Books: The Hollow Needle
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Maurice Leblanc >> The Hollow Needle
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"You're allowing yourself to be carried away, M. Beautrelet."
"One can't be carried away too much, monsieur, when one has to do
with people like that. Every-thing above the average deserves our
admiration. And this man soars above everything. There is in his
flight a wealth of imagination, a force and power, a skill and
freedom that send a thrill through me!"
"Pity he's dead," said M. Filleul, with a grin. "He'd have ended by
stealing the towers of Notre-Dame."
Isidore shrugged his shoulders:
"Don't laugh, monsieur. He upsets you, dead though he may be."
"I don't say not, I don't say not, M. Beautrelet, I confess that I
feel a certain excitement now that I am about to set eyes on him--
unless, indeed, his friends have taken away the body."
"And always admitting," observed the Comte de Gesvres, "that it was
really he who was wounded by my poor niece."
"It was he, beyond a doubt, Monsieur le Comte," declared Beautrelet;
"it was he, believe me, who fell in the ruins under the shot fired
by Mlle. de Saint-Veran; it was he whom she saw rise and who fell
again and dragged himself toward the cloisters to rise again for the
last time--this by a miracle which I will explain to you presently--
to rise again for the last time and reach this stone shelter--which
was to be his tomb."
And Beautrelet struck the threshold of the chapel with his stick.
"Eh? What?" cried M. Filleul, taken aback. "His tomb?--Do you think
that that impenetrable hiding-place--"
"It was here--there," he repeated.
"But we searched it."
"Badly."
"There is no hiding-place here," protested M. de Gesvres. "I know
the chapel."
"Yes, there is, Monsieur le Comte. Go to the mayor's office at
Varengeville, where they have collected all the papers that used to
be in the old parish of Ambrumesy, and you will learn from those
papers, which belong to the eighteenth century, that there is a
crypt below the chapel. This crypt doubtless dates back to the Roman
chapel, upon the site of which the present one was built."
"But how can Lupin have known this detail?" asked M. Filleul.
"In a very simple manner: because of the works which he had to
execute to take away the chapel."
"Come, come, M. Beautrelet, you're exaggerating. He has not taken
away the whole chapel. Look, not one of the stones of this top
course has been touched."
"Obviously, he cast and took away only what had a financial value:
the wrought stones, the sculptures, the statuettes, the whole
treasure of little columns and carved arches. He did not trouble
about the groundwork of the building itself. The foundations
remain."
"Therefore, M. Beautrelet, Lupin was not able to make his way into
the crypt."
At that moment, M. de Gesvres, who had been to call a servant,
returned with the key of the chapel. He opened the door. The three
men entered. After a short examination Beautrelet said:
"The flag-stones on the ground have been respected, as one might
expect. But it is easy to perceive that the high altar is nothing
more than a cast. Now, generally, the staircase leading to the crypt
opens in front of the high altar and passes under it."
"What do you conclude?"
"I conclude that Lupin discovered the crypt when working at the
altar."
The count sent for a pickaxe and Beautrelet attacked the altar. The
plaster flew to right and left. He pushed the pieces aside as he
went on.
"By Jove!" muttered M. Filleul, "I am eager to know--"
"So am I," said Beautrelet, whose face was pale with anguish.
He hurried his blows. And, suddenly, his pickaxe, which, until then,
had encountered no resistance, struck against a harder material and
rebounded. There was a sound of something falling in; and all that
remained of the altar went tumbling into the gap after the block of
stone which had been struck by the pickaxe. Beautrelet bent forward.
A puff of cold air rose to his face. He lit a match and moved it
from side to side over the gap:
"The staircase begins farther forward than I expected, under the
entrance-flags, almost. I can see the last steps, there, right at
the bottom."
"Is it deep?"
"Three or four yards. The steps are very high--and there are some
missing."
"It is hardly likely," said M. Filleul, "that the accomplices can
have had time to remove the body from the cellar, when they were
engaged in carrying off Mlle. de Saint-Veran--during the short
absence of the gendarmes. Besides, why should they?--No, in my
opinion, the body is here."
A servant brought them a ladder. Beautrelet let it down through the
opening and fixed it, after groping among the fallen fragments.
Holding the two uprights firmly:
"Will you go down, M. Filleul?" he asked.
The magistrate, holding a candle in his hand, ventured down the
ladder. The Comte de Gesvres followed him and Beautrelet, in his
turn, placed his foot on the first rung.
