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

“Where to?”

“I can’t say.⁠—I’ve forgotten⁠—”

“Try⁠—try and remember. It was the name of a town, wasn’t it?”

“Yes⁠—a name⁠—like Château⁠—”

“Châteaubriant?⁠—Château-Thierry?⁠—”

“No-no⁠—”

“Châteauroux?”

“Yes, that was it⁠—Châteauroux⁠—”

Beautrelet did not wait for her to complete her sentence. Already he was on his feet and, without giving a thought to Froberval, without even troubling about the child, who stood gazing at him in stupefaction, he opened the door and ran to the station:

“Châteauroux, madame⁠—a ticket for Châteauroux⁠—”

“Over Mans and Tours?” asked the booking-clerk.

“Of course⁠—the shortest way. Shall I be there for lunch?”

“Oh, no!”

“For dinner? Bedtime⁠—?”

“Oh, no! For that, you would have to go over Paris. The Paris express leaves at nine o’clock. You’re too late⁠—”

It was not too late. Beautrelet was just able to catch the train.

“Well,” said Beautrelet, rubbing his hands, “I have spent only two hours or so at Cherbourg, but they were well employed.”

He did not for a moment think of accusing Charlotte of lying. Weak, unstable, capable of the worst treacheries, those petty natures also obey impulses of sincerity; and Beautrelet had read in her affrighted eyes her shame for the harm which she had done and her delight at repairing it in part. He had no doubt, therefore, that Châteauroux was the other town to which Lupin had referred and where his confederates were to telephone to him.

On his arrival in Paris, Beautrelet took every necessary precaution to avoid being followed. He felt that it was a serious moment. He was on the right road that was leading him to his father: one act of imprudence might ruin all.

He went to the flat of one of his schoolfellows and came out, an hour later, irrecognizable, rigged out as an Englishman of thirty, in a brown check suit, with knickerbockers, woolen stockings and a cap, a high-colored complexion and a red wig. He jumped on a bicycle laden with a complete painter’s outfit and rode off to the Gare d’Austerlitz.

He slept that night at Issoudun. The next morning, he mounted his machine at break of day. At seven o’clock, he walked into the Châteauroux post-office and asked to be put on to Paris. As he had to wait, he entered into conversation with the clerk and learnt that, two days before, at the same hour, a man dressed for motoring had also asked for Paris.

The proof was established. He waited no longer.

By the afternoon, he had ascertained, from undeniable evidence, that a limousine car, following the Tours road, had passed through the village of Buzancais and the town of Châteauroux and had stopped beyond the town, on the verge of the forest. At ten o’clock, a hired gig, driven by a man unknown, had stopped beside the car and then gone off south, through the valley of the Bouzanne. There was then another person seated beside the driver. As for the car, it had turned in the opposite direction and gone north, toward Issoudun.

Beautrelet easily discovered the owner of the gig, who, however, had no information to supply. He had hired out his horse and trap to a man who brought them back himself next day.

Lastly, that same evening, Isidore found out that the motor car had only passed through Issoudun, continuing its road toward Orleans, that is to say, toward Paris.

From all this, it resulted, in the most absolute fashion, that M. Beautrelet was somewhere in the neighborhood. If not, how was it conceivable that people should travel nearly three hundred miles across France in order to telephone from Châteauroux and next to return, at an acute angle, by the Paris road?

This immense circuit had a more definite object: to move M. Beautrelet to the place assigned to him.

“And this place is within reach of my hand,” said Isidore to himself, quivering with hope and expectation. “My father is waiting for me to rescue him at ten or fifteen leagues from here. He is close by. He is breathing the same air as I.”

He set to work at once. Taking a war-office map, he divided it into small squares, which he visited one after the other, entering the farmhouses making the peasants talk, calling on the schoolmasters, the mayors, the parish priests, chatting to the women. It seemed to him that he must attain his end without delay and his dreams grew until it was no longer his father alone whom he hoped to deliver, but all those whom Lupin was holding captive: Raymonde de Saint-Véran, Ganimard, Holmlock Shears, perhaps, and others, many others; and, in reaching them, he would, at the same time, reach Lupin’s stronghold, his lair, the impenetrable retreat where he was piling up the treasures of which he had robbed the wide world.

But, after a fortnight’s useless searching, his enthusiasm ended by slackening and he very soon lost confidence. Because success was slow in appearing, from one day to the next, almost, he ceased to believe in it; and, though he continued to pursue his plan of investigations, he would have felt a real surprise if his efforts had led to the smallest discovery.

More days still passed by, monotonous days of discouragement. He read in the newspapers that the Comte de Gesvres and his daughter had left Ambrumésy and gone to stay near Nice. He also learnt that Harlington had been released, that gentleman’s innocence having become self-obvious, in accordance with the indications supplied by Arsène Lupin.

Isidore changed his headquarters, established himself for two days at the Châtre, for two days at Argenton. The result was the same.

Just then, he was nearly throwing up the game. Evidently, the gig in which his father had been carried off could only have furnished a stage, which had been followed by another stage, furnished by some other conveyance. And his father was far away.

He was thinking of leaving, when, one Monday morning, he saw, on the envelope of an unstamped letter, sent on to him from Paris, a handwriting that set him trembling with emotion. So great was his excitement that, for some minutes, he dared not