Memoirs of Arsène Lupin, Maurice Leblanc [librera reader txt] 📗

He took the further precaution of locking the door of the dressing room. Bridget Rousselin could not interrupt them, even if she found the strength to do so. There came the sound of a light footfall on the staircase. The door opened and Josephine entered.

Ralph had formed a very just estimate of Josephine’s power of self-control. But he did expect that the unexpected scene which met her eyes and the sudden and unexpected sight of him would shake it. Nothing of the kind.

She stopped short, gazed round the room, took in the trussed-up Leonard and Ralph’s indignant face in a glance that lasted perhaps a second and a half.

Then she pushed up her veil and said in the most casual voice: “What are you looking at me like that for, dear?”

He stared at her with all his eyes; he did not wish to lose a quiver of her eyelids, or the faintest twitch of her lips. He said slowly:

“Bridget Rousselin has been murdered.”

“Bridget Rousselin⁠—murdered?” she said under her breath.

“Yes. The actress we saw last night, the one who was wearing the bandeau of jewels. You’re not going to tell me that you don’t know who she is, for you’re here, in her house, and you had instructed Leonard to let you know directly he had done the job.”

Her self-control indeed went. With a horror-stricken face and starting eyes, she cried: “Leonard?⁠ ⁠… Leonard?⁠ ⁠… He has⁠—”

“Yes,” declared Ralph. “He’s murdered Bridget Rousselin. I caught him in the very act of throttling her.”

Her legs seemed to fail her; she sank trembling on to a chair and stammered:

“The b-blackguard.⁠ ⁠… The b-b-blackguard.⁠ ⁠… It’s impossible!”

And on a rising inflection in which with each word the note of terror grew clearer and clearer, she cried:

“He’s committed a murder?⁠ ⁠… A murder?⁠ ⁠… It’s impossible!⁠ ⁠… He swore to me that he would never kill!⁠ ⁠… He swore it!⁠ ⁠… I can’t believe it!”

Was she sincere, or was it all comedy? Had Leonard acted in a sudden access of madness, or in accordance with instructions which bade him murder if the ruse failed. Formidable questions to which Ralph could not give the answer.

She raised her head, saw the accusation in his eyes, jerked herself to her feet and with hands outstretched towards him cried: “Why are you looking at me like that, Ralph? Oh, you can’t suspect me of a horrible crime like that! You can’t!⁠ ⁠… You can’t believe that I knew of it.⁠ ⁠… That I ordered or permitted such an abominable crime!⁠ ⁠… Tell me you don’t!”

Almost brutally he caught her by the shoulder and forced her onto the chair again. Then, crossing his arms, he took two or three paces up the room and back; then, catching her again by the shoulder and glaring into her eyes, he said slowly in the accents of an inexorable accuser and even enemy:

“Listen to me, Josine. If you don’t, this very instant, make a clean breast of it and tell me the whole story of this business and all the secret machinations which complicate it, I’m going to treat you as my mortal enemy. I’m going to take you out of this house, by force if I have to, to the nearest police station and denounce you as the accomplice of Leonard in the murder of Bridget Rousselin. Then you can get out of it as best you can. Are you going to tell me, or are you not?”

War was declared, and at the moment chosen by Ralph, a moment at which all the circumstances were in his favor, and Josephine, taken by surprise, weakened before an onslaught of a violence and implacability she had never looked for.

It must not, however, be supposed that a woman of her stamp was going to accept defeat without a struggle. She tried to resist. She would not admit that a tender and charming lover like Ralph d’Andresy could, at a single stroke, stand forth as her master and impose on her the harsh constraint of his will. She had recourse to wheedling, then to tears and promises, to all a woman’s wiles. He showed himself inexorable.

“Will you speak!” he roared. “I’ve had enough of this obscurity. You may take a delight in it. I don’t. I like things perfectly clear.”

“What things do you want me to throw light on?” she cried, exasperated. “My life?”

“Your life is your own affair,” replied Ralph. “Keep your past dark, if you’re afraid to unfold it before my eyes. I’m perfectly well aware that you will always be an enigma to me and everyone else, and that your innocent face will never throw any light on what is going on at the bottom of your soul. But what I want to know is that side of your life which touches mine. We have a common end in view. Let me know the path you are following. If you don’t, I run the risk of getting mixed up in some abominable crime, and that’s the last thing I want.”

He hammered his right fist into his left palm.

“Get that clear, Josine! I will not murder! Rob? Yes. Burgle? Yes. But murder? No! A thousand times no!”

“I don’t wish to murder, either,” she protested.

“Perhaps not. But you let other people murder for you.”

“It’s a lie!”

“Then speak out⁠—explain.”

She wrung her hands and with a groan protested: “I can’t! I can’t!”

“Why? What prevents you from telling me all you know about this business, the things Beaumagnan revealed to you?” he urged.

“I should prefer not to let you get mixed up in this affair, not to let you oppose that man,” she said earnestly.

He burst out laughing. “You’re frightened on my account, perhaps?” he jeered. “A fine excuse! Reassure yourself, Josine. I’m not afraid of Beaumagnan. There’s another adversary I fear much more than him.”

“Who’s that?” she said quickly.

“You.”

He repeated in harsher accents: “You, my dear. And that’s the reason why I’m so keen on getting the thing clear. When I shall really see you clearly, I shall no longer fear