Books: The Hollow Needle
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Maurice Leblanc >> The Hollow Needle
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"And where is it?"
"Where is it? Why, she put it on that table--there it is--over
there--"
Isidore gave a bound. At one end of the table, on a muddled heap of
papers, lay a little book bound in red morocco. He banged his fist
down upon it, as though he were forbidding anybody to touch it--and
also a little as though he himself dared not take it up.
"Well!" cried Massiban, greatly excited.
"I have it--here it is--we're there at last!"
"But the title--are you sure?--"
"Why, of course: look!"
"Are you convinced? Have we mastered the secret at last?"
"The front page--what does the front page say?"
"Read: The Whole Truth now first exhibited. One hundred copies
printed by myself for the instruction of the Court."
"That's it, that's it," muttered Massiban, in a hoarse voice. "It's
the copy snatched from the flames! It's the very book which Louis
XIV. condemned."
They turned over the pages. The first part set forth the
explanations given by Captain de Larbeyrie in his journal.
"Get on, get on!" said Beautrelet, who was in a hurry to come to the
solution.
"Get on? What do you mean? Not at all! We know that the Man with the
Iron Mask was imprisoned because he knew and wished to divulge the
secret of the Royal house of France. But how did he know it? And why
did he wish to divulge it? Lastly, who was that strange personage? A
half-brother of Louis XIV., as Voltaire maintained, or Mattioli, the
Italian minister, as the modern critics declare? Hang it, those are
questions of the very first interest!"
"Later, later," protested Beautrelet, feverishly turning the pages,
as though he feared that the book would fly out of his hands before
he had solved the riddle.
"But--" said Massiban, who doted on historical details.
"We have plenty of time--afterward--let's see the explanation first-
-"
Suddenly Beautrelet stopped. The document! In the middle of a left-
hand page, his eyes saw the five mysterious lines of dots and
figures! He made sure, with a glance, that the text was identical
with that which he had studied so long; the same arrangement of the
signs, the same intervals that permitted of the isolation of the
word demoiselles and the separation of the two words aiguille and
creuse.
A short note preceded it:
All the necessary indications, it appears, were reduced by King
Louis XIII. into a little table which I transcribe below.
Here followed the table of dots and figures.
Then came the explanation of the document itself. Beautrelet read,
in a broken voice:
As will be seen, this table, even after we have changed the figures
into vowels, affords no light. One might say that, in order to
decipher the puzzle, we must first know it. It is, at most, a clue
given to those who know the paths of the labyrinth.
Let us take this clue and proceed. I will guide you.
The fourth line first. The fourth line contains measurements and
indications. By complying with the indications and noting the
measurements set down, we inevitably attain our object, on
condition, be it understood, that we know where we are and whither
we are going, in a word, that we are enlightened as to the real
meaning of the Hollow Needle. This is what we may learn from the
first three lines. The first is so conceived to revenge myself on
the King; I had warned him, for that matter--
Beautrelet stopped, nonplussed.
"What? What is it?" said Massiban.
"The words don't make sense."
"No more they do," replied Massiban. "'The first is so conceived to
revenge myself on the King--' What can that mean?"
"Damn!" yelled Beautrelet.
"Well?"
"Torn! Two pages! The next two pages! Look at the marks!"
He trembled, shaking with rage and disappointment. Massiban bent
forward.
"It is true--there are the ends of two pages left, like bookbinders'
guards. The marks seem pretty fresh. They've not been cut, but torn
out--torn out with violence. Look, all the pages at the end of the
book have been rumpled."
"But who can have done it? Who?" moaned Isidore, wringing his hands.
"A servant? An accomplice?"
"All the same, it may date back to a few months since," observed
Massiban.
"Even so--even so--some one must have hunted out and taken the book-
-Tell me, monsieur," cried Beautrelet, addressing the baron, "is
there no one whom you suspect?"
"We might ask my daughter."
"Yes--yes--that's it--perhaps she will know."
M. de Velines rang for the footman. A few minutes later. Mme. de
Villemon entered. She was a young woman, with a sad and resigned
face. Beautrelet at once asked her:
"You found this volume upstairs, madame, in the library?"
"Yes, in a parcel of books that had not been uncorded."
"And you read it?"
"Yes, last night."
"When you read it, were those two pages missing? Try and remember:
the two pages following this table of figures and dots?"
"No, certainly not," she said, greatly astonished. "There was no
page missing at all."
"Still, somebody has torn--"
"But the book did not leave my room last night."
