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

“What next?”

“Next, I hurried to the commandant’s and informed the officer in charge.”

“Did he come to your house?”

“Yes; and a gentleman from the public prosecutor’s also. They searched all through the morning; and, when I saw that they were making no progress and that there was no hope left, I telegraphed to you.”

“Was the bed disarranged in his room?”

“No.”

“Nor the room disturbed in any way?”

“No. I found his pipe in its usual place, with his tobacco and the book which he was reading. There was even this little photograph of yourself in the middle of the book, marking the page.”

“Let me see it.”

Froberval passed him the photograph. Beautrelet gave a start of surprise. He had recognized himself in the snapshot, standing, with his two hands in his pockets, on a lawn from which rose trees and ruins.

Froberval added:

“It must be the last portrait of yourself which you sent him. Look, on the back, you will see the date, 3 April, the name of the photographer, R. de Val, and the name of the town, Lion⁠—Lion-sur-Mer, perhaps.”

Isidore turned the photograph over and read this little note, in his own handwriting:

“R. de Val.⁠—3.4⁠—Lion.”

He was silent for a few minutes and resumed:

“My father hadn’t shown you that snapshot yet?”

“No⁠—and that’s just what astonished me when I saw it yesterday⁠—for your father used so often to talk to us about you.”

There was a fresh pause, greatly prolonged. Froberval muttered:

“I have business at the workshop. We might as well go in⁠—”

He was silent. Isidore had not taken his eyes from the photograph, was examining it from every point of view. At last, the boy asked:

“Is there such a thing as an inn called the Lion d’Or at a short league outside the town?”

“Yes, about a league from here.”

“On the Route de Valognes, is it?”

“Yes, on the Route de Valognes.”

“Well, I have every reason to believe that this inn was the headquarters of Lupin’s friends. It was from there that they entered into communication with my father.”

“What an idea! Your father spoke to nobody. He saw nobody.”

“He saw nobody, but they made use of an intermediary.”

“What proof have you?”

“This photograph.”

“But it’s your photograph!”

“It’s my photograph, but it was not sent by me. I was not even aware of its existence. It was taken, without my knowledge, in the ruins of Ambrumésy, doubtless by the examining-magistrate’s clerk, who, as you know, was an accomplice of Arsène Lupin’s.”

“And then?”

“Then this photograph became the passport, the talisman, by means of which they obtained my father’s confidence.”

“But who? Who was able to get into my house?”

“I don’t know, but my father fell into the trap. They told him and he believed that I was in the neighborhood, that I was asking to see him and that I was giving him an appointment at the Golden Lion.”

“But all this is nonsense! How can you assert⁠—?”

“Very simply. They imitated my writing on the back of the photograph and specified the meeting-place: Valognes Road, 3 kilometres 400, Lion Inn. My father came and they seized him, that’s all.”

“Very well,” muttered Froberval, dumbfounded, “very well. I admit it⁠—things happened as you say⁠—but that does not explain how he was able to leave during the night.”

“He left in broad daylight, though he waited until dark to go to the meeting-place.”

“But, confound it, he didn’t leave his room the whole of the day before yesterday!”

“There is one way of making sure: run down to the dockyard, Froberval, and look for one of the men who were on guard in the afternoon, two days ago.⁠—Only, be quick, if you wish to find me here.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes, I shall take the next train back.”

“What!⁠—Why, you don’t know⁠—your inquiry⁠—”

“My inquiry is finished. I know pretty well all that I wanted to know. I shall have left Cherbourg in an hour.”

Froberval rose to go. He looked at Beautrelet with an air of absolute bewilderment, hesitated a moment and then took his cap:

“Are you coming, Charlotte?”

“No,” said Beautrelet, “I shall want a few more particulars. Leave her with me. Besides, I want to talk to her. I knew her when she was quite small.”

Froberval went away. Beautrelet and the little girl remained alone in the tavern smoking room. A few minutes passed, a waiter entered, cleared away some cups and left the room again. The eyes of the young man and the child met; and Beautrelet placed his hand very gently on the little girl’s hand. She looked at him for two or three seconds, distractedly, as though about to choke. Then, suddenly hiding her head between her folded arms, she burst into sobs.

He let her cry and, after a while, said:

“It was you, wasn’t it, who did all the mischief, who acted as go-between? It was you who took him the photograph? You admit it, don’t you? And, when you said that my father was in his room, two days ago, you knew that it was not true, did you not, because you yourself had helped him to leave it⁠—?”

She made no reply. He asked:

“Why did you do it? They offered you money, I suppose⁠—to buy ribbons with a frock⁠—?”

He uncrossed Charlotte’s arms and lifted up her head. He saw a poor little face all streaked with tears, the attractive, disquieting, mobile face of one of those little girls who seem marked out for temptation and weakness.

“Come,” said Beautrelet, “it’s over, we’ll say no more about it. I will not even ask you how it happened. Only you must tell me everything that can be of use to me.⁠—Did you catch anything⁠—any remark made by those men? How did they carry him off?”

She replied at once:

“By motor car. I heard them talking about it⁠—”

“And what road did they take?”

“Ah, I don’t know that!”

“Didn’t they say anything before you⁠—something that might help us?”

“No⁠—wait, though: there was one who said, ‘We shall have no time to lose⁠—the governor is to telephone to us at eight o’clock in