Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  Isidore felt his heart beat as he approached. Was he really nearing the end of his race? Did the castle contain the key to the mystery?

  He was not without fear. It all seemed too good to be true; and he asked himself if he was not once more acting in obedience to some infernal plan contrived by Lupin, if Massiban was not for instance, a tool in the hands of his enemy. He burst out laughing:

  “Tut, tut, I’m becoming absurd! One would really think that Lupin was an infallible person who foresees everything, a sort of divine omnipotence against whom nothing can prevail! Dash it all, Lupin makes his mistakes; Lupin, too, is at the mercy of circumstances; Lupin has an occasional slip! And it is just because of his slip in losing the document that I am beginning to have the advantage of him. Everything starts from that. And his efforts, when all is said, serve only to repair the first blunder.”

  And blithely, full of confidence, Beautrelet rang the bell.

  “Yes, sir?” said the servant who opened the door.

  “Can I see the Baron de Velines?”

  And he gave the man his card.

  “Monsieur le baron is not up yet, but, if monsieur will wait—”

  “Has not some one else been asking for him, a gentleman with a white beard and a slight stoop?” asked Beautrelet, who knew Massiban’s appearance from the photographs in the newspapers.

  “Yes, the gentleman came about ten minutes ago; I showed him into the drawing room. If monsieur will come this way—”

  The interview between Massiban and Beautrelet was of the most cordial character. Isidore thanked the old man for the first-rate information which he owed to him and Massiban expressed his admiration for Beautrelet in the warmest terms. Then they exchanged impressions on the document, on their prospects of discovering the book; and Massiban repeated what he had heard at Rennes regarding M. de Velines. The baron was a man of sixty, who had been left a widower many years ago and who led a very retired life with his daughter, Gabrielle de Villemon. This lady had just suffered a cruel blow through the loss of her husband and her eldest son, both of whom had died as the result of a motor-car accident.

  “Monsieur le baron begs the gentlemen to be good enough to come upstairs.”

  The servant led the way to the first floor, to a large, bare-walled room, very simply furnished with desks, pigeon-holes and tables covered with papers and account-books.

  The baron received them very affably and with the volubility often displayed by people who live too much alone. They had great difficulty in explaining the object of their visit.

  “Oh, yes, I know, you wrote to me about it, M. Massiban. It has something to do with a book about a needle, hasn’t it, a book which is supposed to have come down to me from my ancestors?”

  “Just so.”

  “I may as well tell you that my ancestors and I have fallen out. They had funny ideas in those days. I belong to my own time. I have broken with the past.”

  “Yes,” said Beautrelet, impatiently, “but have you no recollection of having seen the book?—”

  “Certainly, I said so in my telegram,” he exclaimed, addressing M. Massiban, who, in his annoyance, was walking up and down the room and looking out of the tall windows. “Certainly — or, at least, my daughter thought she had seen the title among the thousands of books that lumber up the library, upstairs — for I don’t care about reading myself — I don’t even read the papers. My daughter does, sometimes, but only when there is nothing the matter with Georges, her remaining son! As for me, as long as my tenants pay their rents and my leases are kept up — ! You see my account-books: I live in them, gentlemen; and I confess that I know absolutely nothing whatever about that story of which you wrote to me in your letter, M. Massiban—”

  Isidore Beautrelet, nerve-shattered at all this talk, interrupted him bluntly:

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but the book—”

  “My daughter has looked for it. She looked for it all day yesterday.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, she found it; she found it a few hours ago. When you arrived—”

  “And where is it?”

  “Where is it? Why, she put it on that table — there it is — over there—”

  Isidore gave a bound. At one end of the table, on a muddled heap of papers, lay a little book bound in red morocco. He banged his fist down upon it, as though he were forbidding anybody to touch it — and also a little as though he himself dared not take it up.

  “Well!” cried Massiban, greatly excited.

  “I have it — here it is — we’re there at last!”

  “But the title — are you sure?—”

  “Why, of course: look!”

