The Hollow Needle (8 page)

“Till Monday.”

A few minutes later, M. Filleul was driving toward Dieppe, while Isidore mounted a bicycle which he had borrowed from the Comte de Gesvres and rode off along the road to Yerville and Caudebec-en-Caux.

There was one point in particular on which the young man was anxious to form a clear opinion, because this just appeared to him to be the enemy’s weakest point. Objects of the size of the four Rubens pictures cannot be juggled away. They were bound to be somewhere. Granting that it was impossible to find them for the moment, might one not discover the road by which they had disappeared?

What Beautrelet surmised was that the four pictures had undoubtedly been carried off in the motor car, but that, before reaching Caudebec, they were transferred to another car, which had crossed the Seine either above Caudebec or below it. Now the first horse-boat down the stream was at Quillebeuf, a greatly frequented ferry and, consequently, dangerous. Up stream, there was the ferry-boat at La Mailleraie, a large, but lonely market-town, lying well off the main road.

By midnight, Isidore had covered the thirty-five or forty miles to La Mailleraie and was knocking at the door of an inn by the waterside. He slept there and, in the morning, questioned the ferrymen.

They consulted the counterfoils in the traffic-book. No motor car had crossed on Thursday the 23rd of April.

“A horse-drawn vehicle, then?” suggested Beautrelet. “A cart? A van?”

“No, not either.”

Isidore continued his inquiries all through the morning. He was on the point of leaving for Quillebeuf, when the waiter of the inn at which he had spent the night said:

“I came back from my thirteen days’ training on the morning of which you are speaking and I saw a cart, but it did not go across.”

“Really?”

“No, they unloaded it onto a flat boat, a barge of sorts, which was moored to the wharf.”

“And where did the cart come from?”

“Oh, I knew it at once. It belonged to Master Vatinel, the carter.”

“And where does he live?”

“At Louvetot.”

Beautrelet consulted his military map. The hamlet of Louvetot lay where the highroad between Yvetot and Caudebec was crossed by a little winding road that ran through the woods to La Mailleraie.

Not until six o’clock in the evening did Isidore succeed in discovering Master Vatinel, in a pothouse. Master Vatinel was one of those artful old Normans who are always on their guard, who distrust strangers, but who are unable to resist the lure of a gold coin or the influence of a glass or two:

“Well, yes, sir, the men in the motor car that morning had told me to meet them at five o’clock at the crossroads. They gave me four great, big things, as high as that. One of them went with me and we carted the things to the barge.”

“You speak of them as if you knew them before.”

“I should think I did know them! It was the sixth time they were employing me.”

Isidore gave a start:

“The sixth time, you say? And since when?”

“Why every day before that one, to be sure! But it was other things then—great blocks of stone—or else smaller, longish ones, wrapped up in newspapers, which they carried as if they were worth I don’t know what. Oh, I mustn’t touch those on any account!—But what’s the matter? You’ve turned quite white.”

“Nothing—the heat of the room—”

Beautrelet staggered out into the air. The joy, the surprise of the discovery made him feel giddy. He went back very quietly to Varengeville, slept in the village, spent an hour at the mayor’s offices with the school-master and returned to the chateau. There he found a letter awaiting him “care of M. le Comte de Gesvres.” It consisted of a single line:

“Second warning. Hold your tongue. If not—”

“Come,” he muttered. “I shall have to make up my mind and take a few precautions for my personal safety. If not, as they say—”

It was nine o’clock. He strolled about among the ruins and then lay down near the cloisters and closed his eyes.

“Well, young man, are you satisfied with the results of your campaign?”

It was M. Filleul.

“Delighted, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction.”

“By which you mean to say—?”

“By which I mean to say that I am prepared to keep my promise—in spite of this very uninviting letter.”

He showed the letter to M. Filleul.

“Pooh! Stuff and nonsense!” cried the magistrate. “I hope you won’t let that prevent you—”

“From telling you what I know? No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. I have given my word and I shall keep it. In less than ten minutes, you shall know—a part of the truth.”

“A part?”