Mechanically, he counted eighteen rungs, while his eyes examined the
crypt, where the glimmer of the candle struggled against the heavy
darkness. But, at the bottom, his nostrils were assailed by one of
those foul and violent smells which linger m the memory for many a
long day. And, suddenly, a trembling hand seized him by the
shoulder.
"Well, what is it?"
"B-beautrelet," stammered M. Filleul. "B-beau-trelet--"
He could not get a word out for terror.
"Come, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, compose yourself!"
"Beautrelet--he is there--"
"Eh?"
"Yes-there was something under the big stone that broke off the
altar--I pushed the stone--and I touched--I shall never--shall never
forget.--"
"Where is it?"
"On this side.--Don't you notice the smell?--And then look--see."
He took the candle and held it towards a motionless form stretched
upon the ground.
"Oh!" exclaimed Beautrelet, in a horror-stricken tone.
The three men bent down quickly. The corpse lay half-naked, lean,
frightful. The flesh, which had the greenish hue of soft wax,
appeared in places through the torn clothes. But the most hideous
thing, the thing that had drawn a cry of terror from the young man's
lips, was the head, the head which had just been crushed by the
block of stone, the shapeless head, a repulsive mass in which not
one feature could be distinguished.
Beautrelet took four strides up the ladder and fled into the
daylight and the open air.
M. Filleul found him again lying flat on the around, with his hands
glued to his face:
"I congratulate you, Beautrelet," he said. "In addition to the
discovery of the hiding-place, there are two points on which I have
been able to verify the correctness of your assertions. First of
all, the man on whom Mlle. de Saint-Veran fired was indeed Arsene
Lupin, as you said from the start. Also, he lived in Paris under the
name of Etienne de Vaudreix. His linen is marked with the initials
E. V. That ought to be sufficient proof, I think: don't you?"
Isidore did not stir.
"Monsieur le Comte has gone to have a horse put to. They're sending
for Dr. Jouet, who will make the usual examination. In my opinion,
death must have taken place a week ago, at least. The state of
decomposition of the corpse--but you don't seem to be listening--"
"Yes, yes."
"What I say is based upon absolute reasons. Thus, for instance--"
M. Filleul continued his demonstrations, with-out, however,
obtaining any more manifest marks of attention. But M. de Gesvres's
return interrupted his monologue. The comte brought two letters. One
was to tell him that Holmlock Shears would arrive next morning.
"Capital!" cried M. Filleul, joyfully. "Inspector Ganimard will be
here too. It will be delightful."
"The other letter is for you, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction," said
the comte.
"Better and better," said M. Filleul, after reading it. "There will
certainly not be much for those two gentlemen to do. M. Beautrelet,
I hear from Dieppe that the body of a young woman was found by some
shrimpers, this morning, on the rocks."
Beautrelet gave a start:
"What's that? The body--"
"Of a young woman.--The body is horribly mutilated, they say, and it
would be impossible to establish the identity, but for a very narrow
little gold curb-bracelet on the right arm which has become
encrusted in the swollen skin. Now Mlle. de Saint-Veran used to wear
a gold curb-bracelet on her right arm. Evidently, therefore,
Monsieur le Comte, this is the body of your poor niece, which the
sea must have washed to that distance. What do you think,
Beautrelet?"
"Nothing--nothing--or, rather, yes--everything is connected, as you
see--and there is no link missing in my argument. All the facts, one
after the other, however contradictory, however disconcerting they
may appear, end by support-the supposition which I imagined from the
first."
"I don't understand."
"You soon will. Remember, I promised you the whole truth."
"But it seems to me--"
"A little patience, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. So far, you have
had no cause to complain of me. It is a fine day. Go for a walk,
lunch at the chateau, smoke your pipe. I shall be back by four
o'clock. As for my school, well, I don't care: I shall take the
night train."
They had reached the out-houses at the back of the chateau.
Beautrelet jumped on his bicycle and rode away.
At Dieppe, he stopped at the office of the local paper, the Vigie,
and examined the file for the last fortnight. Then he went on to the
market-town of Envermeu, six or seven miles farther. At Envermeu, he
talked to the mayor, the rector and the local policeman. The church-
clock struck three. His inquiry was finished.
He returned singing for joy. He pressed upon the two pedals turn by
turn, with an equal and powerful rhythm; his chest opened wide to
take in the keen air that blew from the sea. And, from time to time,
he forgot himself to the extent of uttering shouts of triumph to the
sky, when he thought of the aim which he was pursuing and of the
success that was crowning his efforts.
Ambrumesy appeared in sight. He coasted at full speed down the slope
leading to the chateau. The top rows of venerable trees that line
the road seemed to run to meet him and to vanish behind him
forthwith. And, all at once, he uttered a cry. In a sudden vision,
he had seen a rope stretched from one tree to another, across the
road.
His machine gave a jolt and stopped short. Beautrelet was flung
three yards forward, with immense violence, and it seemed to him
that only chance, a miraculous chance, caused him to escape a heap
of pebbles on which, logically, he ought to have broken his head.
He lay for a few seconds stunned. Then, all covered with bruises,
with the skin flayed from his knees, he examined the spot. On the
right lay a small wood, by which his aggressor had no doubt fled.
Beautrelet untied the rope. To the tree on the left around which it
was fastened a small piece of paper was fixed with string.
Beautrelet unfolded it and read:
"The third and last warning."
He went on to the chateau, put a few questions to the servants and
joined the examining magistrate in a room on the ground floor, at
the end of the right wing, where M. Filleul used to sit in the
course of his operations. M. Filleul was writing, with his clerk
seated opposite to him. At a sign from him, the clerk left the room;
and the magistrate exclaimed:
"Why, what have you been doing to yourself, M. Beautrelet? Your
hands are covered with blood."
"It's nothing, it's nothing," said the young man. "Just a fall
occasioned by this rope, which was stretched in front of my bicycle.
I will only ask you to observe that the rope comes from the chateau.
Not longer than twenty minutes ago, it was being used to dry linen
on, outside the laundry."
"You don't mean to say so!"
"Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, I am being watched here, by some
one in the very heart of the place, who can see me, who can hear me
and who, minute by minute, observes my actions and knows my
intentions."
"Do you think so?"
I am sure of it. It is for you to discover him and you will have no
difficulty in that. As for myself, I want to have finished and to
give you the promised explanations. I have made faster progress than
our adversaries expected and I am convinced that they mean to take
vigorous measures on their side. The circle is closing around me.
The danger is approaching. I feel it."
"Nonsense, Beautrelet--"
"You wait and see! For the moment, let us lose no time. And, first,
a question on a point which I want to have done with at once. Have
you spoken to anybody of that document which Sergeant Quevillon
picked up and handed you in my presence?"
"No, indeed; not to a soul. But do you attach any value--?"
"The greatest value. It's an idea of mine, an idea, I confess, which
does not rest upon a proof of any kind--for, up to the present, I
have not succeeded in deciphering the document. And therefore I am
mentioning it--so that we need not come back to it."
Beautrelet pressed his hand on M. Filleul's and whispered:
"Don't speak--there's some one listening--outside--"
The gravel creaked. Beautrelet ran to the window and leaned out:
"There's no one there--but the border has been trodden down--we can
easily identify the footprints--"
He closed the window and sat down again:
"You see, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, the enemy has even ceased
to take the most ordinary precautions-he has not time left--he too
feels that the hour is urgent. Let us be quick, there-fore, and
speak, since they do not wish us to speak."
He laid the document on the table and held it in position, unfolded:
"One observation, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, to begin with. The
paper consists almost entirely of dots and figures. And in the first
three lines and the fifth--the only ones with which we have to do at
present, for the fourth seems to present an entirely different
character--not one of those figures is higher than the figure 5.
There is, therefore, a great chance that each of these figures
represents one of the five vowels, taken in alphabetical order. Let
us put down the result."
He wrote on a separate piece of paper:
E . A . A . . E . . E . A . . A . .
A . . . E . E . . E OI . E . . E .
. OU . . E . O . . . E . . E . O . . E
AI . UI . . E . . EU . E
Then he continued:
"As you see, this does not give us much to go upon. The key is, at
the same time, very easy, because the inventor has contented himself
with replacing the vowels by figures and the consonants by dots, and
very difficult, if not impossible, because he has taken no further
trouble to complicate the problem."
"It is certainly pretty obscure."
"Let us try to throw some light upon it. The second line is divided
into two parts; and the second part appears in such a way that it
probably forms one word. If we now seek to replace the intermediary
dots by consonants, we arrive at the conclusion, after searching and
casting about, that the only consonants which are logically able to
support the vowels are also logically able to produce only one word,
the word DEMOISELLES."
"That would refer to Mlle. de Gesvres and Mlle. de Saint-Veran."
"Undoubtedly."
"And do you see nothing more?"
"Yes. I also note an hiatus in the middle of the last line; and, if
I apply a similar operation to the beginning of the line, I at once
see that the only consonant able to take the place of the dot
between the diphthongs FAI and UI is the letter G and that, when I
have thus formed the first five letters of the word, AIGUI, it is
natural and inevitable that, with the two next dots and the final E,
I should arrive at the word AIGUILLE."
"Yes, the word AIGUILLE forces itself upon us."
"Finally, for the last word, I have three vowels and three
consonants. I cast about again, I try all the letters, one after the
other, and, starting with the principle that the two first letters
are necessary consonants, I find that three words apply: F*EUVE,
PREUVE and CREUSE. I eliminate the words F*EUVE and PREUVE, as
possessing no possible relation to a needle, and I keep the word
CREUSE."
"Making 'hollow needle'! By jove! I admit that your solution is
correct, because it needs must be; but how does it help us?"
"Not at all," said Beautrelet, in a thoughtful tone. "Not at all,
for the moment.--Later on, we shall see.--I have an idea that a
number of things are included in the puzzling conjunction of those
two words, AIGUILLE CREUSE. What is troubling me at present is
rather the material on which the document is written, the paper
employed.--Do they still manufacture this sort of rather coarse-
grained parchment? And then this ivory color.--And those folds--the
wear of those folds--and. lastly, look, those marks of red sealing-
wax, on the back--"
At that moment Beautrelet, was interrupted by Bredoux, the
magistrate's clerk, who opened the door and announced the unexpected
arrival of the chief public prosecutor. M. Filleul rose:
"Anything new? Is Monsieur le Procureur General downstairs?"
"No, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. Monsieur le Procureur General
has not left his carriage. He is only passing through Ambrumesy and
begs you to be good enough to go down to him at the gate. He only
has a word to say to you."
"That's curious," muttered M. Filleul. "How-ever--we shall see.
Excuse me, Beautrelet, I shan't be long."
He went away. His footsteps sounded outside. Then the clerk closed
the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Beautrelet, greatly surprised. "What are you
locking us in for?"
"We shall be able to talk so much better," retorted Bredoux.
Beautrelet rushed toward another door, which led to the next room.
He had understood: the accomplice was Bredoux, the clerk of the
examining magistrate himself. Bredoux grinned:
"Don't hurt your fingers, my young friend. I have the key of that
door, too."
"There's the window!" cried Beautrelet.
"Too late," said Bredoux, planting himself in front of the casement,
revolver in hand.
Every chance of retreat was cut off. There was nothing more for
Isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy
who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his
arms.
"Good," mumbled the clerk. "And now let us waste no time." He took
out his watch. "Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At
the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor
than my eye. Then he will come back. That gives us about four
minutes. It will take me one minute to escape by this window, clear
through the little door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle
waiting for me. That leaves three minutes, which is just enough."
Bredoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a
pair of very long spindle-legs a huge trunk, as round as the body of
a spider and furnished with immense arms. A bony face and a low,
small stubborn forehead pointed to the man's narrow obstinacy.
Beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. He had to sit
down:
"Speak," he said. "What do you want?"
"The paper. I've been looking for it for three days."
"I haven't got it."
"You're lying. I saw you put it back in your pocket-book when I came
in."
"Next?"
"Next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. You're annoying us.
Leave us alone and mind your own business. Our patience is at an
end."
He had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man's
head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each
syllable that he uttered. His eyes were hard, his smile cruel.
Beautrelet gave a shudder. It was the first time that he was
experiencing the sense of danger. And such danger! He felt himself
in the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and
irresistible strength.
"And next?" he asked, with less assurance in his voice.
"Next? Nothing.--You will be free.--We will forget--"
There was a pause. Then Bredoux resumed:
"There is only a minute left. You must make up your mind. Come, old
chap, don't be a fool.--We are the stronger, you know, always and
everywhere.--Quick, the paper--"
Isidore did not flinch. With a livid and terrified face, he remained
master of himself, nevertheless, and his brain remained clear amid
the breakdown of his nerves. The little black hole of the revolver
was pointing at six inches from his eyes. The finger was bent and
obviously pressing on the trigger. It only wanted a moment--
"The paper," repeated Bredoux. "If not--"
"Here it is," said Beautrelet.
He took out his pocket-book and handed it to the clerk, who seized
it eagerly.
"Capital! We've come to our senses. I've no doubt there's something
to be done with you.--You're troublesome, but full of common sense.
I'll talk about it to my pals. And now I'm off. Good-bye!"
He pocketed his revolver and turned back the fastening of the
window. There was a noise in the passage.
"Good-bye," he said again. "I'm only just in time."
But the idea stopped him. With a quick movement, he examined the
pocket-book:
"Damn and blast it!" He grated through his teeth. "The paper's not
there.--You've done me--"
He leaped into the room. Two shots rang out. Isidore, in his turn,
had seized his pistol and fired.
"Missed, old chap!" shouted Bredoux. "Your hand's shaking.--You're
afraid--"
They caught each other round the body and came down to the floor
together. There was a violent and incessant knocking at the door.
Isidore's strength gave way and he was at once over come by his
adversary. It was the end. A hand was lifted over him, armed with a
knife, and fell. A fierce pain burst into his shoulder. He let go.
He had an impression of some one fumbling in the inside pocket of
his jacket and taking the paper from it. Then, through the lowered
veil of his eyelids, he half saw the man stepping over the window-
sill.
The same newspapers which, on the following morning, related the
last episodes that had occurred at the Chateau d'Ambrumesy--the
trickery at the chapel, the discovery of Arsene Lupin's body and of
Raymonde's body and, lastly, the murderous attempt made upon
Beautrelet by the clerk to the examining magistrate--also announced
two further pieces of news: the disappearance of Ganimard, and the
kidnapping of Holmlock Shears, in broad daylight, in the heart of
London, at the moment when he was about to take the train for Dover.
Lupin's gang, therefore, which had been disorganized for a moment by
the extraordinary ingenuity of a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, was
now resuming the offensive and was winning all along the line from
the first. Lupin's two great adversaries, Shears and Ganimard, were
put away. Isidore Beautrelet was disabled. The police were
powerless. For the moment there was no one left capable of
struggling against such enemies.
CHAPTER FOUR
FACE TO FACE
One evening, five weeks later, I had given my man leave to go out.
It was the day before the 14th of July. The night was hot, a storm
threatened and I felt no inclination to leave the flat. I opened
wide the glass doors leading to my balcony, lit my reading lamp and
sat down in an easy-chair to look through the papers, which I had
not yet seen.
It goes without saying that there was something about Arsene Lupin
in all of them. Since the attempt at murder of which poor Isidore
Beautrelet had been the victim, not a day had passed without some
mention of the Ambrumesy mystery. It had a permanent headline
devoted to it. Never had public opinion been excited to that extent,
thanks to the extraordinary series of hurried events, of unexpected
and disconcerting surprises. M. Filleul, who was certainly accepting
the secondary part allotted to him with a good faith worthy of all
praise, had let the interviewers into the secret of his young
advisor's exploits during the memorable three days, so that the
public was able to indulge in the rashest suppositions. And the
public gave itself free scope. Specialists and experts in crime,
novelists and playwrights, retired magistrates and chief-detectives,
erstwhile Lecocqs and budding Holmlock Shearses, each had his theory
and expounded it in lengthy contributions to the press. Everybody
corrected and supplemented the inquiry of the examining magistrate;
and all on the word of a child, on the word of Isidore Beautrelet, a
sixth-form schoolboy at the Lycee Janson-de-Sailly!
For really, it had to be admitted, the complete elements of the
truth were now in everybody's possession. What did the mystery
consist of? They knew the hiding-place where Arsene Lupin had taken
refuge and lain a-dying; there was no doubt about it: Dr. Delattre,
who continued to plead professional secrecy and refused to give
evidence, nevertheless confessed to his intimate friends--who lost
no time in blabbing--that he really had been taken to a crypt to
attend a wounded man whom his confederates introduced to him by the
name of Arsene Lupin. And, as the corpse of Etienne de Vaudreix was
found in that same crypt and as the said Etienne de Vaudreix was
none other than Arsene Lupin--as the official examination went to
show--all this provided an additional proof, if one were needed, of
the identity of Arsene Lupin and the wounded man. Therefore, with
Lupin dead and Mlle. de Saint-Veran's body recognized by the curb-
bracelet on her wrist, the tragedy was finished.
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