The Hollow Needle, Maurice Leblanc [fiction novels to read .TXT] 📗

against the heavy darkness. But, at the bottom, his nostrils were assailed by one of those foul and violent smells which linger in the memory for many a long day. And, suddenly, a trembling hand seized him by the shoulder.

“Well, what is it?”

“B-beautrelet,” stammered M. Filleul. “B-beau-trelet⁠—”

He could not get a word out for terror.

“Come, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, compose yourself!”

“Beautrelet⁠—he is there⁠—”

“Eh?”

“Yes⁠—there was something under the big stone that broke off the altar⁠—I pushed the stone⁠—and I touched⁠—I shall never⁠—shall never forget.⁠—”

“Where is it?”

“On this side.⁠—Don’t you notice the smell?⁠—And then look⁠—see.”

He took the candle and held it towards a motionless form stretched upon the ground.

“Oh!” exclaimed Beautrelet, in a horror-stricken tone.

The three men bent down quickly. The corpse lay half-naked, lean, frightful. The flesh, which had the greenish hue of soft wax, appeared in places through the torn clothes. But the most hideous thing, the thing that had drawn a cry of terror from the young man’s lips, was the head, the head which had just been crushed by the block of stone, the shapeless head, a repulsive mass in which not one feature could be distinguished.

Beautrelet took four strides up the ladder and fled into the daylight and the open air.

M. Filleul found him again lying flat on the around, with his hands glued to his face:

“I congratulate you, Beautrelet,” he said. “In addition to the discovery of the hiding-place, there are two points on which I have been able to verify the correctness of your assertions. First of all, the man on whom Mlle. de Saint-Véran fired was indeed Arsène Lupin, as you said from the start. Also, he lived in Paris under the name of Étienne de Vaudreix. His linen is marked with the initials E. V. That ought to be sufficient proof, I think: don’t you?”

Isidore did not stir.

“Monsieur le Comte has gone to have a horse put to. They’re sending for Dr. Jouet, who will make the usual examination. In my opinion, death must have taken place a week ago, at least. The state of decomposition of the corpse⁠—but you don’t seem to be listening⁠—”

“Yes, yes.”

“What I say is based upon absolute reasons. Thus, for instance⁠—”

M. Filleul continued his demonstrations, without, however, obtaining any more manifest marks of attention. But M. de Gesvres’s return interrupted his monologue. The comte brought two letters. One was to tell him that Holmlock Shears would arrive next morning.

“Capital!” cried M. Filleul, joyfully. “Inspector Ganimard will be here too. It will be delightful.”

“The other letter is for you, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,” said the comte.

“Better and better,” said M. Filleul, after reading it. “There will certainly not be much for those two gentlemen to do. M. Beautrelet, I hear from Dieppe that the body of a young woman was found by some shrimpers, this morning, on the rocks.”

Beautrelet gave a start:

“What’s that? The body⁠—”

“Of a young woman.⁠—The body is horribly mutilated, they say, and it would be impossible to establish the identity, but for a very narrow little gold curb-bracelet on the right arm which has become encrusted in the swollen skin. Now Mlle. de Saint-Véran used to wear a gold curb-bracelet on her right arm. Evidently, therefore, Monsieur le Comte, this is the body of your poor niece, which the sea must have washed to that distance. What do you think, Beautrelet?”

“Nothing⁠—nothing⁠—or, rather, yes⁠—everything is connected, as you see⁠—and there is no link missing in my argument. All the facts, one after the other, however contradictory, however disconcerting they may appear, end by supporting the supposition which I imagined from the first.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You soon will. Remember, I promised you the whole truth.”

“But it seems to me⁠—”

“A little patience, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. So far, you have had no cause to complain of me. It is a fine day. Go for a walk, lunch at the château, smoke your pipe. I shall be back by four o’clock. As for my school, well, I don’t care: I shall take the night train.”

They had reached the outhouses at the back of the château. Beautrelet jumped on his bicycle and rode away.

At Dieppe, he stopped at the office of the local paper, the Vigie, and examined the file for the last fortnight. Then he went on to the market-town of Envermeu, six or seven miles farther. At Envermeu, he talked to the mayor, the rector and the local policeman. The church-clock struck three. His inquiry was finished.

He returned singing for joy. He pressed upon the two pedals turn by turn, with an equal and powerful rhythm; his chest opened wide to take in the keen air that blew from the sea. And, from time to time, he forgot himself to the extent of uttering shouts of triumph to the sky, when he thought of the aim which he was pursuing and of the success that was crowning his efforts.

Ambrumésy appeared in sight. He coasted at full speed down the slope leading to the château. The top rows of venerable trees that line the road seemed to run to meet him and to vanish behind him forthwith. And, all at once, he uttered a cry. In a sudden vision, he had seen a rope stretched from one tree to another, across the road.

His machine gave a jolt and stopped short. Beautrelet was flung three yards forward, with immense violence, and it seemed to him that only chance, a miraculous chance, caused him to escape a heap of pebbles on which, logically, he ought to have broken his head.

He lay for a few seconds stunned. Then, all covered with bruises, with the skin flayed from his knees, he examined the spot. On the right lay a small wood, by which his aggressor had no doubt fled. Beautrelet untied the rope. To the tree on the left around which it was fastened a small piece of paper was fixed with string. Beautrelet unfolded it and read:

“The third and last