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Inspector Ganimard kept the card on his desk, under a little mug that he never used. It was printed of fine cardstock, with a coat of arms that was quite well-made for being entirely fictional, and a little hand-written note below. He’d found it inside his tobacco jar, tucked behind a cigar that Ganimarde couldn’t possibly have afforded on his salary
My Dearest David —
Have you missed me? I should very much like to share a bottle of wine, perhaps lunch, when I am next in town. Which shall be, I think, quite soon. The Parisian in me cannot bear to be away too long.
— Thy Eternal Goliath (or, perhaps, the other way around — the public never can decide)
Below the effulgent signature was a date. Ganimard had turned the card over and over a thousand times, half-convinced that there was some clue that he was missing, some mistake the man had finally made. There wasn’t any, of course. Nothing but the date, and the cigar that had apparently been intended as a gift. Ganimard hadn’t smoked it — he’d picked it apart and left it dissected on his dressing table, having learned nothing of value from its loss. In retrospect, he regretted the decision. After all, he might have been the only person in the world to have received a midnight visit from Arséne Lupin and come out a few francs richer. It seemed a bit of a shame to have squandered that bit of good fortune.
He hadn’t seen Lupin since his miraculous escape from prison, where Ganimard had served as his unwitting accomplice. He’d followed his trail, like a dog through the wilderness picking up tracks — miraculous thefts that seemed to have no suspects at all, which in France today really meant was only one suspect possible. The junior officers always left such cases open on Ganimard’s desk — he seemed to have become the Sûréte’s unspoken expert on the gentleman burglar, and the man most likely to have a prayer of catching the ghost who sometimes went by the name Arséne Lupin. So far Lupin had made himself easy to find, if not to arrest.
He suspected that, like some fashionable and coy young women, Lupin liked to know he was being chased.
When the date on the card finally came, Ganimard realized he had no idea what to do. The card had given no indication of what Lupin intended to do, and if there was some kind of cyphered message in it, it was too well hidden for Ganimard to unearth. He briefly considered filling the block with policemen and staying up with a revolver and a set of handcuffs, but decided against it. Instead, he went out for supper, had a glass of brandy, and went to sleep.
He was awakened shortly before the church bell struck midnight by hand on his shoulder. Ganimard, letting out a cry of alarm, seized the offending wrist with one hand and groped for his revolver with the other.
“Forgive the intrusion,” said a smooth, ironic voice. A candle materialized near a face — a bright, fox-like face, framed by golden hair made pale by the wan light. Arséne Lupin was standing at the side of his bed, in his shirtsleeves and with a tell-tale mark of soot on his face.
“Lupin,” Ganimard growled. His left hand finally closed around the revolver at his bedside and found the trigger.
“I expected you to wait up,” Lupin said.
“What gave you that impression?” Ganimard said. With the hand that was not pinned by the detective’s grip, Lupin produced an appointment book — Ganimard’s appointment book. The date that had been on the card was marked down in red ink. “Lupin, if you wanted to give yourself up you could have done it at the Sûréte. This is an undignified way to end your career.”
“Give myself up? My dear Ganimard, you disappoint me. I thought you knew me better than that. I’ve come to lay low for the night. See, while you may not know me as well as you’d like, I know you — you wouldn’t want the base criminal element to snatch your prize away from you, hm?” Lupin leaned close and dropped his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, it’s for a good cause. You can trust my word on that, if you trust nothing else about me — which I am sure you do not, as you are far too clever for that.”
“Lupin, you damned fool. I’ve got a revolver in my hand right now, and you know it’s my duty to arrest you, regardless of whatever good cause you might have or my own personal feelings in the matter.”
Lupin held up the candle, bathing both of them in golden light, and leaned even closer. “Yes. It is your duty. But you’re not going to do it.”
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t,” Ganimard said. He hadn’t intended that to come out so close to a plea. The agile wrist caught in his grasp turned, and long gloved fingers interlaced with the inspector’s own.
“I can think of a few,” Lupin said, snuffing the candle with his free hand. “They’re quite poetic, actually.”
Ganimard hesitated a moment before sliding his hand off the handle of the revolver and leaving it on his nightstand.
Lupin was gone in the morning, which was something of a blessing. Inspector Ganimard’s best pair of cufflinks, however, had gone with him. He was forced to purchase new ones, and they reminded him of Lupin whenever he dressed for dinner.
There were no more cards, at least for now — only the old trail of cold clues, and once in a while a very circumspect letter from the Prime Minister regarding some bit of business they wished the Sûréte to politely ignore.
Like some fashionable and coy young women, it seemed Lupin liked to know he was chased, but categorically refused to be caught.