“Yes, in my opinion, Lupin’s hiding-place does not constitute the whole of the problem. Far from it. But we shall see later on.”

“M. Beautrelet, nothing that you do could astonish me now. But how were you able to discover—?”

“Oh, in a very natural way! In the letter from old man Harlington to M. Etienne de Vaudreix, or rather to Lupin—”

“The intercepted letter?”

“Yes. There is a phrase which always puzzled me. After saying that the pictures are to be forwarded as arranged, he goes on to say, ‘You may add THE REST, if you are able to succeed, which I doubt.’”

“Yes, I remember.”

“What was this ‘rest’? A work of art, a curiosity? The chateau contains nothing of any value besides the Rubenses and the tapestries. Jewelry? There is very little and what there is of it is not worth much. In that case, what could it be?—On the other hand, was it conceivable that people so prodigiously clever as Lupin should not have succeeded in adding ‘the rest,’ which they themselves had evidently suggested? A difficult undertaking, very likely; exceptional, surprising, I dare say; but possible and therefore certain, since Lupin wished it.”

“And yet he failed: nothing has disappeared.”

“He did not fail: something has disappeared.”

“Yes, the Rubenses—but—”

“The Rubenses and something besides—something which has been replaced by a similar thing, as in the case of the Rubenses; something much more uncommon, much rarer, much more valuable than the Rubenses.”

“Well, what? You’re killing me with this procrastination!”

While talking, the two men had crossed the ruins, turned toward the little door and were now walking beside the chapel. Beautrelet stopped:

“Do you really want to know, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction?”

“Of course, I do.”

Beautrelet was carrying a walking-stick, a strong, knotted stick. Suddenly, with a back stroke of this stick, he smashed one of the little statues that adorned the front of the chapel.

“Why, you’re mad!” shouted M. Filleul, beside himself, rushing at the broken pieces of the statue. “You’re mad! That old saint was an admirable bit of work—”

“An admirable bit of work!” echoed Isidore, giving a whirl which brought down the Virgin Mary.

M. Filleul took hold of him round the body:

“Young man, I won’t allow you to commit—”

A wise man of the East came toppling to the ground, followed by a manger containing the Mother and Child. …

“If you stir another limb, I fire!”

The Comte de Gesvres had appeared upon the scene and was cocking his revolver. Beautrelet burst out laughing:

“That’s right, Monsieur le Comte, blaze away!—Take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair!—Wait a bit—this chap carrying his head in his hands—”

St. John the Baptist fell, shattered to pieces.

“Oh!” shouted the count, pointing his revolver. “You young vandal!—Those masterpieces!”

“Sham, Monsieur le Comte!”

“What? What’s that?” roared M. Filleul, wresting the Comte de Gesvres’s weapon from him.

“Sham!” repeated Beautrelet. “Paper-pulp and plaster!”

“Oh, nonsense! It can’t be true!”

“Hollow plaster, I tell you! Nothing at all!”

The count stooped and picked up a sliver of a statuette.

“Look at it, Monsieur le Comte, and see for yourself: it’s plaster! Rusty, musty, mildewed plaster, made to look like old stone—but plaster for all that, plaster casts!—That’s all that remains of your perfect masterpiece!—That’s what they’ve done in just a few days!—That’s what the Sieur Charpenais who copied the Rubenses, prepared a year ago.” He seized M. Filleul’s arm in his turn. “What do you think of it, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction? Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it grand? Isn’t it gorgeous? The chapel has been removed! A whole Gothic chapel collected stone by stone! A whole population of statues captured and replaced by these chaps in stucco! One of the most magnificent specimens of an incomparable artistic period confiscated! The chapel, in short, stolen! Isn’t it immense? Ah, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, what a genius the man is!”

“You’re allowing yourself to be carried away, M. Beautrelet.”

“One can’t be carried away too much, monsieur, when one has to do with people like that. Everything above the average deserves our admiration. And this man soars above everything. There is in his flight a wealth of imagination, a force and power, a skill and freedom that send a thrill through me!”

“Pity he’s dead,” said M. Filleul, with a grin. “He’d have ended by stealing the towers of Notre-Dame.”

