A. Lupin, a Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

by Christine Michaud

A shadow stretches over me; I rustle my newspaper in an attempt to shoo the interloper away. Alas, it does not work.

“What now?” I sigh. I mean, what’s the point of an exclusive gentlemen’s club if a person can’t get peace to read his paper?

The butler—I believe his name is Antoine, and if it isn’t, it’s still what I’ll call him—doesn’t take the hint. “Sir, Mr. Higgins double checked; he wasn’t able to find you on the guest list.”

“Higgins?”

“Club steward. If you wouldn’t mind, he would like a word…” Antoine awkwardly drifts off. I follow his gaze to the puckered old pusses frowning at me from their tufted leather wing-backed chairs scattered throughout the lounge. Fopdoodles, the lot of them.

“Be a good man, Antoine, and take care of it for me.” I reach into my waistcoat and pull out a sovereign and drop it in his white-gloved hand.

His mouth twitches. I get it; he’s been sent to roust me, and I’m sure he’d been looking forward to it. Tossing me out by the scruff of my neck would likely boost the geezer’s ego. Poor fellow could probably use a boost up—he is très petite. The only thing weighing him down is that thick mop of white hair on his head. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the original Boodle, the butler this place was named after back in 1762. That’d make him in the vicinity of one hundred and forty-eight. Seem’s about right.

I smile patiently. The old dear’s been fretting around behind me since I walked through the front doors. “Fine, then fetch your Mr. Higgins; your astuteness has facilitated a necessary discussion.” There, I can slather on the hoity-toity with the best of them. I purposely lay the paper down, open to the day’s headline and watch the blood drain from Antoine’s face. Behind him the fire dances, crackling with laughter.

LONDON TIMES Friday, 18 November, 1910

Yesterday evening, Arséne Lupin, renowned gentleman burglar, man of one-thousand disguises, was apprehended after being spotted lurking about St James’s Street, London, in the proximity of Boodle’s. Monsieur Lupin is currently being held at HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs. At the time of his arrest, Lupin expressed his disappointment in missing the grand unveiling of J.M.W. Turner’s, The Fighting Temeraire, on loan to Boodle’s by the National Gallery. Some suspect Lupin’s remark to be a ‘veiled’ slight towards the prestigious gentlemen’s club.

When asked for comment, Boodle’s club secretary, Captain Frederick Adolphus Wombwell, claimed he was never worried about the famed painting’s safety, stating Boodle’s has state-of-the-art security in place. Although, knowing Lupin is safely behind bars, Wombwell is certain to enjoy a comfortable night’s sleep.

“Off you pop,” I prod Antoine out of his reverie. He shoots me a look of disdain before scuttling out the lounge.

State-of-the-art security—how intriguing.

Settling back in my chair, I peruse the personal adverts on the front page. One in particular is particularly personal. I’m hoping it will be easier to decipher here, at the scene of the crime.

For there will be one tonight, of that I am certain.

I’d noticed the classified advertisement this morning alongside the news of Lupin’s curiously timed incarceration. It has to be a ploy; he’s never been captured—against his will. And he’s proved no institution can hold him. It was the sixth line of the ad that solidified it for me. The server’s shrine—what else could it be, besides Boodle’s. Quelle coïncidence! There is no doubt this is a message from the gentleman thief himself.

Despite each word being seared into my brain, I read it again:

‍ ‍Daisy Bell mon petite chou, I’m afraid I’ve left you in a Larch. If all goes well we’ll meet in march, but for now you’ll need to ride alone. Over the years how Sharp your skills have grown. The ship is safely unmoored no need for Alarm. A good knight’s rest does no one harm. Step Light inside the server’s shrine, where Cloaked ambitions and silhouettes enTwine. And fair thee well my Daisy Bell.

What does it mean? Daisy Bell, a song about a bicycle built for two. Larch when surely the word should have been lurch. Each word obviously chosen with intent. Alarm, step light—I need to see how the alarm is rigged. But that’s where he’s lost me. I run my hand through my hair. Damn it to hell.

The painting’s unveiling is tonight; the clock is ticking. I cannot fail. It’s tempting to play it safe—walk away, pretend I saw nothing, figured nothing… but I can’t. This painting. This painting is more than canvas and brush strokes. The Fighting Temeraire is the spirit of Britain. Triumph and loss. Courage and honour. A hero ship being led towards the end of an era.

This night could mean the start of a lustrous career—or the end of one before it has yet begun.

“Sir?”

I look up and it’s the steward. He looks grim. Although, if I had to face that mug every morning in the mirror, I can’t say I’d look any more amused. “Mr. Higgins.” I rest my paper back down on the table, open to the scurrilous article. Imagine, the names Lupin and Boodle’s in the same sentence, must be gnawing the steward from the inside out. “I understand there’s some concern over my attendance tonight?”

Higgins glances around the room. “Perhaps we could step into…” His gaze falls upon the headline brazenly taunting him.

I remain seated and nod to the irritated faces turned our way. Overprivileged snuff-snorting snots. “There’s cause to believe you are due a visitor tonight.” I shift my eyes towards the paper.

