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

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 makeup 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 banknote 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 Vélines 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:

“Goodbye, 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 half-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 tightrope, 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