"And this morning?"
"This morning, I brought it down here myself, when M. Massiban's
arrival was announced."
"Then--?"
"Well, I don't understand--unless--but no."
"What?"
"Georges--my son--this morning--Georges was playing with the book."
She ran out headlong, accompanied by Beautrelet, Massiban and the
baron. The child was not in his room. They hunted in every
direction. At last, they found him playing behind the castle. But
those three people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily
to account that he began to yell aloud.
Everybody ran about to right and left. The servants were questioned.
It was an indescribable tumult. And Beautrelet received the awful
impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water
trickling through his fingers.
He made an effort to recover himself, took Mme. de Villemon's arm,
and, followed by the baron and Massiban, led her back to the drawing
room and said:
"The book is incomplete. Very well. There are two pages torn out;
but you read them, did you not, madame?"
"Yes."
"You know what they contained?"
"Yes."
"Could you repeat it to us?"
"Certainly. I read the book with a great deal of curiosity, but
those two pages struck me in particular because the revelations were
so very interesting."
"Well, then, speak madame, speak, I implore you! Those revelations
are of exceptional importance. Speak, I beg of you: minutes lost are
never recovered. The Hollow Needle--"
"Oh, it's quite simple. The Hollow Needle means--"
At that moment, a footman entered the room:
"A letter for madame."
"Oh, but the postman has passed!"
"A boy brought it."
Mme. de Villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her
heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint.
The paper had slipped to the floor. Beautrelet picked it up and,
without troubling to apologize, read:
Not a word! If you say a word, your son will
never wake again.
"My son--my son!" she stammered, too weak even to go to the
assistance of the threatened child.
Beautrelet reassured her:
"It is not serious--it's a joke. Come, who could be interested?"
"Unless," suggested Massiban, "it was Arsene Lupin."
Beautrelet made him a sign to hold his tongue. He knew quite well,
of course, that the enemy was there, once more, watchful and
determined; and that was just why he wanted to tear from Mme. de
Villemon the decisive words, so long awaited, and to tear them from
her on the spot, that very moment:
"I beseech you, madame, compose yourself. We are all here. There is
not the least danger."
Would she speak? He thought so, he hoped so. She stammered out a few
syllables. But the door opened again. This time, the nurse entered.
She seemed distraught:
"M. Georges--madame--M. Georges--!"
Suddenly, the mother recovered all her strength. Quicker than any of
them, and urged by an unfailing instinct, she rushed down the
staircase, across the hall and on to the terrace. There lay little
Georges, motionless, on a wicker chair.
"Well, what is it? He's asleep!--"
"He fell asleep suddenly, madame," said the nurse. "I tried to
prevent him, to carry him to his room. But he was fast asleep and
his hands--his hands were cold."
"Cold!" gasped the mother. "Yes--it's true. Oh dear, oh dear--IF HE
ONLY WAKES UP!"
Beautrelet put his hand in his trousers pocket, seized the butt of
his revolver, cocked it with his forefinger, then suddenly produced
the weapon and fired at Massiban.
Massiban, as though he were watching the boy's movements, had
avoided the shot, so to speak, in advance. But already Beautrelet
had sprung upon him, shouting to the servants:
"Help! It's Lupin!"
Massiban, under the weight of the impact, fell back into one of the
wicker chairs. In a few seconds, he rose, leaving Beautrelet
stunned, choking; and, holding the young man's revolver in his
hands:
"Good!--that's all right!--don't stir--you'll be like that for two
or three minutes--no more. But, upon my word, you took your time to
recognize me! Was my make-up as old Massiban so good as all that?"
He was now standing straight up on his legs, his body squared, in a
formidable attitude, and he grinned as he looked at the three
petrified footmen and the dumbfounded baron:
"Isidore, you've missed the chance of a lifetime. If you hadn't told
them I was Lupin, they'd have jumped on me. And, with fellows like
that, what would have become of me, by Jove, with four to one
against me?"
He walked up to them:
"Come, my lads, don't be afraid--I shan't hurt you. Wouldn't you
like a sugar-stick apiece to screw your courage up? Oh, you, by the
way, hand me back my hundred-franc note, will you? Yes, yes, I know
you! You're the one I bribed just now to give the letter to your
mistress. Come hurry, you faithless servant."
He took the blue bank-note which the servant handed him and tore it
into tiny shreds:
"The price of treachery! It burns my fingers."
