The Hollow Needle

Raymonde listened. The noise was repeated twice over, clearly enough to be distinguished from the medley of vague sounds that formed the great silence of the night and yet too faintly to enable her to tell whether it was near or far, within the walls of the big country-house, or outside, among the murky recesses of the park.

She rose softly. Her window was half open: she flung it back wide. The moonlight lay over a peaceful landscape of lawns and thickets, against which the straggling ruins of the old abbey stood out in tragic outlines, truncated columns, mutilated arches, fragments of porches and shreds of flying buttresses. A light breeze hovered over the face of things, gliding noiselessly through the bare motionless branches of the trees, but shaking the tiny budding leaves of the shrubs.

And, suddenly, she heard the same sound again. It was on the left and on the floor below her, in the living rooms, therefore, that occupied the left wing of the house. Brave and plucky though she was, the girl felt afraid. She slipped on her dressing gown and took the matches.

“Raymonde⁠—Raymonde!”

A voice as low as a breath was calling to her from the next room, the door of which had not been closed. She was feeling her way there, when Suzanne, her cousin, came out of the room and fell into her arms:

“Raymonde⁠—is that you? Did you hear⁠—?”

“Yes. So you’re not asleep?”

“I suppose the dog woke me⁠—some time ago. But he’s not barking now. What time is it?”

“About four.”

He spoke softly, in a tone of infinite politeness. He was quite a young man, very tall, very slender and dressed without the least attempt at fashion, in a jacket and trousers both too small for him. He had a pink face like a girl’s, a broad forehead topped with close-cropped hair, and a scrubby and ill-trimmed fair beard. His bright eyes gleamed with intelligence. He seemed not in the least embarrassed and wore a pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter.

M. Filleul looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. The two gendarmes came forward. The young man exclaimed, gaily:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you clearly suspect me of being an accomplice. But, if that were so, would I not have slipped away at the right moment, following the example of my fellow-criminal?”

“You might have hoped⁠—”

“Any hope would have been absurd. A moment’s reflection, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, will make you agree with me that, logically speaking⁠—”

M. Filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply:

“No more jokes! Your name?”

“Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Your occupation?”

“Sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly.”

M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.

“What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil⁠—”

“At the Lycée Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number⁠—”

“Oh, look here,” exclaimed M. Filleul, “you’re trying to take me in! This won’t do, you know; a joke can go too far!”

“I must say, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your astonishment surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my beard is false!”

“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.”

I started from my chair. There was someone sitting beside me, someone I did not know. I cast my eyes round for a weapon. But, as my visitor’s attitude appeared quite inoffensive, I restrained myself and went up to him.

He was a young man with strongly-marked features, long, fair hair and a short, tawny beard, divided into two points. His dress suggested the dark clothes of an English clergyman; and his whole person, for that matter, wore an air of austerity and gravity that inspired respect.

“Who are you?” I asked. And, as he did not reply, I repeated, “Who are you? How did you get in? What are you here for?”

He looked at me and said:

“Don’t you know me?”

“No⁠—no!”

“Oh, that’s really curious! Just search your memory⁠—one of your friends⁠—a friend of a rather special kind⁠—however⁠—”

I caught him smartly by the arm:

“You lie! You lie! No, you’re not the man you say you are⁠—it’s not true.”

“Then why are you thinking of that man rather than another?” he asked, with a laugh.

Oh, that laugh! That bright and clear young laugh, whose amusing irony had so often contributed to my diversion! I shivered. Could it be?

“No, no,” I protested, with a sort of terror. “It cannot be.”

“It can’t be I, because I’m dead, eh?” he retorted. “And because you don’t believe in ghosts.” He laughed again. “Am I the sort of man who dies? Do you think I would die like that, shot in the back by a girl? Really, you misjudge me! As though I would ever consent to such a death as that!”

A motor was heard panting not far off. Lupin seized Beautrelet roughly by the arm and in a cold voice, looking him straight in the eyes:

“You’re going to keep quiet now, aren’t you? You can see there’s nothing to be done. Then what’s the use of wasting your time and energy? There are plenty of highway robbers in the world. Run after them and let me be⁠—if not!⁠—It’s settled, isn’t it?”

He shook him as though to enforce his will upon him. Then he grinned:

“Fool that I am! You leave me alone? You’re not one of those who let go! Oh, I don’t know what restrains me! In half a dozen turns of the wrist, I could have you bound and gagged⁠—and, in two hours, safe under lock and key, for some months to come. And then I could twist my thumbs in all security, withdraw to the peaceful retreat prepared for me by my ancestors, the Kings of France, and enjoy the treasures which they have been good enough to accumulate for me. But no, it is doomed that I must go on blundering to the end. I can’t help it, we all have our weaknesses⁠—and I have one for you. Besides, it’s not done yet. From now until you put your finger into the hollow of the Needle, a good deal of water will flow under the bridges. Dash it all, it took me ten days! Me! Lupin! You will want ten years, at least!