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

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.”