He took off his hat and, bowing very low before Mme. de Villemon:
"Will you forgive me, madame? The accidents of life--of mine
especially--often drive one to acts of cruelty for which I am the
first to blush. But have no fear for your son: it's a mere prick, a
little puncture in the arm which I gave him while we were
questioning him. In an hour, at the most, you won't know that it
happened. Once more, all my apologies. But I had to make sure of
your silence." He bowed again, thanked M. de Velines for his kind
hospitality, took his cane, lit a cigarette, offered one to the
baron, gave a circular sweep with his hat and, in a patronizing
tone, said to Beautrelet:
"Good-bye, baby."
And he walked away quietly, puffing the smoke of his cigarette into
the servants' faces.
Beautrelet waited for a few minutes. Mme. de Villemon, now calmer,
was watching by her son. He went up to her, with the intention of
making one last appeal to her. Their eyes met. He said nothing. He
had understood that she would never speak now, whatever happened.
There, once more, in that mother's brain, the secret of the Hollow
Needle lay buried as deeply as in the night of the past.
Then he gave up and went away.
It was half-past ten. There was a train at eleven-fifty. He slowly
followed the avenue in the park and turned into the road that led to
the station.
"Well, what do you say to that?"
It was Massiban, or rather Lupin, who appeared out of the wood
adjoining the road.
"Was it pretty well contrived, or was it not? Is your old friend
great on the tight-rope, or is he not? I'm sure that you haven't got
over it, eh, and that you're asking yourself whether the so-called
Massiban, member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres,
ever existed. But, of course, he exists. I'll even show him to you,
if you're good. But, first, let me give you back your revolver.
You're looking to see if it's loaded? Certainly, my lad. There are
five charges left, one of which would be enough to send me ad
patres.--Well, so you're putting it in your pocket? Quite right. I
prefer that to what you did up there.--A nasty little impulse, that,
of yours!--Still, you're young, you suddenly see--in a flash!--that
you've once more been done by that confounded Lupin and that he is
standing there in front of you, at three steps from you--and bang!
You fire!--I'm not angry with you, bless your little heart! To prove
it, I offer you a seat in my 100 h.p. car. Will that suit you?"
He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.
The contrast was delicious between the venerable appearance of this
elderly Massiban and the schoolboy ways and accent which Lupin was
putting on. Beautrelet could not help laughing.
"He's laughed! He's laughed!" cried Lupin, jumping for joy. "You
see, baby, what you fall short in is the power of smiling; you're a
trifle serious for your age. You're a very likeable boy, you have a
charming candor and simplicity--but you have no sense of humor." He
placed himself in front of him. "Look here, bet you I make you cry!
Do you know how I was able to follow up all your inquiry, how I knew
of the letter Massiban wrote you and his appointment to meet you
this morning at the Chateau de Velines? Through the prattle of your
friend, the one you're staying with. You confide in that idiot and
he loses no time, but goes and tells everything to his best girl.
And his best girl has no secrets for Lupin.--What did I tell you?
I've made you feel, anyhow; your eyes are quite wet!--Friendship
betrayed: that upsets you, eh? Upon my word, you're wonderful! I
could take you in my arms and hug you! You always wear that look of
astonishment which goes straight to my heart.--I shall never forget
the other evening at Gaillon, when you consulted me.--Yes, I was the
old notary!--But why don't you laugh, youngster? As I said, you have
no sense of a joke. Look here, what you want is--what shall I call
it?--imagination, imaginative impulse. Now, I'm full of imaginative
impulse."
A motor was heard panting not far off. Lupin seized Beautrelet
roughly by the arm and in a cold voice, looking him straight in the
eyes:
"You're going to keep quiet now, aren't you? You can see there's
nothing to be done. Then what's the use of wasting your time and
energy? There are plenty of highway robbers in the world. Run after
them and let me be--if not!--It's settled, isn't it?"
He shook him as though to enforce his will upon him. Then he
grinned:
"Fool that I am! You leave me alone? You're not one of those who let
go! Oh, I don't know what restrains me! In half a dozen turns of the
wrist, I could have you bound and gagged--and, in two hours, safe
under lock and key, for some months to come. And then I could twist
my thumbs in all security, withdraw to the peaceful retreat prepared
for me by my ancestors, the Kings of France, and enjoy the treasures
which they have been good enough to accumulate for me. But no, it is
doomed that I must go on blundering to the end. I can't help it, we
all have our weaknesses--and I have one for you. Besides, it's not
done yet. From now until you put your finger into the hollow of the
Needle, a good deal of water will flow under the bridges. Dash it
all, it took me ten days! Me! Lupin! You will want ten years, at
least! There's that much distance between us, after all!"
