The Caves of Etretat: Part One of Four

by Matt Chatelain

  Suddenly, the stars looked much brighter.

  ***

  I was moving along at great speed. The sounds I heard were strange, muted.

  I was dreaming again!

  I opened my eyes to find myself underwater, slicing through it at great speed without any physical effort. Inexplicably, I had no problem breathing. I saw fish darting away in the deepening waters. I went deeper until I could hardly see anything at all. Another type of sight took over. Everything became clearer without being brighter. I perceived every rock, sharply defined on the rapidly-approaching sandy bottom. I didn't think I was using my eyes.

  I veered at the last minute, following the seabed. Rock cliffs appeared on my left. I turned and went down a side canyon, then another one. The cliffs flew by at a rapid pace, closing in. There was a dead end. In a flash it was gone, replaced by a monstrous owl, his giant beak open. He was going to cut me in half. I saw a yellowish light in his eyes, a light I had seen before. His beak kept getting closer and closer. I woke up screaming, covered in sweat.

  Raymonde was shaking me, a concerned look on her face. "What was that all about, Paul?

  "It was a dream. A very bizarre dream."

  I could not refute the first dream had been prophetic, presaging the moment when Raymonde and I entered the bunker. If this second dream was predicting the future in the same fashion, then I would soon be encountering a giant undersea owl with glowing eyes that would bite me to death.

  I was missing something.

  Exhausted from the day and from the ordeal in my dream, I lay back down next to Raymonde and fell into deep slumber.

  ***

  Raymonde and I had breakfast in bed the next morning. We decided to keep the dreams between us for the time being, not knowing exactly how to explain them. Mrs Leblanc had slept in, overwrought by the recent events. We were both worried about her. She insisted she was fine, or would be, once she'd had some rest.

  We'd been spinning theories from the start. Some of them were beginning to unravel. For example, the Vallins brothers were not villains. They were simply trying to protect their heritage.

  If Old Man Vallin was a loyal Etretatais then we had to re-evaluate his reasons for blowing up the fort. I had thought an enemy of Leblanc paid Old Man Vallin to destroy it. Now I was not so sure.

  We were up and showered by ten, heading down to the restaurant, my jet lag finally abated. Waking up next to Raymonde these past few days had made me realize how difficult it would be to leave her side, when I returned home to Canada. We had been acting and thinking as one since the beginning of this adventure and I could not imagine being apart from her.

  From where I sat in the restaurant, I saw the two Vallins arrive in their beat-up old truck. I could hardly fail to notice they had dressed in their Sunday best, trying to make a better impression. Ives Vallin was proudly carrying the rock cylinder. I activated my glasses, knowing the team would want a recording of this conversation. Coulter had anticipated our meeting and signed on immediately, despite the early hour for him.

  Mrs Leblanc joined us in timely fashion, just as greeted the Vallins. I introduced both of them to Coulter, by letting them wear my glasses for a few moments. This display of technology seemed to impress them more than any other thing. "Before we try to open that mysterious cylinder, I would very much like to hear about how you came to be doing this duty of yours?"

  Jacques Vallin, apparently getting the honours from his brother, started his explanation, "I guess you know our great-grandfather, Old Man Vallin, was murdered at the destroyed Fort of Frefosse? What you may not know is that, Jean Vallin, our grandfather, found a gold coin in an old cigar box hidden under Old Man Vallin's mattress. Where did he get that coin? Who gave it to him? More importantly: were there more coins? There were few clues at the scene of the murder itself. Old Man Vallin had been beaten up real bad before he was thrown into the rocks to die. But he didn't die right away. No sir, our great-grandfather was tough. He hung on long enough to leave us a sign. He placed his hand on his chest like this." Jacques Vallin repeated the gesture from the night before. "It's our family's way of saying: 'we swear loyalty.' In his last moments, it was important for him to show he had stayed loyal. We just didn't know who that was. All we had was that gold coin."

  "And the money, Brother, don't forget about the money."

