The Hollow Needle; Further adventures of Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (great novels to read .txt) 📕

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 Arsène 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—Brédoux 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 Brédoux 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 Ambrumésy 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.

The soft sound of the sobs rose like the sad wailing of a little child overcome with grief. The lad’s shoulders marked the heart-rending rhythm. Tears appeared through the crossed fingers. Lupin leaned forward and, without touching Beautrelet, said, in a voice that had not the least tone of pleasantry, nor even of the offensive pity of the victor:

“Don’t cry, youngster. This is one of those blows which a man must expect when he rushes headlong into the fray, as you did. The worst disasters lie in wait for him. The destiny of fighters will have it so. We must suffer it as bravely as we can.” Then, with a sort of gentleness, he continued, “You were right, you see: we are not enemies.