Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 19, November 1944

Arsène Lupin Versus Colonel Linnaus by Anthony Boucher

Many years ago Maurice Leblanc, in a pugilistic mood, conceived the idea of matching his undefeated master-rogue, Arsène Lupin, against the detective champion of the worlds Sherlock Holmes. The bout lasted four years, from 1907 to 1911, and extended through three of M. Leblanc’s books — THE EXPLOITS OF ARSÈNE LUPIN, ARSÈNE LUPIN VERSUS SHERLOCK HOLMES (also known, among other titles, as THE BLONDE LADY), and THE HOLLOW NEEDLE. There was no knockout, no decision; the final result, by and large, was a draw — a monumental tribute to Holmes considering that M. Leblanc was not only the promoter of the match but also the official timekeeper and referee.

It is a matter of record that the great English author never returned the great French author’s compliment. Conan Doyle never wrote a story that could have been called SHERLOCK HOLMES VERSUS ARSÈNE LUPIN. More’s the pity — what a classic tale it might have been! It remained, after all these years, for an American author, Mr. Anthony Boucher, to make up in part for Doyle’s dereliction. Mr. Boucher, himself the creator of three stellar detectives — Fergus O’Breen, Sister Ursula, and EQMM’s own Nick Noble — now gives us the first pastiche (serious and sincere imitation) of Arsène Lupin; and while Sherlock Holmes is regrettably absent, even in adumbration, we have enormous reason to be grateful to Mr. Boucher for what is in essence a “new” Lupin story.

There is a French legend that in times of extreme peril Charlemagne himself would return to save France. Surely Arsène Lupin — yes, the great Arsène, the man who singlehanded won France her vast colonial empire in Africa[1] — is, and always will be, the spiritual descendant of the great emperor.

The landmarks that Max Blanchard had memorized so carefully a month ago — the red barn, the lane of poplars — stood out in the starlight with the too vivid clarity of a surrealist painting. The pump with the broken handle was the last signpost on a nightmare road. Now he could stop crawling. He had been crawling ever since he was a young man and that was long years ago.

Max Blanchard is not, of course, his real name. Even now, they say, it’s better not to print his name nor the exact nature of his mission in France. But Max Blanchard will do. It’s the kind of name he had, being a San Franciscan whose father was born in France. In the army they called him “Frenchie,” and he took a fair amount of ribbing from the average American’s automatic distrust of a bilingual man; but his harshest ribbers owned up to a sort of admiration when he was chosen for this mission.

It’s still wise, they say, not to describe how Blanchard got into France nor where he was going nor how he received the wound. But the part of the story that can be told (and that should be told for the glimpse it gives you of the spirit still living in France) starts near dawn one winter morning in a village that might be named Rozy-sur-Marne, with Blanchard crawling through back hedges and damning the clear sharp starlight and wondering how much longer he can remain conscious after that loss of blood.

Now, with the landmarks in sight, he knew his lifelong crawl was over. Here at this underground station he could snatch a few hours of rest, the last before he reached his destination.

The man who answered Blanchard’s knock was, as he had been described, sharp-featured and black-eyed. Blanchard said, “M. Duval?”

The man said, “Yes.”

“The celebrated collector of fishing rods?”

The man half-smiled and nodded at the password. He stepped aside to let Blanchard into the hall. Blanchard tripped on the threshold and the man took his arm. He drew in a sharp breath as he saw the blood, but said nothing. He led Blanchard down the hall into a shabby but spotless room.

Blanchard saw nothing in the room save the two men in Gestapo uniforms. He heard nothing but Duval’s unctuous voice saying, “Messieurs, behold the American spy!” Then as they stepped forward he saw and heard nothing at all...

Oberleutnant Siegmund von Keller tapped nervously on his desk. “I do not see,” he said, “why I was not informed directly of Colonel Linnaus’ tour of inspection.”

The thin bearded old Frenchman made a conciliatory gesture. “Misguided though they may be, the Underground is singularly efficient. Doubtless the Colonel’s inspection is intended to catch you unawares; it is fortunate that I have been able to forewarn you through my... unorthodox channels.”

Keller smiled stiffly. “You are invaluable, M. Lenormand. You are, if I may speak frankly, a higher caliber of individual than is often willing to assist us among a conquered people. Your training as one-time Chief of the Sûreté, your uncanny ability to nose out traitors, so often among those whom we have prized as our most loyal collaborators—”

M. Lenormand waved a deprecating hand. “I have a duty to my country. I feel I can serve her best through my assistance to you.”

“I could wish,” said Keller, “that such good sense were more common. These stubborn dogs clinging to the past, listening to the empty mouthings of Moscow and Washington...”

M. Lenormand said, “You have the American spy now. He will be a fine exhibit to display to Colonel Linnaus.”

The thought warmed Oberleutnant von Keller. He sat basking in it for some minutes after the local police chief had left him. He roused himself and sat up stiffly when a guard entered to announce M. Duval.