  Jacques gestured at Ives to keep quiet. "I wasn't going to forget about the money, I was just getting to it and you didn't give me the time. There was about a thousand francs in the cigar box, which back then was a lot. Several times after that, when our family was in deep financial trouble, an envelope appeared in the mailbox, filled with money, always just enough to put us back on our feet."

  "How long did that go on?" I asked.

  "The last envelope came about 1937. This is what my father told me, you understand, but I am sure about the coin because we still have it, although not with us today," Jacques said.

  "Because we didn't know you'd want to see it. Through thick and thin, we never sold it," Ives added. Jacques kept going, sending his brother a sidelong glance.

  "Anyway, Grandfather and Old Man Vallin had never gotten along, mainly because Grandfather was greedy. He was not as moral as us."

  "No Sir, not as moral," said Ives.

  "He was very curious about the gold coin and tried for a long time to discover where it came from. At first, he asked around town but people had nothing to say about it, so he went further afield, ending up in Paris. He made friends with a pawnbroker who had ears to the ground. One day, Grandfather received a note from the pawnbroker. Someone had sold more of those coins. Old coins they were, from the early 1200's. Unfortunately, the description of the man who sold the coins was vague: a well dressed man, slightly taller than average, and a bit thin. Nothing more. Over the years, more gold was sold but there was never enough information to figure out who was doing the selling,"

  Jacques paused to gulp some tea then continued, "By 1934, Father was living on his own. Him and Grandfather didn't get along much but they did share interest in the gold coin, although not for the same reasons. Father wanted to find out what had happened to Old Man Vallin. That was all."

  "Tell them about 1937. You're getting sidetracked," Ives prodded.

  "I will, Brother, enough already. In 1937, the Vallin family was having some tough times. Taxes were owed on the house again and Grandfather had done a few too many bad deals. One day, an envelope was found in the mailbox, nothing written on it, but plenty of cash inside. In fact, there was enough to pay the back taxes and the bad debts, with two hundred francs left over for food and clothes. That money put the Vallins back on their feet. At the very same time, Grandfather got another note from the pawnbroker. Checking on the dates, they learned the gold had been sold three days before the money was dropped in our mailbox. Whoever did that had to be living around here, or at least keeping tabs on us, otherwise how would they know about our troubles, to the exact franc?"

  His conclusions were valid. Whoever had helped them had a reason to do so. Could it be an act of retribution, guilt over Old Man Vallin's death? It certainly seemed possible. Jacques went on with his fascinating story, "Grandfather never found out any more. It was Father who figured out the rest. He was smart our father."

  "Very smart, not like me," added Ives.

  "You're smart in your own ways, Brother. Look at what you can do with cars. It's like magic. Anyway, Father was the one who put things together. It took him a long time though. When the Germans invaded France, he was mad through and through. He wanted to fight them but there was no way he was going to leave Etretat and go die in some God-forsaken trench like all the others. He stayed here to join the Resistance and ended up doing so much, people never forgot about him. Some still nod to us when we pass them on the street, just because we're his children."

  "Not many of them do that nowadays but some still do, that's true enough," confirmed Ives.

  "We weren't around yet, because he had us whe
n he was in his sixties. Anyway, he took risks he might not have taken if he'd had family around. He loved Etretat and he wasn't going to see it destroyed. He was always putting his nose in places where it didn't belong. He knew the story about the accidental destruction of the fort was made up. The courts had swept it all under the rug, giving Old Man Vallin a mere slap on the wrist. And nobody suffered from the blowing up of that fort. It spelled the beginning of the good years for Etretat. Father figured someone in Etretat had paid Old Man Vallin to blow up the fort. Maybe paid the whole town to keep quiet. The question was who? If he could find that out, Father might get one step closer to figuring out who had killed Old Man Vallin. Unfortunately, if anyone knew, they weren't talking."

  Jacques' story was more than fascinating, it was revelatory! When my friends and I originally found out about the fort's destruction, we always assumed someone against Etretat had done it. Later, Hitler's appearance in our theories had provided a convenient contender for the position. Now we knew someone local ordered Old Man Vallin to blow it up. Its destruction had been meant as an act of protection, rather than one of destruction, to prevent others from getting into the caves.

