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

alone, or accompanied, that remains to be seen. This much is certain, that the attack must be delivered that way. If Lupin is not in the Needle, we shall fix up a trap in which he will be caught sooner or later. If he is there—”

“If he is there, he will escape from the Needle by the other side, the side overlooking the sea.”

“In that case, he will at once be arrested by the other half of my men.”

“Yes, but if, as I presume, you choose a moment when the sea is at low ebb, leaving the base of the Needle uncovered, the chase will be public, because it will take place before all the men and women fishing for mussels, shrimps and shell-fish who swarm on the rocks round about.”

“That is why I just mean to select the time when the sea is full.”

“In that case, he will make off in a boat.”

“Ah, but I shall have a dozen fishing-smacks, each of which will be commanded by one of my men, and we shall collar him—”

“If he doesn’t slip through your dozen smacks, like a fish through the meshes.”

“All right, then I’ll sink him.”

“The devil you will! Shall you have guns?”

“Why, of course! There’s a torpedo-boat at the Havre at this moment. A telegram from me will bring her to the Needle at the appointed hour.”

“How proud Lupin will be! A torpedo-boat! Well, M. Ganimard, I see that you have provided for everything. We have only to go ahead. When do we deliver the assault?”

“To-morrow.”

“At night?”

“No, by daylight, at the flood-tide, as the clock strikes ten in the morning.”

“Capital.”

Under his show of gaiety, Beautrelet concealed a real anguish of mind. He did not sleep until the morning, but lay pondering over the most impracticable schemes, one after the other.

Ganimard had left him in order to go to Yport, six or seven miles from Étretat, where, for prudence’s sake, he had told his men to meet him, and where he chartered twelve fishing smacks, with the ostensible object of taking soundings along the coast.

At a quarter to ten, escorted by a body of twelve stalwart men, he met Isidore at the foot of the road that goes up the cliff.

At ten o’clock exactly, they reached the skirt of wall. It was the decisive moment.

At ten o’clock exactly.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Beautrelet?” jeered Ganimard. “You’re quite green in the face!”

“It’s as well you can’t see yourself, Ganimard,” the boy retorted. “One would think your last hour had come!”

They both had to sit down and Ganimard swallowed a few mouthfuls of rum.

“It’s not funk,” he said, “but, by Jove, this is an exciting business! Each time that I’m on the point of catching him, it takes me like that in the pit of the stomach. A dram of rum?”

“No.”

“And if you drop behind?”

“That will mean that I’m dead.”

“B-r-r-r-r! However, we’ll see. And now, open, sesame! No danger of our being observed, I suppose?”

“No. The Needle is not so high as the cliff, and, besides, there’s a bend in the ground where we are.”

Beautrelet went to the wall and pressed upon the brick. The bolt was released and the underground passage came in sight.

By the gleam of the lanterns which they lit, they saw that it was cut in the shape of a vault and that both the vaulting and the floor itself were entirely covered with bricks.

They walked for a few seconds and, suddenly, a staircase appeared. Beautrelet counted forty-five brick steps, which the slow action of many footsteps had worn away in the middle.

“Blow!” said Ganimard, holding his head and stopping suddenly, as though he had knocked against something.

“What is it?”

“A door.”

“Bother!” muttered Beautrelet, looking at it. “And not an easy one to break down either. It’s just a solid block of iron.”

“We are done,” said Ganimard. “There’s not even a lock to it.”

“Exactly. That’s what gives me hope.”

“Why?”

“A door is made to open; and, as this one has no lock, that means that there is a secret way of opening it.”

“And, as we don’t know the secret—”

“I shall know it in a minute.”

“How?”

“By means of the document. The fourth line has no other object but to solve each difficulty as and when it crops up. And the solution is comparatively easy, because it’s not written with a view to throwing searchers off the scent, but to assisting them.”

“Comparatively easy! I don’t agree with you,” cried Ganimard, who had unfolded the document. “The number 44 and a triangle with a dot in it: that doesn’t tell us much!”

“Yes, yes, it does! Look at the door. You see it’s strengthened, at each corner, with a triangular slab of iron; and the slabs are fixed with big nails. Take the left-hand bottom slab and work the nail in the corner: I’ll lay ten to one we’ve hit the mark.”

“You’ve lost your bet,” said Ganimard, after trying.

“Then the figure 44 must mean—”

In a low voice, reflecting as he spoke, Beautrelet continued:

“Let me see—Ganimard and I are both standing on the bottom step of the staircase—there are 45. Why 45, when the figure in the document is 44? A coincidence? No. In all this business, there is no such thing as a coincidence, at least not an involuntary one. Ganimard, be so good as to move one step higher up. That’s it, don’t leave this forty-fourth step. And now I will work the iron nail. And the trick’s done, or I’ll eat my boots!”

The heavy door turned on its hinges. A fairly spacious cavern appeared before their eyes.

“We must be exactly under Fort Fréfossé,” said Beautrelet. “We have passed through the different earthy layers by now. There will be no more brick. We are in the heart of the solid limestone.”