Isidore shrugged his shoulders:

“Don’t laugh, monsieur. He upsets you, dead though he may be.”

“I don’t say not, I don’t say not, M. Beautrelet, I confess that I feel a certain excitement now that I am about to set eyes on him—unless, indeed, his friends have taken away the body.”

“And always admitting,” observed the Comte de Gesvres, “that it was really he who was wounded by my poor niece.”

“It was he, beyond a doubt, Monsieur le Comte,” declared Beautrelet; “it was he, believe me, who fell in the ruins under the shot fired by Mlle. de Saint-Veran; it was he whom she saw rise and who fell again and dragged himself toward the cloisters to rise again for the last time—this by a miracle which I will explain to you presently—to rise again for the last time and reach this stone shelter—which was to be his tomb.”

And Beautrelet struck the threshold of the chapel with his stick.

“Eh? What?” cried M. Filleul, taken aback. “His tomb?—Do you think that that impenetrable hiding-place—”

“It was here—there,” he repeated.

“But we searched it.”

“Badly.”

“There is no hiding-place here,” protested M. de Gesvres. “I know the chapel.”

“Yes, there is, Monsieur le Comte. Go to the mayor’s office at Varengeville, where they have collected all the papers that used to be in the old parish of Ambrumesy, and you will learn from those papers, which belong to the eighteenth century, that there is a crypt below the chapel. This crypt doubtless dates back to the Roman chapel, upon the site of which the present one was built.”

“But how can Lupin have known this detail?” asked M. Filleul.

“In a very simple manner: because of the works which he had to execute to take away the chapel.”

“Come, come, M. Beautrelet, you’re exaggerating. He has not taken away the whole chapel. Look, not one of the stones of this top course has been touched.”

“Obviously, he cast and took away only what had a financial value: the wrought stones, the sculptures, the statuettes, the whole treasure of little columns and carved arches. He did not trouble about the groundwork of the building itself. The foundations remain.”

“Therefore, M. Beautrelet, Lupin was not able to make his way into the crypt.”

At that moment, M. de Gesvres, who had been to call a servant, returned with the key of the chapel. He opened the door. The three men entered. After a short examination Beautrelet said:

“The flag-stones on the ground have been respected, as one might expect. But it is easy to perceive that the high altar is nothing more than a cast. Now, generally, the staircase leading to the crypt opens in front of the high altar and passes under it.”

“What do you conclude?”

“I conclude that Lupin discovered the crypt when working at the altar.”

The count sent for a pickaxe and Beautrelet attacked the altar. The plaster flew to right and left. He pushed the pieces aside as he went on.

“By Jove!” muttered M. Filleul, “I am eager to know—”

“So am I,” said Beautrelet, whose face was pale with anguish.

He hurried his blows. And, suddenly, his pickaxe, which, until then, had encountered no resistance, struck against a harder material and rebounded. There was a sound of something falling in; and all that remained of the altar went tumbling into the gap after the block of stone which had been struck by the pickaxe. Beautrelet bent forward. A puff of cold air rose to his face. He lit a match and moved it from side to side over the gap:

“The staircase begins farther forward than I expected, under the entrance-flags, almost. I can see the last steps, there, right at the bottom.”

“Is it deep?”

“Three or four yards. The steps are very high—and there are some missing.”

“It is hardly likely,” said M. Filleul, “that the accomplices can have had time to remove the body from the cellar, when they were engaged in carrying off Mlle. de Saint-Veran—during the short absence of the gendarmes. Besides, why should they?—No, in my opinion, the body is here.”

A servant brought them a ladder. Beautrelet let it down through the opening and fixed it, after groping among the fallen fragments. Holding the two uprights firmly:

“Will you go down, M. Filleul?” he asked.

The magistrate, holding a candle in his hand, ventured down the ladder. The Comte de Gesvres followed him and Beautrelet, in his turn, placed his foot on the first rung.

Mechanically, he counted eighteen rungs, while his eyes examined the crypt, where the glimmer of the candle struggled 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?”