  “Are you convinced? Have we mastered the secret at last?”

  “The front page — what does the front page say?”

  “Read: The Whole Truth now first exhibited. One hundred copies printed by myself for the instruction of the Court.”

  “That’s it, that’s it,” muttered Massiban, in a hoarse voice. “It’s the copy snatched from the flames! It’s the very book which Louis XIV. condemned.”

  They turned over the pages. The first part set forth the explanations given by Captain de Larbeyrie in his journal.

  “Get on, get on!” said Beautrelet, who was in a hurry to come to the solution.

  “Get on? What do you mean? Not at all! We know that the Man with the Iron Mask was imprisoned because he knew and wished to divulge the secret of the Royal house of France. But how did he know it? And why did he wish to divulge it? Lastly, who was that strange personage? A half-brother of Louis XIV., as Voltaire maintained, or Mattioli, the Italian minister, as the modern critics declare? Hang it, those are questions of the very first interest!”

  “Later, later,” protested Beautrelet, feverishly turning the pages, as though he feared that the book would fly out of his hands before he had solved the riddle.

  “But—” said Massiban, who doted on historical details.

  “We have plenty of time — afterward — let’s see the explanation first—”

  Suddenly Beautrelet stopped. The document! In the middle of a left-hand page, his eyes saw the five mysterious lines of dots and figures! He made sure, with a glance, that the text was identical with that which he had studied so long; the same arrangement of the signs, the same intervals that permitted of the isolation of the word demoiselles and the separation of the two words aiguille and creuse.

  A short note preceded it:

  All the necessary indications, it appears, were reduced by King Louis XIII. into a little table which I transcribe below.

  Here followed the table of dots and figures.

  Then came the explanation of the document itself. Beautrelet read, in a broken voice:

  As will be seen, this table, even after we have changed the figures into vowels, affords no light. One might say that, in order to decipher the puzzle, we must first know it. It is, at most, a clue given to those who know the paths of the labyrinth.

  Let us take this clue and proceed. I will guide you.

  The fourth line first. The fourth line contains measurements and indications. By complying with the indications and noting the measurements set down, we inevitably attain our object, on condition, be it understood, that we know where we are and whither we are going, in a word, that we are enlightened as to the real meaning of the Hollow Needle. This is what we may learn from the first three lines. The first is so conceived to revenge myself on the King; I had warned him, for that matter —

  Beautrelet stopped, nonplussed.

  “What? What is it?” said Massiban.

  “The words don’t make sense.”

  “No more they do,” replied Massiban. “‘The first is so conceived to revenge myself on the King—’ What can that mean?”

  “Damn!” yelled Beautrelet.

  “Well?”

  “Torn! Two pages! The next two pages! Look at the marks!”

  He trembled, shaking with rage and disappointment.
Massiban bent forward.

  “It is true — there are the ends of two pages left, like bookbinders’ guards. The marks seem pretty fresh. They’ve not been cut, but torn out — torn out with violence. Look, all the pages at the end of the book have been rumpled.”

  “But who can have done it? Who?” moaned Isidore, wringing his hands. “A servant? An accomplice?”

  “All the same, it may date back to a few months since,” observed Massiban.

  “Even so — even so — some one must have hunted out and taken the book — Tell me, monsieur,” cried Beautrelet, addressing the baron, “is there no one whom you suspect?”

  “We might ask my daughter.”

  “Yes — yes — that’s it — perhaps she will know.”

  M. de Velines rang for the footman. A few minutes later, Mme. de Villemon entered. She was a young woman, with a sad and resigned face. Beautrelet at once asked her:

  “You found this volume upstairs, madame, in the library?”

  “Yes, in a parcel of books that had not been uncorded.”

  “And you read it?”

  “Yes, last night.”

  “When you read it, were those two pages missing? Try and remember: the two pages following this table of figures and dots?”

  “No, certainly not,” she said, greatly astonished. “There was no page missing at all.”