The room was dimly lit by a shaft of daylight that came from the other end. Going up to it, they saw that it was a fissure in the cliff, contrived in a projecting wall and forming a sort of observatory. In front of them, at a distance of fifty yards, the impressive mass of the Needle loomed from the waves. On the right, quite close, was the arched buttress of the Porte d’Aval and, on the left, very far away, closing the graceful curve of a large inlet, another rocky gateway, more imposing still, was cut out of the cliff; the Manneporte,[10] which was so wide and tall that a three-master could have passed through it with all sail set. Behind and everywhere, the sea.

[10] Magna porta.

“I don’t see our little fleet,” said Beautrelet.

“I know,” said Ganimard. “The Porte d’Aval hides the whole of the coast of Étretat and Yport. But look, over there, in the offing, that black line, level with the water—”

“Well?”

“That’s our fleet of war, Torpedo-boat No. 25. With her there, Lupin is welcome to break loose—if he wants to study the landscape at the bottom of the sea.”

A baluster marked the entrance to the staircase, near the fissure. They started on their way down. From time to time, a little window pierced the wall of the cliff; and, each time, they caught sight of the Needle, whose mass seemed to them to grow more and more colossal.

A little before reaching high-water level, the windows ceased and all was dark.

Isidore counted the steps aloud. At the three hundred and fifty-eight, they emerged into a wider passage, which was barred by another iron door strengthened with slabs and nails.

“We know all about this,” said Beautrelet. “The document gives us 357 and a triangle dotted on the right. We have only to repeat the performance.”

The second door obeyed like the first. A long, a very long tunnel appeared, lit up at intervals by the gleam of a lantern swung from the vault. The walls oozed moisture and drops of water fell to the ground, so that, to make walking easier a regular pavement of planks had been laid from end to end.

“We are passing under the sea,” said Beautrelet. “Are you coming, Ganimard?”

Without replying, the inspector ventured into the tunnel, followed the wooden foot-plank and stopped before a lantern, which he took down.

“The utensils may date back to the Middle Ages, but the lighting is modern,” he said. “Our friends use incandescent mantles.”

He continued his way. The tunnel ended in another and a larger cave, with, on the opposite side, the first steps of a staircase that led upward.

“It’s the ascent of the Needle beginning,” said Ganimard. “This is more serious.”

But one of his men called him:

“There’s another flight here, sir, on the left.”

And, immediately afterward, they discovered a third, on the right.

“The deuce!” muttered the inspector. “This complicates matters. If we go by this way, they’ll make tracks by that.”

“Shall we separate?” asked Beautrelet.

“No, no—that would mean weakening ourselves. It would be better for one of us to go ahead and scout.”

“I will, if you like—”

“Very well, Beautrelet, you go. I will remain with my men—then there will be no fear of anything. There may be other roads through the cliff than that by which we came and several roads also through the Needle. But it is certain that, between the cliff and the Needle, there is no communication except the tunnel. Therefore they must pass through this cave. And so I shall stay here till you come back. Go ahead, Beautrelet, and be prudent: at the least alarm, scoot back again.”

Isidore disappeared briskly up the middle staircase. At the thirtieth step, a door, an ordinary wooden door, stopped him. He seized the handle turned it. The door was not locked.

He entered a room that seemed to him very low owing to its immense size. Lit by powerful lamps and supported by squat pillars, with long vistas showing between them, it had nearly the same dimensions as the Needle itself. It was crammed with packing cases and miscellaneous objects—pieces of furniture, oak settees, chests, credence-tables, strong-boxes—a whole confused heap of the kind which one sees in the basement of an old curiosity shop.

On his right and left, Beautrelet perceived the wells of two staircases, the same, no doubt, that started from the cave below. He could easily have gone down, therefore, and told Ganimard. But a new flight of stairs led upward in front of him and he had the curiosity to pursue his investigations alone.

Thirty more steps. A door and then a room, not quite so large as the last, Beautrelet thought. And again, opposite him, an ascending flight of stairs.

Thirty steps more. A door. A smaller room.

Beautrelet grasped the plan of the works executed inside the Needle. It was a series or rooms placed one above the other and, therefore, gradually decreasing in size. They all served as store-rooms.

In the fourth, there was no lamp. A little light filtered in through clefts in the walls and Beautrelet saw the sea some thirty feet below him.

At that moment, he felt himself so far from Ganimard that a certain anguish began to take hold of him and he had to master his nerves lest he should take to his heels. No danger threatened him, however, and the silence around him was even so great that he asked himself whether the whole Needle had not been abandoned by Lupin and his confederates.

“I shall not go beyond the next floor,” he said to himself.

Thirty stairs again and a door. This door was lighter in construction and modern in appearance. He pushed it open gently, quite prepared for flight. There was no one there. But the room differed from the others in its purpose. There were hangings on the walls, rugs on the floor. Two magnificent sideboards, laden with gold and silver plate, stood facing each other. The little windows contrived in the deep, narrow cleft were furnished with glass panes.

In the middle of the room was a richly-decked table, with a lace-edged cloth, dishes of fruits and cakes, champagne in decanters and flowers, heaps of flowers.

Three places were laid around the table.

Beautrelet walked up. On the napkins were cards with the names of the party. He read first:

“Arsène Lupin.”

“Mme. Arsène Lupin.”

He took up the third card and started back with surprise. It bore his own name:

“Isidore Beautrelet!”