Keller managed to be both stern and affable as he congratulated Duval upon his sensible heroism in betraying the local Underground station. He was somewhat more stem than affable as he went on to point out that Duval’s life depended upon his future usefulness, which would best consist in maintaining that station as a trap.

“But monsieur...” Duval hesitated. “You do not know these men of the Underground. They are fierce and terrible. When they realize that travelers go no farther than my station...”

“Do you think they can be more terrible than we?” The Oberleutnant’s voice was quiet and deadly.

“It shall be as you wish, M. le lieutenant,” Duval hastened to assure him. “I shall maintain the station.”

“And you will give us complete information on all disloyal French when you know.” A fine bag for Colonel Linnaus, he thought. “Rut wait. I am sure that your American friend will be interested in learning to what manner of man he trusted his life.” He beckoned to a guard.

Max Blanchard had not been mistreated since he was brought to Gestapo headquarters. There was little need to mistreat a man with bleeding wounds and a soaring fever; neglect was simpler. Blanchard was conscious now, and dripping from the pail of cold water which had made him conscious. His legs buckled under him as the guards released their hold. One of the guards struck him, and he stood wavering in front of Keller’s desk.

“Oberleutnant von Keller,” the officer identified himself. “And this is M. Duval, journalist and reformed traitor.” He paused. “Well?” he snapped. “And your name, American?” He made the word an epithet beside which Schweinehund would have seemed endearing.

Blanchard said nothing.

Keller smiled. “We can take up your questioning later. At leisure... Meanwhile I want you to hear what we know of your subversive plots, so that you may see how futile it is to oppose the Master Race, Go on, Duval.”

Duval hesitated and looked about him.

“Your fierce terrible men are not here,” Keller laughed. “You are safe — and I trust you remember the matter of the reward. Come: who is the local leader of your so-called Underground?”

“M... monsieur Lenormand,” Duval stammered.

Keller started from his seat. “Lenormand? Impossible. You’re lying, you French dog. The chief of police is our friend, our ally. He has been invaluable to us. He—”

A strange voice barked, “Guard! Go to the prefecture at once and arrest M. Lenormand. I want him here.”

Max Blanchard’s eyes turned to the doorway. A tall slender man stood there in a resplendent black uniform. His moustache was meticulously waxed, and his waist could have resulted only from a corset. One even suspected a touch of makeup on the face; the fresh cheeks, scars and all, were so much younger than the shrewd old eyes.

“I give orders—” the Oberleutnant started to say.

The newcomer was drawing off his gloves with negligent grace. “Oberst Linnaus,” he said tersely. “You were not expecting me?”

“I beg the Colonel’s pardon. I—”

“I know. Oberleutnant von Keller. Standard brand. Devotion to duty, ninety-five per cent. Devotion to the Fatherland, one hundred. To the party, one hundred and five. Imagination, zero.”

Keller stiffened, and visibly repressed his retort.

“Did I understand this Frenchman correctly?” Linnaus went on. “Did he tell you that you have been putting your trust in a traiter?”

“So he says, Herr Oberst.”

“He says? God in heaven, Lieutenant, have you no flair for your own profession? You have been trusting, I gather, a police chief named Lenormand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An old man? Even older than I? Thin and stooped? Sparse gray goatee? Formerly chief of the Sûreté in Paris?”

Keller nodded yes to each of the questions. Colonel Linnaus threw his head back and laughed a harsh high laugh. “Within five minutes,” he announced, “that guard will return to tell us that M. Lenormand is not at the prefecture. He will not be found at his house either. You will search in vain for him for months, while he laughs at you.”

Keller bridled. “I may not, as the Colonel says, have imagination; but I am efficient. Any man who lives I can arrest. What is this Lenormand? A ghost?”

The Colonel smiled. “A ghost? No... not quite...”

“Then why can I not arrest him?”

“Because,” Colonel Linnaus said slowly, “no one has ever successfully arrested Arsène Lupin.”

Max Blanchard blinked his fever-reddened eyes. He saw the startled face of M. Duval, the puzzlement of the Oberleutnant. “Arsène Lupin?” Keller asked.

“You may check the records in Paris,” Linnaus said. “M. Lenormand[2] was indeed Chief of the Sûreté, in 1906 if my memory is correct. He was also one of the many avatars of that multifaceted genius whom we know as Lupin.”

“But Arsène Lupin...” Keller protested. “He’s not real. He’s in a book.”

“Our Fuehrer,” the Colonel said gravely, “has been in many books, and shall figure in more till the end of the making of books.”

“That’s history. But Lupin is in novels.”

“There is a worthy novel of Ewers’ entitled Horst Wessel. Does that make you doubt the true life of our hero?”

“But even if he’s real, he must be dead by now. You said 1906?”

Colonel Linnaus sighed lightly. “Let me explain, while we wait for the guard’s report to confirm me. These French... they are a strange people. I do not understand them well. When I was working in Norway with Jonas Lie, I knew where I was. I am a collateral descendant of Linnaeus, and my Norse mother named me Peer to honor Ibsen’s hero. Yes, I understand the Scandinavians, even those who most bitterly resist us, as I understand our own race, but these French...—”

“There is something in them that we cannot touch. Something that can be said only in their own language. Esprit... élan... panache... gloire... How can one translate a single one of those words into German? And all those words mean: Arsine Lupin. He is madness and wit and grace and moon-touched audacity. He is—”

The Colonel paused, coughed, and resumed more soberly: “He is the effrontery of the individual who dares oppose himself to the State. He is the outrage of anarchy, the fallacy of individualism. And he refuses to die.