  Jacques continued, "During the war, Father kept figured out some pretty interesting things, like the Ghost Germans during World War 2."

  "Yeah, the Ghost Germans. I really like this part, go on, Brother, tell them."

  "Hidden somewhere in Etretat, was an entire platoon of Germans. You never saw them, you never talked to them but they were there. Bequilles, Father's friend, told him their leader was someone called Weissmuller. The Ghost Germans were bringing in trucks filled with things, almost every night. Father learned they were unloading most of those trucks on top of the Aval cliff, right into the bunker built over the Fort of Frefosse. There were always a lot of guards around the bunker, making it impossible to get near. Father thought there was an entrance to some underground lair under that bunker. When Father finally got into it, after the Germans left, he found a freshly poured concrete floor. The Ghost Germans vanished, as if they had never been.

  "When Father told his superiors about the tunnels he found, it was as if no one wanted to hear about them. They ordered Father to shut up, telling him the tunnels were part of a big secret and had to be kept quiet. When Father asked what the secret was, he was told very few people knew what it was. It was safer that way. They did tell him Old Man Vallin had acted out of loyalty. He had faced the consequences willingly and had been killed by an unknown enemy trying to steal the Secret. So Father got the answers he sought and found himself a new purpose in life: to keep a watchful eye on Etretat and to keep the Secret safe. When we were old enough, he swore us to secrecy and gave us the same task. Unfortunately, it was not enough. We still wanted to know who had killed Old Man Vallin," Jacques finished.

  O'Flanahan and Briar connected up and I gave them a brief rundown of the latest.

  "Absolutely phenomenal, my boy. I cannot believe how much you have learned in such a short time. Unfortunately, I have some rather disturbing news for you. Are you sitting down?" asked Briar, an odd tone in his voice.

  "Yes, I am. What's up?"

  "Perhaps you could put this on speaker, so everyone may hear. It's too shocking to say it more than once. I can hardly believe it myself," Briar added.

  Opening my laptop, I connected the audio feed to the speakers. Briar's voice came on, sounding tinny, with occasional background noises, maybe cars.

  "I'm sorry to be so mysterious but I think we have reached a turning point, by confirming this is no wild goose chase. However, we still had one massive question: what was the link between the Sirennes and the Leblancs? Well, I have figured out the connection."

  "Come on, Briar, stop patting yourself on the back and just tell us," interrupted O'Flanahan.

  Ignoring him, Briar continued, "When you found that copy of the Hollow Needle in Leblanc's library, you gave me the clue we needed, Paul. Just like the note from your father's book, it held a message intended for you. My attention was attracted by both Post-Scriptum. Yours was:

  A real story ends near Etretat

  Lost until Paul infers new ideas subtly

  You ought understand responsibility,

  Necessarily after moiling Etretat

  Your father,

  Paul Sirenne

  while in Leblanc's copy, it said:

  A real story ends near Etretat

  Lost until Patrice infers new ideas subtly

  Your friend

  Paul Sirenne"

  "The Post-Scriptum in each note differed subtly. Your father's had two extra lines about responsibility. My question was why was it different? Also the wording seemed awkward. We had come across the same type of awkward wording before," continued Briar.

  Raymonde interrupted, "When we were in Perpignan, in Grandfather's last apartment, the scratched words on the wall."

  "Quite right my dear, the scratched words on the wall. I asked myself if the PS could hold a code as well? If you remember, the scratched words one gave us the name Raymond Lindon. Why don't you try and figure out what this code gives us."

  I assembled the first letter of each word. "ARSENE LUPIN IS YOUR NAME. My great-grandfather was Arsene Lupin? It can't be, Lupin is not even real," I objected, amidst the excited voices of my friends.

  "I thought the same thing, my boy. However, if you were to examine your own name, the one your family ensured you kept, you will discover the letters making up your name recombine into Arsene Lupin. Leblanc used the same trick repeatedly in his stories, creating endless anagrams. You are apparently the descendant of Arsene Lupin, a fictitious character who has just become very real indeed!" he finished.