  “Still, somebody has torn—”

  “But the book did not leave my room last night.”

  “And this morning?”

  “This morning, I brought it down here myself, when M. Massiban’s arrival was announced.”

  “Then — ?”

  “Well, I don’t understand — unless — but no.”

  “What?”

  “Georges — my son — this morning — Georges was playing with the book.”

  She ran out headlong, accompanied by Beautrelet, Massiban and the baron. The child was not in his room. They hunted in every direction. At last, they found him playing behind the castle. But those three people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily to account that he began to yell aloud.

  Everybody ran about to right and left. The servants were questioned. It was an indescribable tumult. And Beautrelet received the awful impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water trickling through his fingers.

  He made an effort to recover himself, took Mme. de Villemon’s arm, and, followed by the baron and Massiban, led her back to the drawing room and said:

  “The book is incomplete. Very well. There are two pages torn out; but you read them, did you not, madame?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what they contained?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you repeat it to us?”

  “Certainly. I read the book with a great deal of curiosity, but those two pages struck me in particular because the revelations were so very interesting.”

  “Well, then, speak madame, speak, I implore you! Those revelations are of exceptional importance. Speak, I beg of you: minutes lost are never recovered. The Hollow Needle—”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple. The Hollow Needle means—”

  At that moment, a footman entered the room:

  “A letter for madame.”

  “Oh, but the postman has passed!”

  “A boy brought it.”

  Mme. de Villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint.

  The paper had slipped to the floor. Beautrelet picked it up and, without troubling to apologize, read:

  Not a word! If you say a word, your son will never wake again.

  “My son — my son!” she stammered, too weak even to go to the assistance of the threatened child.

  Beautrelet reassured her:

  “It is not serious — it’s a joke. Come, who could be interested?”

  “Unless,” suggested Massiban, “it was Arsène Lupin.”

  Beautrelet made him a sign to hold his tongue. He knew quite well, of course, that the enemy was there, once more, watchful and determined; and that was just why he wanted to tear from Mme. de Villemon the decisive words, so long awaited, and to tear them from her on the spot, that very moment:

  “I beseech you, madame, compose yourself. We are all here. There is not the least danger.”

  Would she speak? He thought so, he hoped so. She stammered out a few syllables. But the door opened again. This time, the nurse entered. She seemed distraught:

  “M. Georges — madame — M. Georges — !”

  Suddenly, the mother recovered all her strength. Quicker than any of them, and urged by an unfailing instinct, she rushed down the staircase, across the hall and on to the terrace. There lay little Georges, motionless, on a wicker chair.

  “Well, what is it? He’s asleep!—”

  “He fell asleep suddenly, madame,” said the nurse. “I tried to prevent him, to carry him to his room. But he was fast asleep and his hands — his hands were cold.”

  “Cold!” gasped the mother. “Yes — it’s true. Oh dear, oh dear — IF HE ONLY WAKES UP!”

  Beautrelet put his hand in his trousers pocket, seized the butt of his revolver, cocked it with his forefinger, then suddenly produced the weapon and fired at Massiban.

  Massiban, as though he were watching the boy’s movements, had avoided the shot, so to speak, in advance. But already Beautrelet had sprung upon him, shouting to the servants:

  “Help! It’s Lupin!”

  Massiban, under the weight of the impact, fell back into one of the wicker chairs. In a few seconds, he rose, leaving Beautrelet stunned, choking; and, holding the young man’s revolver in his hands:

  “Good! — that’s all right! — don’t stir — you’ll be like that for two or three minutes — no more. But, upon my word, you took your time to recognize me! Was my make-up as old Massiban so good as all that?”

  He was now standing straight up on his legs, his body squared, in a formidable attitude, and he grinned as he looked at the three petrified footmen and the dumbfounded baron:

  “Isidore, you’ve missed the chance of a lifetime. If you hadn’t told them I was Lupin, they’d have jumped on me. And, with fellows like that, what would have become of me, by Jove, with four to one against me?”

