands and supers rushed in from the wings and Régine was lost to sight. In that surging throng d’Enneris saw a man, arms outstretched, brandishing a fur cloak which hid his face from view. He, like every one else, was shouting “Fire, fire!” and fleeing from the right of the stage.

Régine’s one thought had been to reach safety, but as she ran her strength failed her and she sank, fainting, to her knees. The stranger swooped down, wrapped her in the fur cloak, slung her over his shoulder, and rushed off, mingling with the crowd of fugitives.

But before this, Jean d’Enneris was standing on the edge of the box, addressing the panic-stricken audience in the stalls.

“Stay where you are! It’s a put-up job!”

Then, pointing to the man who was carrying off Régine, he cried: “Stop him! Stop him!”

But he was too late. No one had realized what was happening. The stalls were calming down. But on the stage the rout went on, in such a tumult that no one could make himself heard. D’Enneris took a flying leap, clearing auditorium and orchestra, and landed almost acrobatically on the stage itself. Following in the wake of the frightened herd he got through to the stage door, which opened on to the Boulevard Haussmann. He gave a quick look up and down the Boulevard, then began anxious inquiries among the little knots of people clustered round. But no information was forthcoming. In the general uproar each had been intent on his own safety and Régine’s abduction from the theatre had passed completely unnoticed.

Then d’Enneris caught sight of Van Houben’s panting bulk, and said savagely: “She’s been kidnapped—thanks to your blasted diamonds. . . . The blighter must have had a car ready and taken her off in that.”

Van Houben’s hand went to his pocket and drew out—a revolver. D’Enneris gave his wrist a sudden twist.

“Going to shoot yourself?”

“No!” barked Van Houben. “But I’m going to kill him!”

“Who do you mean—him?”

“The thief. He’ll be found—he must be found. I’ll move heaven and earth to lay hands on him.”

He was like a straw whirled on the flood of people that poured out of the theatre.

“My diamonds!” he babbled. “They shan’t have them! It’s not fair! Some one’s going to pay for this night’s work. The management—Valmenet——”

The man at his elbow smiled quizzically. “Or Béchoux?” he murmured.

―――――

D’Enneris had been right. The stranger, bearing the fainting Régine on his shoulder in the fur cloak, had crossed the Boulevard Haussmann and made for the Rue Mogador. A car was standing at the kerb. As he drew near, the door opened and a woman, with her head swathed in a thick scarf, held out her arms. The stranger pushed Régine on to her, with the words:

“We’ve pulled it off . . . absolute miracle!”

Then he closed the door, sprang into the driver’s seat and drove off.

Régine’s faint had been the result of sheer nervous terror. She came to as soon as she realized that they were leaving the fire—or what she thought was a fire—and her first thought was to thank her rescuer. She was foiled in this laudable intention by something being wound suffocatingly round her head, impeding both her breathing and her vision.

“What is it?” she murmured.

A very low voice, seemingly that of a woman, spoke tonelessly in her ear:

“Don’t move. And don’t call for help, or you’ll be sorry!”

Then Régine felt a sudden sharp prick in her shoulder and cried out with pain.

“That’s nothing,” said the woman. “Just a knife-point. . . . Shall I press harder?”

Régine lay quite still, shocked into utter immobility. But her brain was beginning to work clearly now, and she was able to realize the true significance of her perilous situation. She groped back in her mind to the streak of flame seen at the back of the stage, and the outbreak of fire. She felt sure that some one had taken advantage of the panic in the theatre to abduct her and with the aid of an accomplice was now carrying her off, she knew not whither.

Cautiously, she made a movement with her free hand. Her diamond corselet seemed intact as yet.

The car was fairly racing. Régine, prisoned in swaying darkness, could not even guess at the route they followed. She got an impression of frequent swerves round sharp corners, doubtless mere doubling tactics to elude possible pursuit and prevent her from recognizing the direction.

At any rate, they never stopped at a toll-gate, and that proved that they could not have left Paris. Moreover, street-lamps streamed into the car at rapid intervals, giving each an instant’s blinding flash of illumination. The woman had slackened hold on her captive, and the cloak had slipped so that Régine could see two fingers of the hand clenched on the fur. And on one of these, the forefinger, she distinctly remarked a ring set with three small pearls in a triangle.

They drove for what seemed to Régine about twenty minutes. Then the car slackened speed and stopped. The driver jumped down. The two halves of a door swung heavily outward, one after the other, and they passed into what seemed to be an inner courtyard.

The woman effectively blindfolded Régine and then she and the man helped her down.

They went up a flight of six stone steps, and then crossed a flagged hall. After that came an ascent of twenty-five carpeted stairs, with, as Régine realized, a banister up one side. At the head of these stairs they turned into a first-floor room.

And now the man spoke to Régine, also in a very low voice, right in her ear:

“You’re here now and here you stay till we have that tunic. I don’t like to use force, and you won’t come to any harm if you hand it over quietly. Now, are you going to be sensible and give it up of your own accord?”

“No!” said Régine, with spirit.

“We can easily take it—we could have torn it off in the car.”

“No, no!” she shrilled feverishly. “Not the tunic . . . no . . .”

Her captor spoke again.

“I’ve risked everything for those diamonds. Now I’ve got them. Be reasonable.”

The actress stiffened her body with a convulsive effort. But he came close to her, and murmured:

“Have I got to take it, then?”

Régine felt a cruel hand take hold of the corselet and come roughly into contact with her smooth shoulders. This was too much for her, and she cried out:

“Don’t touch me! Keep off, I tell you. . . . There, take what you like . . . anything, anything . . . but for God’s sake don’t touch me!”

