Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Hollow Needle; Further adventures of Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (speld decodable readers txt) 📖
- Author: Maurice Leblanc
Book online «The Hollow Needle; Further adventures of Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (speld decodable readers txt) 📖». Author Maurice Leblanc
He wrote on a separate piece of paper:
e . a . a . . e . . e . a . . a . .
a . . . e . e . . e oi . e . . e .
. ou . . e . o . . . e . . e . o . . e
ai . ui . . e . . eu . e
Then he continued:
“As you see, this does not give us much to go upon. The key is, at the same time, very easy, because the inventor has contented himself with replacing the vowels by figures and the consonants by dots, and very difficult, if not impossible, because he has taken no further trouble to complicate the problem.”
“It is certainly pretty obscure.”
“Let us try to throw some light upon it. The second line is divided into two parts; and the second part appears in such a way that it probably forms one word. If we now seek to replace the intermediary dots by consonants, we arrive at the conclusion, after searching and casting about, that the only consonants which are logically able to support the vowels are also logically able to produce only one word, the word demoiselles.”
“That would refer to Mlle. de Gesvres and Mlle. de Saint-Véran.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And do you see nothing more?”
“Yes. I also note an hiatus in the middle of the last line; and, if I apply a similar operation to the beginning of the line, I at once see that the only consonant able to take the place of the dot between the diphthongs fai and ui is the letter g and that, when I have thus formed the first five letters of the word, aigui, it is natural and inevitable that, with the two next dots and the final e, I should arrive at the word aiguille.”
“Yes, the word aiguille forces itself upon us.”
“Finally, for the last word, I have three vowels and three consonants. I cast about again, I try all the letters, one after the other, and, starting with the principle that the two first letters are necessary consonants, I find that three words apply: fleuve, preuve and creuse. I eliminate the words fleuve and preuve, as possessing no possible relation to a needle, and I keep the word creuse.”
“Making ‘hollow needle’! By jove! I admit that your solution is correct, because it needs must be; but how does it help us?”
“Not at all,” said Beautrelet, in a thoughtful tone. “Not at all, for the moment.—Later on, we shall see.—I have an idea that a number of things are included in the puzzling conjunction of those two words, aiguille creuse. What is troubling me at present is rather the material on which the document is written, the paper employed.—Do they still manufacture this sort of rather coarse-grained parchment? And then this ivory color.—And those folds—the wear of those folds—and, lastly, look, those marks of red sealing-wax, on the back—”
At that moment Beautrelet, was interrupted by Brédoux, the magistrate’s clerk, who opened the door and announced the unexpected arrival of the chief public prosecutor. M. Filleul rose:
“Anything new? Is Monsieur le Procureur Général downstairs?”
“No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. Monsieur le Procureur Général has not left his carriage. He is only passing through Ambrumésy and begs you to be good enough to go down to him at the gate. He only has a word to say to you.”
“That’s curious,” muttered M. Filleul. “However—we shall see. Excuse me, Beautrelet, I shan’t be long.”
He went away. His footsteps sounded outside. Then the clerk closed the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Beautrelet, greatly surprised. “What are you locking us in for?”
“We shall be able to talk so much better,” retorted Brédoux.
Beautrelet rushed toward another door, which led to the next room. He had understood: the accomplice was Brédoux, the clerk of the examining magistrate himself. Brédoux grinned:
“Don’t hurt your fingers, my young friend. I have the key of that door, too.”
“There’s the window!” cried Beautrelet.
“Too late,” said Brédoux, planting himself in front of the casement, revolver in hand.
Every chance of retreat was cut off. There was nothing more for Isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his arms.
“Good,” mumbled the clerk. “And now let us waste no time.” He took out his watch. “Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my eye. Then he will come back. That gives us about four minutes. It will take me one minute to escape by this window, clear through the little door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle waiting for me. That leaves three minutes, which is just enough.”
Brédoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a pair of very long spindle-legs a huge trunk, as round as the body of a spider and furnished with immense arms. A bony face and a low, small stubborn forehead pointed to the man’s narrow obstinacy.
Beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. He had to sit down:
“Speak,” he said. “What do you want?”
“The paper. I’ve been looking for it for three days.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“You’re lying. I saw you put it back in your pocket-book when I came in.”
“Next?”
“Next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. You’re annoying us. Leave us alone and mind your own business. Our patience is at an end.”
He had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man’s head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each syllable that he uttered. His eyes were hard, his smile cruel.
Beautrelet gave a shudder. It was the first time that he was experiencing the sense of danger. And such danger! He felt himself in the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and irresistible strength.
“And next?” he asked, with less assurance in his voice.
“Next? Nothing.—You will be free.—We will forget—”
There was a pause. Then Brédoux resumed:
“There is only a minute left. You must make up your mind. Come, old chap, don’t be a fool.—We are the stronger, you know, always and everywhere.—Quick, the paper—”
Isidore did not flinch. With a livid and terrified face, he remained master of himself, nevertheless, and his brain remained clear amid the breakdown of his nerves. The little black hole of the revolver was pointing at six inches from his eyes. The finger was bent and obviously pressing on the trigger. It only wanted a moment—
“The paper,” repeated Brédoux. “If not—”
“Here it is,” said Beautrelet.