The motor arrived, an immense closed car. Lupin opened the door and
Beautreiet gave a cry. There was a man inside and that man was
Lupin, or rather Massiban. Suddenly understanding, he burst out
laughing. Lupin said:
"Don't be afraid, he's sound asleep. I promised that you should see
him. Do you grasp the situation now? At midnight, I knew of your
appointment at the castle. At seven in the morning, I was there.
When Massiban passed, I had only to collect him--give him a tiny
prick with a needle--and the thing--was done. Sleep old chap, sleep
away. We'll set you down on the slope. That's it--there--capital--
right in the sun, then you won't catch cold--good! And our hat in
our hand.--Spare a copper, kind gentleman!--Oh. my dear old
Massiban, so you were after Arsene Lupin!"
It was really a huge joke to see the two Massibans face to face, one
asleep with his head on his chest, the other seriously occupied in
paying him every sort of attention and respect:
"Pity a poor blind man! There, Massiban, here's two sous and my
visiting-card. And now, my lads, off we go at the fourth speed. Do
you hear, driver? You've got to do seventy-five miles an hour. Jump
in, Isidore. There's a full sitting of the Institute to-day, and
Massiban is to read a little paper, on I don't know what, at half-
past three. Well, he'll read them his little paper. I'll dish them
up a complete Massiban, more real than the real one, with my own
ideas, on the lacustrine inscriptions. I don't have an opportunity
of lecturing at the Institute ever day!--Faster, chauffeur: we're
only doing seventy-one and a half!--Are you afraid? Remember you're
with Lupin!--Ah, Isidore, and then people say that life is
monotonous! Why, life's an adorable thing, my boy; only one has to
know--and I know--. Wasn't it enough to make a man jump out of his
skin for joy, just now, at the castle, when you were chattering with
old Velines and I, up against the window, was tearing out the pages
of the historic book? And then, when you were questioning the Dame
de Villemon about the Hollow Needle! Would she speak? Yes, she
would--no, she wouldn't--yes--no. It gave me gooseflesh, I assure
you.--If she spoke, I should have to build up my life anew, the
whole scaffolding was destroyed.--Would the footman come in time?
Yes--no--there he is.--But Beautrelet will unmask me! Never! He's
too much of a flat! Yes, though--no--there, he's done it--no, he
hasn't--yes--he's eyeing me--that's it--he's feeling for his
revolver!--Oh, the delight of it!--Isidore, you're talking too much,
you'll hurt yourself!--Let's have a snooze, shall we?--I'm dying of
sleep.--Good night."
Beautrelet looked at him. He seemed almost asleep already. He slept.
The motor-car, darting through space, rushed toward a horizon that
was constantly reached and as constantly retreated. There was no
impression of towns, villages, fields or forests; simply space,
space devoured, swallowed up.
Beautrelet looked at his traveling companion, for a long time, with
eager curiosity and also with a keen wish to fathom his real
character through the mask that covered it. And he thought of the
circumstances that confined them, like that, together, in the close
contact of that motor car. But, after the excitement and
disappointment of the morning, tired in his turn, he too fell
asleep.
When he woke, Lupin was reading. Beautrelet leant over to see the
title of the book. It was the Epistolae ad Lucilium of Seneca the
philosopher.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FROM CAESAR TO LUPIN
Dash it all, it took me ten days! Me! Lupin!
You will want ten years, at least!--
These words, uttered by Lupin after leaving the Chateau de Velines,
had no little influence on Beautrelet's conduct.
Though very calm in the main and invariably master of himself,
Lupin, nevertheless, was subject to moments of exaltation, of a more
or less romantic expansiveness, at once theatrical and good-humored,
when he allowed certain admissions to escape him, certain imprudent
speeches which a boy like Beautrelet could easily turn to profit.
Rightly or wrongly. Beautrelet read one of these involuntary
admissions into that phrase. He was entitled to conclude that, if
Lupin drew a comparison between his own efforts and Beautrelet's in
pursuit of the truth about the Hollow Needle, it was because the two
of them possessed identical means of attaining their object, because
Lupin had no elements of success different from those possessed by
his adversary. The chances were alike. Now, with the same chances,
the same elements of success, the same means, ten days had been
enough for Lupin.