Hives twist around the steward’s neck like a noose. I can hardly afford the attention my two new friends are drawing, so I get to my feet, brushing past them to lead the way into the corridor.

Dark wood panelling lines the walls, shadows taunt and dance in the flickering light from the gas lamps. Electricity hasn’t made its way into the older nooks of the club.

I set my tone with confidence I am not quite feeling, “I’d like to see the painting.”

Higgins sputters. “Mr…”

“Detective Ganimard Jr.”

Antoine raises his brow.

“Do you have a warrant card?” Higgins asks.

I close the gap between me and the steward. “I have.” I don’t make a move to show it. “But I am not here on official business.” I pause for the men to gloat as though they’d caught a fly in their web, but I’ve prepared for this moment. “I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure the safety of what is a national treasure. To be honest, I’m surprised by your reaction. I would think you’d be grateful. Consider this: why would Arséne Lupin allow himself to be apprehended while markedly drawing attention to the unveiling? Are you not familiar with the man’s antics? He is mocking both you and your establishment, sir.”

Higgins scoffs. “The man’s been locked up.”

I nod. “The perfect alibi.”

“Ironclad.” Antoine has the nerve to chuckle. Abhorrent behaviour for a man in service.

“And what if you’re wrong? All I ask is to sit here and enjoy your fine establishment.” And it is. Cigar smoke furls in the air. Elaborately framed portraits of the constipated faces of the elite glare down from the walls. A bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. How wonderful to be rich and tedious.

I watch my words swirl around in Higgins’ head. He purses his lips. “I’m afraid—”

“—as you should be,” I finish for him. “Imagine explaining to Captain Wombwell that the club was robbed under your watch.” Antoine attempts to catch Higgins’ attention, so I step between them. “What would be the harm in me seeing the painting? In a few hours, it will open to your members and their guests.”

It is with reluctance Higgins finally folds under my persistence. We begin to mount the stairs when he stops and turns to Antoine, reminding him he’s needed downstairs. And then it’s just the two of us, Higgins and myself, who make our way up to the new annex.

A guard sits outside the door and stands when we near. I feel the weight of his stare as we pass through the doorway.

It’s like a museum. The vast gallery is decorated in gold and teal and ornate swirls of plaster, cherubs supporting the ceiling. Angels lighting the lamps. Ornate rugs soften our footsteps across the marble-tiled floors. Late afternoon sun sploshes through tall windows illuminating the artwork on the walls. The pièce de résistance hangs alone on the opposite wall.

My breath catches the moment I see her. It tugs at my soul, the way the steam tug tows the old ship. The new escorting the old to her demise. The emotion it draws grows deeper the longer I stare. The setting sun in the distance, the setting career of a warrior. Surrounded in a gold ornate frame, the painting looks unattached, dark around the edges where it meets the frame, almost like it’s floating in a window and I’m looking out at the sea.

A hand settles on my arm as I step closer. His face smug, Higgins gestures with his head to the floor and I spot the wires running from the window panes to the painting, down the wall and under the rug. I’m somewhat familiar with this set up. A closed circuit runs between the entry points and the painting. If anything is disturbed the circuit is broken and an alarm will ring out.

“Your thoughts, Detective?” Higgins smiles.

“Superb engineering.”

“Here at Boodle’s, we take security seriously. I appreciate your concern, but I hope I have convinced you we know what we are doing. And seeing as you are not here officially, perhaps you will leave us to our business.” Higgins guides us back towards the stairs.

My senses tell me not to leave. Something is going to happen tonight. While I follow Higgins down the stairs, I scramble through my thoughts trying to think of anything that will convince him to let me stay. I need to stay. “I agree. In any other circumstance...”

Higgins audibly exhales.

I hold out my hands. “But Lupin—”

“—is locked away,” Higgins finishes.

We reach the bottom of the stairs where Antoine is hovering like a fly. My patience wearing thin, I march into the lounge and recover the newspaper I’d left lying out and storm back into the corridor shaking the paper in the air. “Look.”

Behind me I can feel the air in the lounge sucked dry.

Higgins merely gives me a blank stare.

“Fine.” There’s a heavy wood desk near the front doors and I place the paper upon it, stabbing the classifieds with my finger. “This.” I look him in the eye. “This is what has convinced me, Arséne’s incarceration, your state of the art system, it’s all part of his scheme. Read it.”

Maybe they comply just to calm me, hoping to get me out of the club, but both Higgins and Antoine lean over the paper.

“I believe it’s a message to Lupin’s son.”

Antoine has the gall to laugh aloud.

“Mon petite chou, watched you grow…” My head twists from Higgins to Antoine. How can they not see it? “It’s in code.”

Antoine stands straight, his chin out. “Detective Ganimard, it is time for you to leave.”

Who does this butler think he is?

But instead of putting him in his place, Higgins holds out his arm towards the front door. “Detective, if you leave now, there will be no need to call the precinct. We can forget all of this.”

There is nothing left to say. I’ve shown all my cards. But I cannot leave. I will not leave. I knew no one would listen. I knew I had to do this alone. “No,” I keep my voice low and calm.

