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

of her and went out through the window. Then Mlle. de Gesvres, terrified and exhausted, fainted.”

“But what about the dogs? I thought M. de Gesvres had bought two almost wild sheep-dogs, which were let loose at night?”

“They were found dead, poisoned.”

“By whom? Nobody could get near them.”

“It’s a mystery. The fact remains that the two men crossed the ruins without let or hindrance and went out by the little door which we have heard so much about. They passed through the copsewood, following the line of the disused quarries. It was not until they were nearly half a mile from the chateau, at the foot of the tree known as the Great Oak, that they stopped—and executed their purpose.”

“If they came with the intention of killing Mlle. de Saint-Véran, why didn’t they murder her in her room?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the incident that settled their determination only occurred after they had left the house. Perhaps the girl succeeded in releasing herself from her bonds. In my opinion, the scarf which was picked up was used to fasten her wrists. In any case, the blow was struck at the foot of the Great Oak. I have collected indisputable proofs—”

“But the body?”

“The body has not been found, but there is nothing excessively surprising in that. As a matter of fact, the trail which I followed brought me to the church at Varengeville and the old cemetery perched on the top of the cliff. From there it is a sheer precipice, a fall of over three hundred feet to the rocks and the sea below. In a day or two, a stronger tide than usual will cast up the body on the beach.”

“Obviously. This is all very simple.”

“Yes, it is all very simple and doesn’t trouble me in the least. Lupin is dead, his accomplices heard of it and, to revenge themselves, have killed Mlle. de Saint-Véran. These are facts which did not even require checking. But Lupin?”

“What about him?”

“What has become of him? In all probability, his confederates removed his corpse at the same time that they carried away the girl; but what proof have we? None at all. Any more than of his staying in the ruins, or of his death, or of his life. And that is the real mystery, M. Beautrelet. The murder of Mlle. Raymonde solves nothing. On the contrary, it only complicates matters. What has been happening during the past two months at the Château d’Ambrumésy? If we don’t clear up the riddle, young man, others will give us the go-by.”

“On what day are those others coming?”

“Wednesday—Tuesday perhaps—”

Beautrelet seemed to be making an inward calculation and then declared:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, this is Saturday. I have to be back at school on Monday evening. Well, if you will have the goodness to be here at ten o’clock exactly on Monday morning, I will try to give you the key to the riddle.”

“Really, M. Beautrelet—do you think so? Are you sure?”

“I hope so, at any rate.”

“And where are you going now?”

“I am going to see if the facts consent to fit in with the general theory which I am beginning to perceive.”

“And if they don’t fit in?”

“Well, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,” said Beautrelet, with a laugh, “then it will be their fault and I must look for others which, will prove more tractable. Till Monday, then?”

“Till Monday.”

A few minutes later, M. Filleul was driving toward Dieppe, while Isidore mounted a bicycle which he had borrowed from the Comte de Gesvres and rode off along the road to Yerville and Caudebec-en-Caux.

There was one point in particular on which the young man was anxious to form a clear opinion, because this just appeared to him to be the enemy’s weakest point. Objects of the size of the four Rubens pictures cannot be juggled away. They were bound to be somewhere. Granting that it was impossible to find them for the moment, might one not discover the road by which they had disappeared?

What Beautrelet surmised was that the four pictures had undoubtedly been carried off in the motor car, but that, before reaching Caudebec, they were transferred to another car, which had crossed the Seine either above Caudebec or below it. Now the first horse-boat down the stream was at Quillebeuf, a greatly frequented ferry and, consequently, dangerous. Up stream, there was the ferry-boat at La Mailleraie, a large, but lonely market-town, lying well off the main road.

By midnight, Isidore had covered the thirty-five or forty miles to La Mailleraie and was knocking at the door of an inn by the waterside. He slept there and, in the morning, questioned the ferrymen.

They consulted the counterfoils in the traffic-book. No motor-car had crossed on Thursday the 23rd of April.

“A horse-drawn vehicle, then?” suggested Beautrelet. “A cart? A van?”

“No, not either.”

Isidore continued his inquiries all through the morning. He was on the point of leaving for Quillebeuf, when the waiter of the inn at which he had spent the night said:

“I came back from my thirteen days’ training on the morning of which you are speaking and I saw a cart, but it did not go across.”

“Really?”

“No, they unloaded it onto a flat boat, a barge of sorts, which was moored to the wharf.”

“And where did the cart come from?”

“Oh, I knew it at once. It belonged to Master Vatinel, the carter.”

“And where does he live?”

“At Louvetot.”

Beautrelet consulted his military map. The hamlet of Louvetot lay where the highroad between Yvetot and Caudebec was crossed by a little winding road that ran through the woods to La Mailleraie.

Not until six o’clock in the evening did Isidore succeed in discovering Master Vatinel, in a pothouse. Master Vatinel was one of those artful old Normans who are always on their guard, who distrust strangers, but who are unable to resist the lure of a gold coin or the influence of a glass or two:

“Well, yes, sir, the men in the motor car that morning had told me to meet them at five o’clock at the crossroads. They gave me four great, big things, as high as that. One of them went with me and we carted the things to the barge.”

“You speak of them as if you knew them before.”

“I should think I did know them! It was the sixth time they were employing me.”