He took out his pocket-book and handed it to the clerk, who seized it eagerly.
“Capital! We’ve come to our senses. I’ve no doubt there’s something to be done with you.—You’re troublesome, but full of common sense. I’ll talk about it to my pals. And now I’m off. Good-bye!”
He pocketed his revolver and turned back the fastening of the window. There was a noise in the passage.
“Good-bye,” he said again. “I’m only just in time.”
But the idea stopped him. With a quick movement, he examined the pocket-book:
“Damn and blast it!” He grated through his teeth. “The paper’s not there.—You’ve done me—”
He leaped into the room. Two shots rang out. Isidore, in his turn, had seized his pistol and fired.
“Missed, old chap!” shouted Brédoux. “Your hand’s shaking.—You’re afraid—”
They caught each other round the body and came down to the floor together. There was a violent and incessant knocking at the door. Isidore’s strength gave way and he was at once over come by his adversary. It was the end. A hand was lifted over him, armed with a knife, and fell. A fierce pain burst into his shoulder. He let go.
He had an impression of some one fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket and taking the paper from it. Then, through the lowered veil of his eyelids, he half saw the man stepping over the window-sill.
The same newspapers which, on the following morning, related the last episodes that had occurred at the Château d’Ambrumésy—the trickery at the chapel, the discovery of Arsène Lupin’s body and of Raymonde’s body and, lastly, the murderous attempt made upon Beautrelet by the clerk to the examining magistrate—also announced two further pieces of news: the disappearance of Ganimard, and the kidnapping of Holmlock Shears, in broad daylight, in the heart of London, at the moment when he was about to take the train for Dover.
Lupin’s gang, therefore, which had been disorganized for a moment by the extraordinary ingenuity of a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, was now resuming the offensive and was winning all along the line from the first. Lupin’s two great adversaries, Shears and Ganimard, were put away. Isidore Beautrelet was disabled. The police were powerless. For the moment there was no one left capable of struggling against such enemies.
FACE TO FACE
One evening, five weeks later, I had given my man leave to go out. It was the day before the 14th of July. The night was hot, a storm threatened and I felt no inclination to leave the flat. I opened wide the glass doors leading to my balcony, lit my reading lamp and sat down in an easy-chair to look through the papers, which I had not yet seen.
It goes without saying that there was something about Arsène Lupin in all of them. Since the attempt at murder of which poor Isidore Beautrelet had been the victim, not a day had passed without some mention of the Ambrumésy mystery. It had a permanent headline devoted to it. Never had public opinion been excited to that extent, thanks to the extraordinary series of hurried events, of unexpected and disconcerting surprises. M. Filleul, who was certainly accepting the secondary part allotted to him with a good faith worthy of all praise, had let the interviewers into the secret of his young advisor’s exploits during the memorable three days, so that the public was able to indulge in the rashest suppositions. And the public gave itself free scope. Specialists and experts in crime, novelists and playwrights, retired magistrates and chief-detectives, erstwhile Lecocqs and budding Holmlock Shearses, each had his theory and expounded it in lengthy contributions to the press. Everybody corrected and supplemented the inquiry of the examining magistrate; and all on the word of a child, on the word of Isidore Beautrelet, a sixth-form schoolboy at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly!
For really, it had to be admitted, the complete elements of the truth were now in everybody’s possession. What did the mystery consist of? They knew the hiding-place where Arsène Lupin had taken refuge and lain a-dying; there was no doubt about it: Dr. Delattre, who continued to plead professional secrecy and refused to give evidence, nevertheless confessed to his intimate friends—who lost no time in blabbing—that he really had been taken to a crypt to attend a wounded man whom his confederates introduced to him by the name of Arsène Lupin. And, as the corpse of Étienne de Vaudreix was found in that same crypt and as the said Étienne de Vaudreix was none other than Arsène Lupin—as the official examination went to show—all this provided an additional proof, if one were needed, of the identity of Arsène Lupin and the wounded man. Therefore, with Lupin dead and Mlle. de Saint-Véran’s body recognized by the curb-bracelet on her wrist, the tragedy was finished.
It was not. Nobody thought that it was, because Beautrelet had said the contrary. Nobody knew in what respect it was not finished, but, on the word of the young man, the mystery remained complete. The evidence of the senses did not prevail against the statement of a Beautrelet. There was something which people did not know, and of that something they were convinced that he was in position to supply a triumphant explanation.
It is easy, therefore, to imagine the anxiety with which, at first, people awaited the bulletins issued by the two Dieppe doctors to whose care the Comte de Gesvres entrusted his patient; the distress that prevailed during the first few days, when his life was thought to be in danger; and the enthusiasm of the morning when the newspapers announced that there was no further cause for fear. The least details excited the crowd. People wept at the thought of Beautrelet nursed by his old father, who had been hurriedly summoned by telegram, and they also admired the devotion of Mlle. Suzanne de Gesvres, who spent night after night by the wounded lad’s bedside.
Next came a swift and glad convalescence. At
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