  He walked up to them:

  “Come, my lads, don’t be afraid — I shan’t hurt you. Wouldn’t you like a sugar-stick apiece to screw your courage up? Oh, you, by the way, hand me back my hundred-franc note, will you? Yes, yes, I know you! You’re the one I bribed just now to give the letter to your mistress. Come hurry, you faithless servant.”

  He took the blue bank-note which the servant handed him and tore it into tiny shreds:

  “The price of treachery! It burns my fingers.”

  He took off his hat and, bowing very low before Mme. de Villemon:

  “Will you forgive me, madame? The accidents of life — of mine especially — often drive one to acts of cruelty for which I am the first to blush. But have no fear for your son: it’s a mere prick, a little puncture in the arm which I gave him while we were questioning him. In an hour, at the most, you won’t know that it happened. Once more, all my apologies. But I had to make sure of your silence.” He bowed again, thanked M. de Velines for his kind hospitality, took his cane, lit a cigarette, offered one to the baron, gave a circular sweep with his hat and, in a patronizing tone, said to Beautrelet:

  “Good-bye, baby.”

  And he walked away quietly, puffing the smoke of his cigarette into the servants’ faces.

  Beautrelet waited for a few minutes. Mme. de Villemon, now calmer, was watching by her son. He went up to her, with the intention of making one last appeal to her. Their eyes met. He said nothing. He had understood that she would never speak now, whatever happened. There, once more, in that mother’s brain, the secret of the Hollow Needle lay buried as deeply as in the night of the past.

  Then he gave up and went away.

  It was hal
f-past ten. There was a train at eleven-fifty. He slowly followed the avenue in the park and turned into the road that led to the station.

  “Well, what do you say to that?”

  It was Massiban, or rather Lupin, who appeared out of the wood adjoining the road.

  “Was it pretty well contrived, or was it not? Is your old friend great on the tight-rope, or is he not? I’m sure that you haven’t got over it, eh, and that you’re asking yourself whether the so-called Massiban, member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres, ever existed. But, of course, he exists. I’ll even show him to you, if you’re good. But, first, let me give you back your revolver. You’re looking to see if it’s loaded? Certainly, my lad. There are five charges left, one of which would be enough to send me ad patres. — Well, so you’re putting it in your pocket? Quite right. I prefer that to what you did up there. — A nasty little impulse, that, of yours! — Still, you’re young, you suddenly see — in a flash! — that you’ve once more been done by that confounded Lupin and that he is standing there in front of you, at three steps from you — and bang! You fire! — I’m not angry with you, bless your little heart! To prove it, I offer you a seat in my 100 h.p. car. Will that suit you?”

  He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

  The contrast was delicious between the venerable appearance of this elderly Massiban and the schoolboy ways and accent which Lupin was putting on. Beautrelet could not help laughing.

  “He’s laughed! He’s laughed!” cried Lupin, jumping for joy. “You see, baby, what you fall short in is the power of smiling; you’re a trifle serious for your age. You’re a very likeable boy, you have a charming candor and simplicity — but you have no sense of humor.” He placed himself in front of him. “Look here, bet you I make you cry! Do you know how I was able to follow up all your inquiry, how I knew of the letter Massiban wrote you and his appointment to meet you this morning at the Chateau de Velines? Through the prattle of your friend, the one you’re staying with. You confide in that idiot and he loses no time, but goes and tells everything to his best girl. And his best girl has no secrets for Lupin. — What did I tell you? I’ve made you feel, anyhow; your eyes are quite wet! — Friendship betrayed: that upsets you, eh? Upon my word, you’re wonderful! I could take you in my arms and hug you! You always wear that look of astonishment which goes straight to my heart. — I shall never forget the other evening at Gaillon, when you consulted me. — Yes, I was the old notary! — But why don’t you laugh, youngster? As I said, you have no sense of a joke. Look here, what you want is — what shall I call it? — imagination, imaginative impulse. Now, I’m full of imaginative impulse.”