Isidore gave a start:

“The sixth time, you say? And since when?”

“Why every day before that one, to be sure! But it was other things then—great blocks of stone—or else smaller, longish ones, wrapped up in newspapers, which they carried as if they were worth I don’t know what. Oh, I mustn’t touch those on any account!—But what’s the matter? You’ve turned quite white.”

“Nothing—the heat of the room—”

Beautrelet staggered out into the air. The joy, the surprise of the discovery made him feel giddy. He went back very quietly to Varengeville, slept in the village, spent an hour at the mayor’s offices with the school-master and returned to the chateau. There he found a letter awaiting him “care of M. le Comte de Gesvres.” It consisted of a single line:

“Second warning. Hold your tongue. If not—”

“Come,” he muttered. “I shall have to make up my mind and take a few precautions for my personal safety. If not, as they say—”

It was nine o’clock. He strolled about among the ruins and then lay down near the cloisters and closed his eyes.

“Well, young man, are you satisfied with the results of your campaign?”

It was M. Filleul.

“Delighted, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction.”

“By which you mean to say—?”

“By which I mean to say that I am prepared to keep my promise—in spite of this very uninviting letter.”

He showed the letter to M. Filleul.

“Pooh! Stuff and nonsense!” cried the magistrate. “I hope you won’t let that prevent you—”

“From telling you what I know? No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. I have given my word and I shall keep it. In less than ten minutes, you shall know—a part of the truth.”

“A part?”

“Yes, in my opinion, Lupin’s hiding-place does not constitute the whole of the problem. Far from it. But we shall see later on.”

“M. Beautrelet, nothing that you do could astonish me now. But how were you able to discover—?”

“Oh, in a very natural way! In the letter from old man Harlington to M. Étienne de Vaudreix, or rather to Lupin—”

“The intercepted letter?”

“Yes. There is a phrase which always puzzled me. After saying that the pictures are to be forwarded as arranged, he goes on to say, ‘You may add the rest, if you are able to succeed, which I doubt.’”

“Yes, I remember.”

“What was this ‘rest’? A work of art, a curiosity? The chateau contains nothing of any value besides the Rubenses and the tapestries. Jewelry? There is very little and what there is of it is not worth much. In that case, what could it be?—On the other hand, was it conceivable that people so prodigiously clever as Lupin should not have succeeded in adding ‘the rest,’ which they themselves had evidently suggested? A difficult undertaking, very likely; exceptional, surprising, I dare say; but possible and therefore certain, since Lupin wished it.”

“And yet he failed: nothing has disappeared.”

“He did not fail: something has disappeared.”

“Yes, the Rubenses—but—”

“The Rubenses and something besides—something which has been replaced by a similar thing, as in the case of the Rubenses; something much more uncommon, much rarer, much more valuable than the Rubenses.”

“Well, what? You’re killing me with this procrastination!”

While talking, the two men had crossed the ruins, turned toward the little door and were now walking beside the chapel. Beautrelet stopped:

“Do you really want to know, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction?”

“Of course, I do.”

Beautrelet was carrying a walking-stick, a strong, knotted stick. Suddenly, with a back stroke of this stick, he smashed one of the little statues that adorned the front of the chapel.

“Why, you’re mad!” shouted M. Filleul, beside himself, rushing at the broken pieces of the statue. “You’re mad! That old saint was an admirable bit of work—”

“An admirable bit of work!” echoed Isidore, giving a whirl which brought down the Virgin Mary.

M. Filleul took hold of him round the body:

“Young man, I won’t allow you to commit—”

A wise man of the East came toppling to the ground, followed by a manger containing the Mother and Child. . . .

“If you stir another limb, I fire!”

The Comte de Gesvres had appeared upon the scene and was cocking his revolver. Beautrelet burst out laughing:

“That’s right, Monsieur le Comte, blaze away!—Take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair!—Wait a bit—this chap carrying his head in his hands—”

St. John the Baptist fell, shattered to pieces.

“Oh!” shouted the count, pointing his revolver. “You young vandal!—Those masterpieces!”

“Sham, Monsieur le Comte!”

“What? What’s that?” roared M. Filleul, wresting the Comte de Gesvres’s weapon from him.

“Sham!” repeated Beautrelet. “Paper-pulp and plaster!”

“Oh, nonsense! It can’t be true!”

“Hollow plaster, I tell you! Nothing at all!”

The count stooped and picked up a sliver of a statuette.

“Look at it, Monsieur le Comte, and see for yourself: it’s plaster! Rusty, musty, mildewed plaster, made to look like old stone—but plaster for all that, plaster casts!—That’s all that remains of your perfect masterpiece!—That’s what they’ve done in just a few days!-That’s what the Sieur Charpenais who copied the Rubenses, prepared a year ago.” He seized M. Filleul’s arm in his turn. “What do you think of it, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction? Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it grand? Isn’t it gorgeous? The chapel has been removed! A whole Gothic chapel collected stone by stone! A whole population of statues captured and replaced by these chaps in stucco! One of the most magnificent specimens of an incomparable artistic period confiscated! The chapel, in short, stolen! Isn’t it immense? Ah, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, what a genius the man is!”

“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. Everything 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-Véran; it was