He drew away a little, keeping behind her. The fur cloak shook out round her now, and she realized that it was her own ermine wrap! She sat down, exhausted. She could see now the room to which they had brought her. She observed dully that the veiled woman, who was busy unhooking the jewelled overdress from the silver tunic, had on a plum-coloured dress, trimmed with bands of black velvet.

The room, brightly lit by electricity, was a big salon panelled in light wood in the best Louis XVI style. The furniture was upholstered in blue silk. There was a pierglass over the mantelpiece—the latter a massive marble structure adorned with two gilded bronze vases and a clock with little green marble columns. There were four wall-lights and two great crystal chandeliers.

Unconsciously Régine registered all these details while the woman stripped off tunic and corselet, leaving her in the plain silver slip, which bared her arms and shoulders. She noticed, too, the peculiar pattern of the parquet flooring, done in different woods, and, close by, a curious stool with mahogany legs.

At last the ordeal was over. The lights clicked out, and in the darkness she heard the man’s voice again:

“That’s right. You see, it pays to be reasonable—I’m leaving you your cloak!”

Then her head was swathed in folds of what seemed to be a lace scarf, like that the woman had worn. She was led down the staircase, across the hall, down the steps and out into the night. Once more they lifted her into the car, and drove off again, with the same succession of swerving turns.

At last the car slowed down. “Here we are,” breathed the man, opening the door and helping her out. “There, you see, it hasn’t been so bad, has it? You’ve come through without any bones broken. But—a word of advice. Don’t you go talking to people of anything you may have seen or guessed. Your diamonds have been taken. You are safe. Full stop, new paragraph. Forget the rest. Yours truly!”

The car drew swiftly away. With trembling fingers, Régine loosened the veil, and realized that she was in the Place du Trocadéro, quite near her flat in the Avenue Henri Martin. It was a terrible effort for her to cover the short distance. Her legs gave under her; her heart was thumping painfully. Each moment she thought she would sink to the ground in a heap. But just as her strength was failing, she saw some one running to help her, and when sink she did, it was into the arms of Jean d’Enneris, who sat her down on a bench in the deserted Avenue.

“I was waiting for you,” he said, very softly. “I was sure that once they had the diamonds you would be brought back to somewhere near your home. It would have been much too dangerous to keep you. Now, rest for a few minutes . . . and don’t cry any more.”

She was sobbing, her tension suddenly relaxed, full of a childlike confidence in this man whom she hardly knew.

“I was so scared,” she said. “I’m still scared—stiff. . . . What are we to do about the diamonds? . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Very gently d’Enneris led her to her flat, going in the lift with her to the door.

They found her maid, who had just come back, in a terrible state, from the Opéra—the other servants were gathered round. Almost on their heels Van Houben burst in, wild-eyed.

“My diamonds!” he cried. “Have you got them all right, Régine? You hung on to them, didn’t you? You’re alive, so you can’t have let them go!”

Then he ascertained that the precious corselet and tunic had been stripped off, and burst into a kind of delirium. Jean d’Enneris restrained him sternly.

“Be quiet, you fool. . . . Can’t you see she’s knocked up—she needs a rest!”

“My diamonds!” wailed Van Houben. “They’re gone. Oh, if only Béchoux were here! My diamonds!”

“I’ll find them for you. Now, beat it,” said d’Enneris, almost brutally.

Régine was lying on a divan, her frame shaken with racking sobs. D’Enneris knelt at her side and began, lightly and methodically, to kiss her forehead and her hair.

“Good heavens!” cried Van Houben, beside himself. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“There, there,” said Jean d’Enneris, and his voice was as that of the sucking-dove. “Nothing so soothing as this little massage. My own patent. Normalizes the nervous system and restores circulation. A beneficent warmth pervades the arteries. It works like a charm.”

And, under Van Houben’s furious eye, he went calmly on with his labour of love, while Régine came slowly back to life, seeming to respond quite voluntarily to treatment!

|2|. INTRODUCING ARLETTE

THE afternoon was over at the Maison Chernitz, and people were drifting out of the big showrooms in the Rue du Mont-Thabor. In the room allotted to the mannequins, Arlette Mazolle and her companions, set free from the ardours of showing off Chernitz creations, were seeking distraction. Fortune-telling was in progress, and a subdued munching indicated the consumption of chocolate by all concerned.

“Look, Arlette,” cried red-headed Irène, “you’re in luck! The cards say your life will be a round of adventures, happiness and good fortune.”

“That’s coming true, too,” said little Charlotte. “Arlette’s luck began the other evening when she won first prize in that show at the Opéra!”

But Arlette was not inclined to be cockahoop.

“I didn’t really deserve to win,” she said. “Régine Aubry was the best.”

“Oh, rot! Every one voted solid for you.”

“People didn’t know what they were doing. That false alarm of fire half-emptied the theatre. It wasn’t a fair vote at all.”

“Well, really, Arlette, you are the modest violet and no mistake,” remarked Irène, almost exasperated. She added maliciously: “I expect Régine Aubry’s pretty sick!” 

“You’re quite wrong, my child. She came round to see me, and was awfully decent about my success. I like her.”

She unfolded an evening paper which one of the messengers had just brought in.

“Why, look!” she cried. “Here’s some more about it. They give a long rigmarole, explaining what must have happened.”

“Read it out, Arlette,” besought the others.

Nothing loath, she began: