Books: The Hollow Needle

M >> Maurice Leblanc >> The Hollow Needle

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It was not. Nobody thought that it was, because Beautrelet had said
the contrary. Nobody knew in what respect it was not finished, but,
on the word of the young man, the mystery remained complete. The
evidence of the senses did not prevail against the statement of a
Beautrelet. There was something which people did not know, and of
that something they were convinced that he was in position to supply
a triumphant explanation.

It is easy, therefore, to imagine the anxiety with which, at first,
people awaited the bulletins issued by the two Dieppe doctors to
whose care the Comte de Gesvres entrusted his patient; the distress
that prevailed during the first few days, when his life was thought
to be in danger; and the enthusiasm of the morning when the
newspapers announced that there was no further cause for fear. The
least details excited the crowd. People wept at the thought of
Beautrelet nursed by his old father, who had been hurriedly summoned
by telegram, and they also admired the devotion of Mlle. Suzanne de
Gesvres, who spent night after night by the wounded lad's bedside.

Next came a swift and glad convalescence. At last, the public were
about to know! They would know what Beautrelet had promised to
reveal to M. Filleul and the decisive words which the knife of the
would-be assassin had prevented him from uttering! And they would
also know everything, outside the tragedy itself, that remained
impenetrable or inaccessible to the efforts of the police.

With Beautrelet free and cured of his wound, one could hope for some
certainty regarding Harlington, Arsene Lupin's mysterious
accomplice, who was still detained at the Sante prison. One would
learn what had become, after the crime, of Bredoux the clerk, that
other accomplice, whose daring was really terrifying.

With Beautrelet free, one could also form a precise idea concerning
the disappearance of Ganimard and the kidnapping of Shears. How was
it possible for two attempts of this kind to take place? Neither the
English detectives nor their French colleagues possessed the
slightest clue on the subject. On Whit-Sunday, Ganimard did not come
home, nor on the Monday either, nor during the five weeks that
followed. In London, on Whit-Monday, Holmlock Shears took a cab at
eight o'clock in the evening to drive to the station. He had hardly
stepped in, when he tried to alight, probably feeling a presentiment
of danger. But two men jumped into the hansom, one on either side,
flung him back on the seat and kept him there between them, or
rather under them. All this happened in sight of nine or ten
witnesses, who had no time to interfere. The cab drove off at a
gallop. And, after that, nothing. Nobody knew anything.

Perhaps, also, Beautrelet would be able to give the complete
explanation of the document, the mysterious paper to which. Bredoux,
the magistrate's clerk, attached enough importance to recover it,
with blows of the knife, from the person in whose possession it was.
The problem of the Hollow Needle it was called, by the countless
solvers of riddles who, with their eyes bent upon the figures and
dots, strove to read a meaning into them. The Hollow Needle! What a
bewildering conjunction of two simple words! What an
incomprehensible question was set by that scrap of paper, whose very
origin and manufacture were unknown! The Hollow Needle! Was it a
meaningless expression, the puzzle of a schoolboy scribbling with
pen and ink on the corner of a page? Or were they two magic words
which could compel the whole great adventure of Lupin the great
adventurer to assume its true significance? Nobody knew.

But the public soon would know. For some days, the papers had been
announcing the approaching arrival of Beautrelet. The struggle was
on the point of recommencing; and, this time, it would be implacable
on the part of the young man, who was burning to take his revenge.
And, as it happened, my attention, just then, was drawn to his name,
printed in capitals. The Grand Journal headed its front page with
the following paragraph:

WE HAVE PERSUADED

M. ISIDORE BEAUTRELET

TO GIVE US THE FIRST RIGHT OF PRINTING HIS REVELATIONS. TO-MORROW,
TUESDAY, BEFORE THE POLICE THEMSELVES ARE INFORMED, THE Grand
Journal WILL PUBLISH THE WHOLE TRUTH OF THE AMBRUMESY MYSTERY.

"That's interesting, eh? What do you think of it, my dear chap?"

I started from my chair. There was some one sitting beside me, some
one I did not know. I cast my eyes round for a weapon. But, as my
visitor's attitude appeared quite inoffensive, I restrained myself
and went up to him.

He was a young man with strongly-marked features, long, fair hair
and a short, tawny beard, divided into two points. His dress
suggested the dark clothes of an English clergyman; and his whole
person, for that matter, wore an air of austerity and gravity that
inspired respect.

"Who are you?" I asked. And, as he did not reply, I repeated, "Who
are you? How did you get in? What are you here for?"

He looked at me and said:

"Don't you know me?"

"No--no!"

"Oh, that's really curious! Just search your memory--one of your
friends--a friend of a rather special kind--however--"

I caught him smartly by the arm:

"You lie! You lie! No, you're not the man you say you are--it's not
true."

"Then why are you thinking of that man rather than another?" he
asked, with a laugh.

Oh, that laugh! That bright and clear young laugh, whose amusing
irony had so often contributed to my diversion! I shivered. Could it
be?

"No, no," I protested, with a sort of terror. "It cannot be."

"It can't be I, because I'm dead, eh?" he retorted. "And because you
don't believe in ghosts." He laughed again. "Am I the sort of man
who dies? Do you think I would die like that, shot in the back by a
girl? Really, you misjudge me! As though I would ever consent to
such a death as that!"

"So it is you!" I stammered, still incredulous and yet greatly
excited. "So it is you! I can't manage to recognize you."

"In that case," he said, gaily, "I am quite easy. If the only man to
whom I have shown myself in my real aspect fails to know me to-day,
then everybody who will see me henceforth as I am to-day is bound
not to know me either, when he sees me in my real aspect--if,
indeed, I have a real aspect--"

I recognized his voice, now that he was no longer changing its tone,
and I recognized his eyes also and the expression of his face and
his whole attitude and his very being, through the counterfeit
appearance in which he had shrouded it:

"Arsene Lupin!" I muttered.

"Yes, Arsene Lupin!" he cried, rising from his chair. "The one and
only Arsene Lupin, returned from the realms of darkness, since it
appears that I expired and passed away in a crypt! Arsene Lupin,
alive and kicking, in the full exercise of his will, happy and free
and more than ever resolved to enjoy that happy freedom in a world
where hitherto he has received nothing but favors and privileges!"

It was my turn to laugh:

"Well, it's certainly you, and livelier this time than on the day
when I had the pleasure of seeing you, last year--I congratulate
you."

I was alluding to his last visit, the visit following on the famous
adventure of the diadem, [Footnote: Arsene Lupin, play in three acts
and four scenes, by Maurice Leblanc and Drancis de Croisset.] his
interrupted marriage, his flight with Sonia Kirchnoff and the
Russian girl's horrible death. On that day, I had seen an Arsene
Lupin whom I did not know, weak, down-hearted, with eyes tired with
weeping, seeking for a little sympathy and affection.

"Be quiet," he said. "The past is far away."

"It was a year ago," I observed.

"It was ten years ago," he declared. "Arsene Lupin's years count for
ten times as much as another man's."

I did not insist and, changing the conversation:

"How did you get in?"

"Why, how do you think? Through the door, of course. Then, as I saw
nobody, I walked across the drawing room and out by the balcony, and
here I am."

"Yes, but the key of the door--?"

"There are no doors for me, as you know. I wanted your flat and I
came in."

"It is at your disposal. Am I to leave you?"

"Oh, not at all! You won't be in the way. In fact, I can promise you
an interesting evening."

"Are you expecting some one?"

"Yes. I have given him an appointment here at ten o'clock." He took
out his watch. "It is ten now. If the telegram reached him, he ought
to be here soon."

The front-door bell rang.

"What did I tell you? No, don't trouble to get up: I'll go."

With whom on earth could he have made an appointment? And what sort
of scene was I about to assist at: dramatic or comic? For Lupin
himself to consider it worthy of interest, the situation must be
somewhat exceptional.

He returned in a moment and stood back to make way for a young man,
tall and thin and very pale in the face.

Without a word and with a certain solemnity about his movements that
made me feel ill at ease. Lupin switched on all the electric lamps,
one after the other, till the room was flooded with light. Then the
two men looked at each other, exchanged profound and penetrating
glances, as if, with all the effort of their gleaming eyes, they
were trying to pierce into each other's souls.

It was an impressive sight to see them thus, grave and silent. But
who could the newcomer be?

I was on the point of guessing the truth, through his resemblance to
a photograph which had recently appeared in the papers, when Lupin
turned to me:

"My dear chap, let me introduce M. Isidore Beautrelet." And,
addressing the young man, he continued, "I have to thank you, M.
Beautrelet, first, for being good enough, on receipt of a letter
from me, to postpone your revelations until after this interview
and, secondly, for granting me this interview with so good a grace."

Beautrelet smiled:

"Allow me to remark that my good grace consists, above all, in
obeying your orders. The threat which you made to me in the letter
in question was the more peremptory in being aimed not at me, but at
my father."

"My word," said Lupin laughing, "we must do the best we can and make
use of the means of action vouchsafed to us. I knew by experience
that your own safety was indifferent to you, seeing that you
resisted the arguments of Master Bredoux. There remained your
father--your father for whom you have a great affection--I played on
that string."

"And here I am," said Beautrelet, approvingly.

I motioned them to be seated. They consented and Lupin resumed, in
that tone of imperceptible banter which is all his own:

"In any case, M. Beautrelet, if you will not accept my thanks, you
will at least not refuse my apologies."

"Apologies! Bless my soul, what for?"

"For the brutality which Master Bredoux showed you."

"I confess that the act surprised me. It was not Lupin's usual way
of behaving. A stab--"

"I assure you I had no hand in it. Bredoux is a new recruit. My
friends, during the time that they had the management of our
affairs, thought that it might be useful to win over to our cause
the clerk of the magistrate himself who was conducting the inquiry."

"Your friends were right."

"Bredoux, who was specially attached to your person, was, in fact,
most valuable to us. But, with the ardor peculiar to any neophyte
who wishes to distinguish himself, he pushed his zeal too far and
thwarted my plans by permitting himself, on his own initiative, to
strike you a blow."

"Oh, it was a little accident!"

"Not at all, not at all! And I have reprimanded him severely! I am
bound, however, to say in his favor that he was taken unawares by
the really unexpected rapidity of your investigation. If you had
only left us a few hours longer, you would have escaped that
unpardonable attempt."

"And I should doubtless have enjoyed the enormous advantage of
undergoing the same fate as M. Ganimard and Mr. Holmlock Shears?"

"Exactly," said Lupin, laughing heartily. "And I should not have
known the cruel terrors which your wound caused me. I have had an
atrocious time because of it, believe me, and, at this moment, your
pallor fills me with all the stings of remorse. Can you ever forgive
me?"

"The proof of confidence which you have shown me in delivering
yourself unconditionally into my hands--it would have been so easy
for me to bring a few of Ganimard's friends with me--that proof of
confidence wipes out everything."

Was he speaking seriously? I confess frankly that I was greatly
perplexed. The struggle between the two men was beginning in a
manner which I was simply unable to understand. I had been present
at the first meeting between Lupin and Holmlock Shears, in the cafe
near the Gare Montparnesse, [Footnote: Arsene Lupin versus Holmlock
Shears, by Maurice Leblanc.] and I could not help recalling the
haughty carriage of the two combatants, the terrific clash of their
pride under the politeness of their manners, the hard blows which
they dealt each other, their feints, their arrogance.

Here, it was quite different. Lupin, it is true, had not changed; he
exhibited the same tactics, the same crafty affability. But what a
strange adversary he had come upon! Was it even an adversary?
Really, he had neither the tone of one nor the appearance. Very
calm, but with a real calmness, not one assumed to cloak the passion
of a man endeavoring to restrain himself; very polite, but without
exaggeration; smiling, but without chaff, he presented the most
perfect contrast to Arsene Lupin, a contrast so perfect even that,
to my mind, Lupin appeared as much perplexed as myself.

No, there was no doubt about it: in the presence of that frail
stripling, with cheeks smooth as a girl's and candid and charming
eyes, Lupin was losing his ordinary self-assurance. Several times
over, I observed traces of embarrassment in him. He hesitated, did
not attack frankly, wasted time in mawkish and affected phrases.

It also looked as though he wanted something. He seemed to be
seeking, waiting. What for? Some aid?

There was a fresh ring of the bell. He himself ran and opened the
door. He returned with a letter:

"Will you allow me, gentlemen?" he asked.

He opened the letter. It contained a telegram. He read it--and
became as though transformed. His face lit up, his figure righted
itself and I saw the veins on his forehead swell. It was the athlete
who once more stood before me, the ruler, sure of himself, master of
events and master of persons. He spread the telegram on the table
and, striking it with his fist, exclaimed:

"Now, M. Beautrelet, it's you and I!"

Beautrelet adopted a listening attitude and Lupin began, in
measured, but harsh and masterful tones:

"Let us throw off the mask--what say you?--and have done with
hypocritical compliments. We are two enemies, who know exactly what
to think of each other; we act toward each other as enemies; and
therefore we ought to treat with each other as enemies."

"To treat?" echoed Beautrelet, in a voice of surprise.

"Yes, to treat. I did not use that word at random and I repeat it,
in spite of the effort, the great effort, which it costs me. This is
the first time I have employed it to an adversary. But also, I may
as well tell you at once, it is the last. Make the most of it. I
shall not leave this flat without a promise from you. If I do, it
means war."

Beautrelet seemed more and more surprised. He said very prettily:

"I was not prepared for this--you speak so funnily! It's so
different from what I expected! Yes, I thought you were not a bit
like that! Why this display of anger? Why use threats? Are we
enemies because circumstances bring us into opposition? Enemies?
Why?"

Lupin appeared a little out of countenance, but he snarled and,
leaning over the boy:

"Listen to me, youngster," he said. "It's not a question of picking
one's words. It's a question of a fact, a positive, indisputable
fact; and that fact is this: in all the past ten years, I have not
yet knocked up against an adversary of your capacity. With Ganimard
and Holmlock Shears I played as if they were children. With you, I
am obliged to defend myself, I will say more, to retreat. Yes, at
this moment, you and I well know that I must look upon myself as
worsted in the fight. Isidore Beautrelet has got the better of
Arsene Lupin. My plans are upset. What I tried to leave in the dark
you have brought into the full light of day. You annoy me, you stand
in my way. Well, I've had enough of it--Bredoux told you so to no
purpose. I now tell you so again; and I insist upon it, so that you
may take it to heart: I've had enough of it!"

Beautrelet nodded his head:

"Yes. but what do you want?"

"Peace! Each of us minding his own business, keeping to his own
side!"

"That is to say, you free to continue your burglaries undisturbed, I
free to return to my studies."

"Your studies--anything you please--I don't care. But you must leave
me in peace--I want peace."

"How can I trouble it now?"

Lupin seized his hand violently:

"You know quite well! Don't pretend not to know. You are at this
moment in possession of a secret to which I attach the highest
importance. This secret you were free to guess, but you have no
right to give it to the public."

"Are you sure that I know it?"

"You know it, I am certain: day by day, hour by hour, I have
followed your train of thought and the progress of your
investigations. At the very moment when Bredoux struck you, you were
about to tell all. Subsequently, you delayed your revelations, out
of solicitude for your father. But they are now promised to this
paper here. The article is written. It will be set up in an hour. It
will appear to-morrow."

"Quite right."

Lupin rose, and slashing the air with his hand,

"It shall not appear!" he cried.

"It shall appear!" said Beautrelet, starting up in his turn.

At last, the two men were standing up to each other. I received the
impression of a shock, as if they had seized each other round the
body. Beautrelet seemed to burn with a sudden energy. It was as
though a spark had kindled within him a group of new emotions:
pluck, self-respect, the passion of fighting, the intoxication of
danger. As for Lupin, I read in the radiance of his glance the joy
of the duellist who at length encounters the sword of his hated
rival.

"Is the article in the printer's hands?"

"Not yet."

"Have you it there--on you?"

"No fear! I shouldn't have it by now, in that case!"

"Then--"

"One of the assistant editors has it, in a sealed envelope. If I am
not at the office by midnight, he will have set it up."

"Oh, the scoundrel!" muttered Lupin. "He has provided for
everything!"

His anger was increasing, visibly and frightfully. Beautrelet
chuckled, jeering in his turn, carried away by his success.

"Stop that, you brat!" roared Lupin. "You're forgetting who I am--
and that, if I wished--upon my word, he's daring to laugh!"

A great silence fell between them. Then Lupin stepped forward and,
in muttered tones, with his eyes on Beautrelet's:

"You shall go straight to the Grand Journal."

"No."

"Tear up your article."

"No."

"See the editor."

"No."

"Tell him you made a mistake."

"No."

"And write him another article, in which you will give the official
version of the Ambrumesy mystery, the one which every one has
accepted."

"No."

Lupin took up a steel ruler that lay on my desk and broke it in two
without an effort. His pallor was terrible to see. He wiped away the
beads of perspiration that stood on his forehead. He, who had never
known his wishes resisted, was being maddened by the obstinacy of
this child. He pressed his two hands on Beautrelet's shoulder and,
emphasizing every syllable, continued:

"You shall do as I tell you, Beautrelet. You shall say that your
latest discoveries have convinced you of my death, that there is not
the least doubt about it. You shall say so because I wish it,
because it has to be believed that I am dead. You shall say so,
above all, because, if you do not say so--"

"Because, if I do not say so--?"

"Your father will be kidnapped to-night, as Ganimard and Holmlock
Shears were."

Beautrelet gave a smile.

"Don't laugh--answer!"