  "This is too much, Briar," exclaimed O'Flanahan. "How could a fictitious character be Sirenne's ancestor?"

  "There is only one possible answer to that. Arsene Lupin must be real," reasoned Briar.

  "Hold on there," I argued. "There is no way the Lupin stories are real."

  Raymonde gazed at me in sympathy as Briar replied, "You are correct, of course. Total invention, exactly like the Hollow Needle story, right? Perhaps Lupin represented a real person. I have read a few articles regarding this topic. Many names have been examined, like Marius Jacob, but none was ever determined to be a perfect match. It is likely the real Lupin was not like the fictional one."

  "Gee, that should make him easy to find," noted O'Flanahan, a tinge of sarcasm tainting his voice.

  "Let's not forget Raymond Lindon wrote the book: 'The Secret of the Kings of France, or the Real Identity of Arsene Lupin'. He obviously thought Lupin was real," Coulter added.

  "This investigation has uncovered far more than expected and it is hitting very close to home, I'm afraid. We have not even opened the rock cylinder yet. Who knows what further revelations it may contain? Perhaps we should stop now," Briar warned.

  "I appreciate your concern but I cannot. True, I'm shocked by what we have uncovered. However, our ancestors spent a great amount of effort preparing this and I am sure they did it for valid reasons. I will not turn away, no matters my fears or concerns. The Great Hunt will continue to its inevitable end, whatever that may be."

  "You have voiced what I felt in my heart." Raymonde added, holding my hand tightly. Despite the support, I was shaken to my core.

  "This revelation is attempting to rewrite my very identity and I am impelled to repudiate it. I am not that man from long ago, a Lupin, if he even exists. I am Paul Sirenne; that is my name. Perhaps they used this trick to convince me I was involved. The letters of my great-grandfather's name may have been an anagram for Arsene Lupin but I am not that man. I never was and I never will be."

  Mrs Leblanc gave me a light hug in sympathy. "Of course you're not, Paul. We know that. At least now you know you're not related to the Leblanc family, which would not have been good, considering your affection for my daughter."

  Her levity steadied me.

  "Well, if you're all done spouting these grandiose issue
s, let's stop talking. Somebody open that cylinder, so we can get on with it!" O'Flanahan blasted impatiently.

  Ives got up, cradling the cylinder in his massive arms.

  "Where should I put it?" he asked.

  I suggested we head out into the garden, where we could set up a table to work in the fresh air and in relative privacy.

  ***

  Mrs Leblanc had draped a thick cloth over a folding card table, obtained from the Villa's basement. Ives Vallin carefully placed the cylinder in the centre of the small table, next to my laptop. Everyone was looking at the thick stone tube.

  Coulter explained his progress, "I've enhanced the object and was able to confirm it is indeed hollow. Best of all, there is something inside. One notable characteristic along the shaft is a single thick line carved around its centre. Here, at this end, opposite the snake carving, you can see a stone plug in the centre. What still escapes me is the method used to secure this plug."

  "Why don't you just admit you don't know how to open it," said O'Flanahan.

  "Wait, wait, are the plug and the cylinder made of the same type of stone?" Briar asked excitedly.

  Using my glasses, I zoomed in on the rock. They were made of different stone.

  Briar grew more excited still. "That plug is made of slate. The cylinder appears to be basaltic granite. If we heated..."

  Ives Vallin was jumping up and down, a big smile on his face. "I have an idea too, I have an idea. It's a good one, too. Brother, can I try it, please can I?" he jabbered, hopping from foot to foot. I had trouble stopping a smile from appearing on my face. Jacques answered his brother sternly, like a father would.

  "I don't know, Brother, It's not my decision to make. You should ask Mr Sirenne."

  The big Vallin turned his imploring face towards, removing his beret. He held it in his hands, clasped in supplication. "Mr Sirenne, I just need a little thing from the truck. It'll only take a minute, can I go get it? I know it'll work, I just know it."