“I beg your pardon?” Higgins eyes the black telephone standing on the desk. If he makes that call, I’ll be done for.

My heart leaps into my throat and my body flushes with heat as visions of me apprehending the infamous Arséne Lupin evaporate.

“Mr. Higgins has asked you politely to leave.” Antoine lifts his small white-gloved hands, rolling them into fists. I stand and watch in amazed shock. The stance he takes is ridiculous and I almost laugh at the absurdity. Someone’s been attending too many boxing matches. It reminds me of my little nephews. Adorable.

He punches me straight in the nose.

My eyes tear and everything blurs. Higgins shouts. Steadying myself against the desk, I feel my nose. I think that little bastard broke it. Higgins angrily whispers and Antoine scurries up the stairs.

“My deepest regrets, Detective. This kind of behaviour is against everything Boodle’s stands for. The butler has been terminated immediately. I can’t apologize enough; he came highly recommended.” He calls over his shoulder for someone to get ice. “Please sir, have a seat in my office.”

I’m sat in a hard-backed wooden chair as someone rushes in. An ice pack slams over my aching face as I listen to Higgins grovelling. My mind is whirling. This was the miracle I was praying for. For fear of bad publicity, now Higgins will want to accommodate my wishes. Thank you, Antoine, you little shit. I put my hand to my head. “I believe I have a concussion. And maybe whiplash.”

“Maybe you should rest here.”

Yes, maybe I should. I try not to smile.

With the door open, I glimpse Antoine escaping down the hall, a hideous black cape flowing behind him. Where would someone besides a pallbearer find something like that? And why? There’s a cord hanging from its collar; maybe he got it from a hangman? Perhaps this was high fashion last century. Speaking of, he does move quick for one hundred and forty-eight. He did not move that fast when I was waiting for my drink.

I position the ice pack so it covers the bridge of my nose and forehead. Higgins’ words begin to sink in. “You said he came highly recommended, the butler.”

“Yes sir. Excellent recommendations.”

I have a sinking feeling. “You didn’t say; it’s odd behaviour for him, or he never has behaved this way. He’s new?”

Higgins clears his throat. “Yes sir, been with us about three weeks.”

A crash comes from the floor above us. Forgetting my injuries, I jump to my feet, and race Higgins to the stairs. We get to the top and find the guard has fallen over unconscious. Higgins crouches to tend to him, as I carry on to the gallery.

The painting is gone.

It’s been cut from its frame. I’d noticed something odd about the frame earlier. Had it already been cut, ready to grab? Safely unmoored.

Antoine.

My nose throbbing. I take the stairs down two at a time, sliding on my heels. My legs can’t move fast enough. I take the hallway I saw Antoine fleeing and end up in a street at the rear of the club. Out of nowhere a woman comes speeding towards me on a rusty penny-farthing.

She screams and I jump out of her way; she blazes by in a blur of blue. Of all the bizarre moments. I run into the street looking for a black cape. I first go left, and when I hit a dead end, I take the other way. With each pounding step, I crush my future into the ground. When I return to the club, Higgins is speaking excitedly into the phone. He spots me and hands the handset to me.

My face burning with humiliation, I spit out what I had attempted. I explain that I knew no one would take me seriously and I didn’t want to be stopped. But as the words left my mouth, I think we both knew that was a lie. I wanted to catch Lupin single-handed. I wanted to be the hero.

The commissioner screams bloody murder. I can almost feel the hot air blasting through the line. “But sir, I was sure it was a message to his son.” My blood turns cold at what the commissioner says next. “Daughter?” I choke. Blood pounds in my ears. I drop the phone. “Higgins! A cab quickly! We still have a chance.”

The one thing a good club steward can do is produce a cab like magic. As quickly as I get out to the street, there’s a cab waiting. I jump onto the bench next to the driver; it will be easier for me to see and direct him. I will not give up.

Scanning the street, I cannot see her, but we are moving quickly and she wasn’t too sure with that huge wheeled machinery. I lean forward as though I can will the horses to move faster. When up ahead I spot the penny-farthing abandoned on the side of the road. It has to be the same one. Rusty, the front wheel bent. Before the cab’s completely stopped, I leap to the ground.

There, in the front wheel, is a torn thick piece of black cloth lined with blue. The cape—or should I say cloak. The cord—twine. It all makes sense. Like when actresses quick change. Could a cloak be rigged to become a dress at the pull of a cord? A mop of white hair, a wig? Her father is the man of one-thousand disguises.

Wasting no more time, I pocket the fragment of cloth and run. Shouting and voices grow louder and I approach the rear of a mob of… you’ve got to be kidding me. Suffragettes. Hundreds of women descending on Parliament.

I catch sight of a blue dress and squeeze through the throng. Elbows jab into my ribs. High-heeled boots crush my toes. A sign hits me over the head, and I suspect it was not an accident. I push against the tide and see a flash of blue to my right. I try to change course, but I’m pulled along with the crowd. Good God, I’ve joined the Suffragette Movement. The image of The Fighting Temeraire comes to mind. It’s the end of an era. And the beginning of another.

The chase is on, my Antoinette—woman of one-thousand-and-one disguises.