"My answer is that I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I have
promised to speak and I shall speak."

"Speak in the sense which I have told you."

"I shall speak the truth," cried Beautrelet, eagerly. "It is
something which you can't understand, the pleasure, the need,
rather, of saying the thing that is and saying it aloud. The truth
is here, in this brain which has guessed it and discovered it; and
it will come out, all naked and quivering. The article, therefore,
will be printed as I wrote it. The world shall know that Lupin is
alive and shall know the reason why he wished to be considered dead.
The world shall know all." And he added, calmly, "And my father
shall not be kidnapped."

Once again, they were both silent, with their eyes still fixed upon
each other. They watched each other. Their swords were engaged up to
the hilt. And it was like the heavy silence that goes before the
mortal blow. Which of the two was to strike it?

Lupin said, between his teeth:

"Failing my instructions to the contrary, two of my friends have
orders to enter your father's room to-night, at three o'clock in the
morning, to seize him and carry him off to join Ganimard and
Holmlock Shears."

A burst of shrill laughter interrupted him:

"Why, you highwayman, don't you understand," cried Beautrelet, "that
I have taken my precautions? So you think that I am innocent enough,
ass enough, to have sent my father home to his lonely little house
in the open country!" Oh, the gay, bantering laughter that lit up
the boy's face! It was a new sort of laugh on his lips, a laugh that
showed the influence of Lupin himself. And the familiar form of
address which he adopted placed him at once on his adversary's
level. He continued:

"You see, Lupin, your great fault is to believe your schemes
infallible. You proclaim yourself beaten, do you? What humbug! You
are convinced that you will always win the day in the end--and you
forget that others can have their little schemes, too. Mine is a
very simple one, my friend."

It was delightful to hear him talk. He walked up and down, with his
hands in his pockets and with the easy swagger of a boy teasing a
caged beast. Really, at this moment, he was revenging, with the most
terrible revenges, all the victims of the great adventurer. And he
concluded:

"Lupin, my father is not in Savoy. He is at the other end of France,
in the centre of a big town, guarded by twenty of our friends, who
have orders not to lose sight of him until our battle is over. Would
you like details? He is at Cherbourg, in the house of one of the
keepers of the arsenal. And remember that the arsenal is closed at
night and that no one is allowed to enter it by day, unless he
carries an authorization and is accompanied by a guide."

He stopped in front of Lupin and defied him, like a child making
faces at his playmate:

"What do you say to that, master?"

For some minutes, Lupin had stood motionless. Not a muscle of his
face had moved. What were his thoughts? Upon what action was he
resolving? To any one knowing the fierce violence of his pride the
only possible solution was the total, immediate, final collapse of
his adversary. His fingers twitched. For a second, I had a feeling
that he was about to throw himself upon the boy and wring his neck.

"What do you say to that, master?" Beautrelet repeated.

Lupin took up the telegram that lay on the table, held it out and
said, very calmly:

"Here, baby, read that."

Beautrelet became serious, suddenly, impressed by the gentleness of
the movement. He unfolded the paper and, at once, raising his eyes,
murmured:

"What does it mean? I don't understand."

"At any rate, you understand the first word," said Lupin, "the first
word of the telegram--that is to say, the name of the place from
which it was sent--look--'Cherbourg.'"

"Yes--yes," stammered Beautrelet. "Yes--I understand--'Cherbourg'-
and then?"

"And then?--I should think the rest is quite plain: 'Removal of
luggage finished. Friends left with it and will wait instructions
till eight morning. All well.' Is there anything there that seems
obscure? The word 'luggage'? Pooh, you wouldn't have them write 'M.
Beautrelet, senior'! What then? The way in which the operation was
performed? The miracle by which your father was taken out of
Cherbourg Arsenal, in spite of his twenty body-guards? Pooh, it's as
easy as A B C! And the fact remains that the luggage has been
dispatched. What do you say to that, baby?"

With all his tense being, with all his exasperated energy, Isidore
tried to preserve a good countenance. But I saw his lips quiver, his
jaw shrink, his eyes vainly strive to fix upon a point. He lisped a
few words, then was silent and, suddenly, gave way and, with his
hands before his face, burst into loud sobs:

"Oh, father! Father!"

An unexpected result, which was certainly the collapse which Lupin's
pride demanded, but also something more, something infinitely
touching and infinitely artless. Lupin gave a movement of annoyance
and took up his hat, as though this unaccustomed display of
sentiment were too much for him. But, on reaching the door, he
stopped, hesitated and then returned, slowly, step by step.

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