The Hollow Needle Maurice Leblanc (good short books .txt) 📖

I would not have him suffer on my account.”

The more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on M. Filleul. It suggested a scene in a melodrama. Nevertheless, he promised:

“This evening⁠—or tomorrow at latest, I shall know what to think.”

The afternoon was wearing on. The examining magistrate returned to the ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the search. But at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start; and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had invaded the château:

“Gentlemen, everything leads us to suppose that the wounded man is here, within our reach; everything, that is, except the reality, the fact. Therefore, in our humble opinion, he must have escaped and we shall find him outside.”

By way of precaution, however, he arranged, with the sergeant of gendarmes, for a complete watch to be kept over the park and, after making a fresh examination of the two drawing rooms, visiting the whole of the château and surrounding himself with all the necessary information, he took the road back to Dieppe, accompanied by the deputy prosecutor.

Night fell. As the boudoir was to remain locked, Jean Daval’s body had been moved to another room. Two women from the neighborhood sat up with it, assisted by Suzanne and Raymonde. Downstairs, young Isidore Beautrelet slept on the bench in the old oratory, under the watchful eye of the village policeman, who had been attached to his person. Outside, the gendarmes, the farmer and a dozen peasants had taken up their position among the ruins and along the walls.

All was still until eleven o’clock; but, at ten minutes past eleven, a shot echoed from the other side of the house.

“Attention!” roared the sergeant. “Two men remain here: you, Fossier⁠—and you, Lecanu⁠—The others at the double!”

They all rushed forward and ran round the house on the left. A figure was seen to make away in the dark. Then, suddenly, a second shot drew them farther on, almost to the borders of the farm. And, all at once, as they arrived, in a band, at the hedge which lines the orchard, a flame burst out, to the right of the farmhouse, and other flames also rose in a thick column. It was a barn burning, stuffed to the ridge with straw.

“The scoundrels!” shouted the sergeant. “They’ve set fire to it. Have at them, lads! They can’t be far away!”

But the wind was turning the flames toward the main building; and it became necessary, before all things, to ward off the danger. They all exerted themselves with the greater ardor inasmuch as M. de Gesvres, hurrying to the scene of the disaster, encouraged them with the promise of a reward. By the time that they had mastered the flames, it was two o’clock in the morning. All pursuit would have been vain.

“We’ll look into it by daylight,” said the sergeant. “They are sure to have left traces: we shall find them.”

“And I shall not be sorry,” added M. de Gesvres, “to learn the reason of this attack. To set fire to trusses of straw strikes me as a very useless proceeding.”

“Come with me, Monsieur le Comte: I may be able to tell you the reason.”

Together they reached the ruins of the cloisters. The sergeant called out:

“Lecanu!⁠—Fossier!”

The other gendarmes were already hunting for their comrades whom they had left standing sentry. They ended by finding them at a few paces from the little door. The two men were lying full length on the ground, bound and gagged, with bandages over their eyes.

“Monsieur le Comte,” muttered the sergeant, while his men were being released; “Monsieur le Comte, we have been tricked like children.”

“How so?”

“The shots⁠—the attack on the barn⁠—the fire⁠—all so much humbug to get us down there⁠—a diversion. During that time they were tying up our two men and the business was done.”

“What business?”

“Carrying off the wounded man, of course!”

“You don’t mean to say you think⁠—?”

“Think? Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff! The idea came to me ten minutes ago⁠—but I’m a fool not to have thought of it earlier. We should have nabbed them all.” Quevillon stamped his foot on the ground, with a sudden attack of rage. “But where, confound it, where did they go through? Which way did they carry him off? For, dash it all, we beat the ground all day; and a man can’t hide in a tuft of grass, especially when he’s wounded! It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is!⁠—”

Nor was this the last surprise awaiting Sergeant Quevillon. At dawn, when they entered the oratory which had been used as a cell for young Isidore Beautrelet, they realized that young Isidore Beautrelet had vanished.

On a chair slept the village policeman, bent in two. By his side stood a water-bottle and two tumblers. At the bottom of one of those tumblers a few grains of white powder.

On examination, it was proved, first, that young Isidore Beautrelet had administered a sleeping draught to the village policeman; secondly, that he could only have escaped by a window situated at a height of seven or eight feet in the wall; and lastly⁠—a charming detail, this⁠—that he could only have reached this window by using the back of his warder as a footstool.

II Isidore Beautrelet, Sixth-Form Schoolboy

From the Grand Journal.

Latest news

Doctor Delattre kidnapped

A mad piece of criminal daring

At the moment of going to press, we have received an item of news which we dare not guarantee as authentic, because of its very improbable character. We print it, therefore, with all reserve.

Yesterday evening, Dr. Delattre, the well-known surgeon, was present, with his wife and daughter, at the performance of Hernani at the Comédie Française. At the commencement of the third act, that is to say, at about ten o’clock, the door of his box opened and