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

color.⁠—And those folds⁠—the wear of those folds⁠—and, lastly, look, those marks of red sealing-wax, on the back⁠—”

At that moment Beautrelet, was interrupted by Brédoux, the magistrate’s clerk, who opened the door and announced the unexpected arrival of the chief public prosecutor. M. Filleul rose:

“Anything new? Is Monsieur le Procureur Général downstairs?”

“No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. Monsieur le Procureur Général has not left his carriage. He is only passing through Ambrumésy and begs you to be good enough to go down to him at the gate. He only has a word to say to you.”

“That’s curious,” muttered M. Filleul. “However⁠—we shall see. Excuse me, Beautrelet, I shan’t be long.”

He went away. His footsteps sounded outside. Then the clerk closed the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Beautrelet, greatly surprised. “What are you locking us in for?”

“We shall be able to talk so much better,” retorted Brédoux.

Beautrelet rushed toward another door, which led to the next room. He had understood: the accomplice was Brédoux, the clerk of the examining magistrate himself. Brédoux grinned:

“Don’t hurt your fingers, my young friend. I have the key of that door, too.”

“There’s the window!” cried Beautrelet.

“Too late,” said Brédoux, planting himself in front of the casement, revolver in hand.

Every chance of retreat was cut off. There was nothing more for Isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his arms.

“Good,” mumbled the clerk. “And now let us waste no time.” He took out his watch. “Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my eye. Then he will come back. That gives us about four minutes. It will take me one minute to escape by this window, clear through the little door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle waiting for me. That leaves three minutes, which is just enough.”

Brédoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a pair of very long spindlelegs a huge trunk, as round as the body of a spider and furnished with immense arms. A bony face and a low, small stubborn forehead pointed to the man’s narrow obstinacy.

Beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. He had to sit down:

“Speak,” he said. “What do you want?”

“The paper. I’ve been looking for it for three days.”

“I haven’t got it.”

“You’re lying. I saw you put it back in your pocketbook when I came in.”

“Next?”

“Next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. You’re annoying us. Leave us alone and mind your own business. Our patience is at an end.”

He had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man’s head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each syllable that he uttered. His eyes were hard, his smile cruel.

Beautrelet gave a shudder. It was the first time that he was experiencing the sense of danger. And such danger! He felt himself in the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and irresistible strength.

“And next?” he asked, with less assurance in his voice.

“Next? Nothing.⁠—You will be free.⁠—We will forget⁠—”

There was a pause. Then Brédoux resumed:

“There is only a minute left. You must make up your mind. Come, old chap, don’t be a fool.⁠—We are the stronger, you know, always and everywhere.⁠—Quick, the paper⁠—”

Isidore did not flinch. With a livid and terrified face, he remained master of himself, nevertheless, and his brain remained clear amid the breakdown of his nerves. The little black hole of the revolver was pointing at six inches from his eyes. The finger was bent and obviously pressing on the trigger. It only wanted a moment⁠—

“The paper,” repeated Brédoux. “If not⁠—”

“Here it is,” said Beautrelet.

He took out his pocketbook and handed it to the clerk, who seized it eagerly.

“Capital! We’ve come to our senses. I’ve no doubt there’s something to be done with you.⁠—You’re troublesome, but full of common sense. I’ll talk about it to my pals. And now I’m off. Goodbye!”

He pocketed his revolver and turned back the fastening of the window. There was a noise in the passage.

“Goodbye,” he said again. “I’m only just in time.”

But the idea stopped him. With a quick movement, he examined the pocketbook:

“Damn and blast it!” He grated through his teeth. “The paper’s not there.⁠—You’ve done me⁠—”

He leaped into the room. Two shots rang out. Isidore, in his turn, had seized his pistol and fired.

“Missed, old chap!” shouted Brédoux. “Your hand’s shaking.⁠—You’re afraid⁠—”

They caught each other round the body and came down to the floor together. There was a violent and incessant knocking at the door. Isidore’s strength gave way and he was at once over come by his adversary. It was the end. A hand was lifted over him, armed with a knife, and fell. A fierce pain burst into his shoulder. He let go.

He had an impression of someone fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket and taking the paper from it. Then, through the lowered veil of his eyelids, he half saw the man stepping over the windowsill.

The same newspapers which, on the following morning, related the last episodes that had occurred at the Château d’Ambrumésy⁠—the trickery at the chapel, the discovery of Arsène Lupin’s body and of Raymonde’s body and, lastly, the murderous attempt made upon Beautrelet by the clerk to the examining magistrate⁠—also announced two further pieces of news: the disappearance of Ganimard, and the kidnapping of Holmlock Shears, in broad daylight, in the heart of London, at the moment when he was about to take the train for Dover.

Lupin’s gang, therefore, which had been disorganized for a moment by the extraordinary ingenuity of a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, was now resuming the offensive and was winning all along the line from the first. Lupin’s two great adversaries, Shears and Ganimard, were put away. Isidore Beautrelet was disabled. The police were powerless. For the moment there was no one left