What were those elements, those means, those chances? They were
reduced, when all was said, to a knowledge of the pamphlet published
in 1815, a pamphlet which Lupin, no doubt, like Massiban, had found
by accident and thanks to which he had succeeded in discovering the
indispensable document in Marie Antoinette's book of hours.
Therefore, the pamphlet and the document were the only two
fundamental facts upon which Lupin had relied. With these he had
built up the whole edifice. He had had no extraneous aid. The study
of the pamphlet and the study of the document--full stop--that was
all.
Well, could not Beautrelet confine himself to the same ground? What
was the use of an impossible struggle? What was the use of those
vain investigations, in which, even supposing that he avoided the
pitfalls that were multiplied under his feet, he was sure, in the
end, to achieve the poorest of results?
His decision was clear and immediate; and, in adopting it, he had
the happy instinct that he was on the right path. He began by
leaving his Janson-de-Sailly schoolfellow, without indulging in
useless recriminations, and, taking his portmanteau with him, went
and installed himself, after much hunting about, in a small hotel
situated in the very heart of Paris. This hotel he did not leave for
days. At most, he took his meals at the table d'hote. The rest of
the time, locked in his room, with the window-curtains close-drawn,
he spent in thinking.
"Ten days," Arsene Lupin had said.
Beautrelet, striving to forget all that he had done and to remember
only the elements of the pamphlet and the document, aspired eagerly
to keep within the limit of those ten days. However the tenth day
passed and the eleventh and the twelfth; but, on the thirteenth day,
a gleam lit up his brain and, very soon, with the bewildering
rapidity of those ideas which develop in us like miraculous plants,
the truth emerged, blossomed, gathered strength. On the evening of
the thirteenth day, he certainly did not know the answer to the
problem, but he knew, to a certainty, one of the methods which Lupin
had, beyond a doubt, employed.
It was a very simple method, hinging on this one question: Is there
a link of any sort uniting all the more or less important historic
events with which the pamphlet connects the mystery of the Hollow
Needle?
The great diversity of these events made the question difficult to
answer. Still, the profound examination to which Beautrelet applied
himself ended by pointing to one essential characteristic which was
common to them all. Each one of them, without exception, had
happened within the boundaries of the old kingdom of Neustria, which
correspond very nearly with those of our present-day Normandy. All
the heroes of the fantastic adventure are Norman, or become Norman,
or play their part in the Norman country.
What a fascinating procession through the ages! What a rousing
spectacle was that of all those barons, dukes and kings, starting
from such widely opposite points to meet in this particular corner
of the world! Beautrelet turned the pages of history at haphazard:
it was Rolf, or Rou, or Rollo, first Duke of Normandy, who was
master of the secret of the Needle, according to the treaty of
Saint-Clair-sur-Epte!
It was William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy and King of England,
whose bannerstaff was pierced like a needle!
It was at Rouen that the English burnt Joan of Arc, mistress of the
secret!
And right at the beginning of the adventure, who is that chief of
the Caleti who pays his ransom to Caesar with the secret of the
Needle but the chief of the men of the Caux country, which lies in
the very heart of Normandy?
The supposition becomes more definite. The field narrows. Rouen, the
banks of the Seine, the Caux country: it really seems as though all
roads lead in that direction. Two kings of France are mentioned more
particularly, after the secret is lost by the Dukes of Normandy and
their heirs, the kings of England, and becomes the royal secret of
France; and these two are King Henry IV., who laid siege to Rouen
and won the battle of Arques, near Dieppe, and Francis I., who
founded the Havre and uttered that suggestive phrase:
"The kings of France carry secrets that often decide the fate of
towns!"
Rouen, Dieppe, the Havre: the three angles of the triangle, the
three large towns that occupy the three points. In the centre, the
Caux country.
The seventeenth century arrives. Louis XIV. burns the book in which
a person unknown reveals the truth. Captain de Larbeyrie masters a
copy, profits by the secret thus obtained, steals a certain number
of jewels and dies by the hand of highway murderers. Now at which
spot is the ambush laid? At Gaillon! At Gaillon, a little town on
the road leading from Havre, Rouen or Dieppe to Paris!
A year later, Louis XIV. buys a domain and builds the Chateau de
l'Aiguille. Where does he select his site? In the Midlands of
France, with the result that the curious are thrown off the scent
and do not hunt about in Normandy.
Rouen, Dieppe, the Havre--the Cauchois triangle--everything lies
there. On one side, the sea; on another, the Seine: on the third,
the two valleys that lead from Rouen to Dieppe.
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