“There was a French legend that in times of great peril the horn of Roland would sound and Charlemagne himself would return to save France. Well, the times of great peril came for the contemptible Third Republic. But the horn that sounded was the claxon of a Paris cab, and there returned... Arsène Lupin.”

For a moment there was silence in the room. Blanchard saw the Colonel’s painted face lit with a half-admiration for the man he must pursue and destroy. Then a guard came in, heiled, and said, “Herr Oberst, M. Lenormand is nowhere to be found.”

Keller looked convinced. Still he protested. “But he worked for us—”

“There is no limit,” Linnaus snapped, “to the man’s highfantastic enterprise. Did he not make himself head of the very Sûreté that had sworn his capture? Did he not once force our Kaiser himself to become his accomplice in an escape? Working ‘for’ us would suit his humor. And what did he do for you?”

“He betrayed de Gaullists, Underground workers—”

“— whom you had hitherto considered loyal collaborators? Of course. Ass! Cannot you see what he was doing? He simply turned genuine collaborators over to you and tricked you into executing them. Ah, the devil is sly. And he has never met his match. What was Ganimard?[3] A plodding bourgeois. Herlock Sholmes?[4] An Englishman. Never has he been faced with a detective of his own caliber... until now.”

Colonel Linnaus’ thin lips curved into a smile, twisting his saber scars into the grimace of a sadistic clown. “First these,” he said. “The American and your helpful betrayer of the Underground. And then... Arsène Lupin!”

Fever and all, Max Blanchard shuddered. There was a chill resolution about this ancient dandy that made his spine crawl.

“Shall I summon Grussmann?” Keller asked. “He has a skill all his own in extracting information.”

“I am not without skill myself,” Colonel Linnaus said coldly. “You may leave us, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Keller’s voice hardened. “Does not the Colonel presume upon his rank? May I remind him that these are my prisoners?”

Linnaus slapped his black glove against his palm. “May I remind the Lieutenant that these men should yield valuable information, and that one does not care to reveal that information before a self-avowed colleague of Arsène Lupin?”

Keller said stubbornly, “I stand upon my rights as senior in command of this station.”

Linnaus began to draw on his gloves. “There will be time later to consider your proper reward. Poland, I imagine; the death rate will be high there — the Red Army draws near. At present I have no time to palter.” He turned to the door and shouted a command outside. “These men go with me.”

Max Blanchard saw Duval’s face turn ashen and almost sympathized with the traitor. The evil efficiency of Oberleutnant von Keller had been dangerous enough; but this rouged and scarred old man who added imagination to his evil...

There was only one solution. Blanchard knew too much to take chances on what he might reveal under torture or in the delirium of fever. He groped in his bloodstained rags for the capsule of cyanide, praying that his captors had overlooked it. If only he could somehow share it with Duval before that craven revealed all the secrets of the Underground...

His fingers found the minute secret pocket and closed on something that was not a capsule. The cyanide had been removed, and in its place was a wad of paper. The two Gestapo men were too intent on their private duel to notice him closely. He unfolded the paper in his palm and glanced down at it. It bore two words:

Blanchard’s head swam as the guards lifted him and bore him to Colonel Linnaus’ waiting black automobile.

Oberleutnant Siegmund von Keller’s eyes were bitter as he watched the car drive away. Already he was planning his revenge upon the highhanded Colonel. His brother Wölfling von Keller was excellently placed in the higher councils of the Party. A few words whispered in the proper ears... But first he must put on record his own efficiency.

He phoned his immediate superior, Colonel Grimmhausen, and made his report. The local police chief, M. Lenormand, had been unmasked (by Oberleutnant von Keller, of course) as that notorious criminal Arsène Lupin. A general alarm should be sent out at once for his capture. Meanwhile the Oberleutnant had secured the services of an invaluable traitor who could reveal all the facts and names of the Underground, and had trapped an American spy, the nature of whose mission one might surmise.

Colonel Grimmhausen was pleased. He said this was but brave. And then he asked, “The traitor. The American. You have them there?”

“Colonel Linnaus has undertaken their questioning himself, in a manner contrary to regulations. If the Colonel would authorize me—”

“Colonel who?”

“Linnaus.”

“Don’t know him. Where did he come from?”

“He — Will the Colonel hold the line a moment? — Yes?”

The guard heiled and said, “Colonel Linnaus asked me to give the Lieutenant this message.”

Keller slit open the note and looked at the brief text and list of names.

“Shouldn’t let valuable men like that out of your sight, Keller,” Colonel Grimmhausen was growling into the phone. “Hello? Hello? Are you there, Keller?”

But Keller did not answer. He was staring at the message, which read: