The next day, he asked Beautrelet:
“What are you doing here, eh?”
It was the first time that he had shown surprise at the presence of a stranger beside him.
Gradually, in this way, he recovered all his faculties. He talked. He made plans. But, when Beautrelet asked him about the events immediately preceding his sleep, he seemed not to understand.
And Beautrelet felt that he really did not understand. He had lost the recollection of all that had happened since the Friday before. It was like a sudden gap in the ordinary flow of his life. He described his morning and afternoon on the Friday, the purchases he had made at the fair, the meals he had taken at the inn. Then—nothing—nothing more. He believed himself to be waking on the morrow of that day.
It was horrible for Beautrelet. The truth lay there, in those eyes which had seen the walls of the park behind which his father was waiting for him, in those hands which had picked up the letter, in that muddled brain which had recorded the whereabouts of that scene, the setting, the little corner of the world in which the play had been enacted. And from those hands, from that brain he was unable to extract the faintest echo of the truth so near at hand!
Oh, that impalpable and formidable obstacle, against which all his efforts hurled themselves in vain, that obstacle built up of silence and oblivion! How clearly it bore the mark of Arsène Lupin! He alone, informed, no doubt, that M. Beautrelet had attempted to give a signal, he alone could have struck with partial death the one man whose evidence could injure him. It was not that Beautrelet felt himself to be discovered or thought that Lupin, hearing of his stealthy attack and knowing that a letter had reached him, was defending himself against him personally. But what an amount of foresight and real intelligence it displayed to suppress any possible accusation on the part of that chance wayfarer! Nobody now knew that within the walls of a park there lay a prisoner asking for help.
Nobody? Yes, Beautrelet. Gaffer Charel was unable to speak. Very well. But, at least, one could find out which fair the old man had visited and which was the logical road that he had taken to return by. And, along this road, perhaps it would at last be possible to find—
Isidore, as it was, had been careful not to visit Gaffer Charel’s hovel except with the greatest precautions and in such a way as not to give an alarm. He now decided not to go back to it. He made inquiries and learnt that Friday was market-day at Fresselines, a fair-sized town situated a few leagues off, which could be reached either by the rather winding highroad or by a series of short cuts.
On the Friday, he chose the road and saw nothing that attracted his attention, no high walled enclosure, no semblance of an old castle.
He lunched at an inn at Fresselines and was on the point of leaving when he saw Gaffer Charel arrive and cross the square, wheeling his little knife-grinding barrow before him. He at once followed him at a good distance.
The old man made two interminable waits, during which he ground dozens of knives. Then, at last, he went away by a quite different road, which ran in the direction of Crozant and the market-town of Eguzon.
Beautrelet followed him along this road. But he had not walked five minutes before he received the impression that he was not alone in shadowing the old fellow. A man was walking along between them, stopping at the same time as Charel and starting off again when he did, without, for that matter, taking any great precautions against being seen.
“He is being watched,” thought Beautrelet. “Perhaps they want to know if he stops in front of the walls—”
His heart beat violently. The event was at hand.
The three of them, one behind the other, climbed up and down the steep slopes of the country and arrived at Crozant, famed for the colossal ruins of its castle. There Charel made a halt of an hour’s duration. Next he went down to the riverside and crossed the bridge.
But then a thing happened that took Beautrelet by surprise. The other man did not cross the river. He watched the old fellow move away and, when he had lost sight of him, turned down a path that took him right across the fields.
Beautrelet hesitated for a few seconds as to what course to take, and then quietly decided. He set off in pursuit of the man.
“He has made sure,” he thought, “that Gaffer Charel has gone straight ahead. That is all he wanted to know and so he is going—where? To the castle?”
He was within touch of the goal. He felt it by a sort of agonizing gladness that uplifted his whole being.
The man plunged into a dark wood overhanging the river and then appeared once more in the full light, where the path met the horizon.
When Beautrelet, in his turn, emerged from the wood, he was greatly surprised no longer to see the man. He was seeking him with his eyes when, suddenly, he gave a stifled cry and, with a backward spring, made for the line of trees which he had just left. On his right, he had seen a rampart of high walls, flanked, at regular distances, by massive buttresses.
It was there! It was there! Those walls held his father captive! He had found the secret place where Lupin confined his victim.
He dared not quit the shelter which the thick foliage of the wood afforded him. Slowly, almost on all fours, he bore to the right and in this way reached the top of a hillock that rose to the level of the neighboring trees. The walls were taller still. Nevertheless, he perceived the roof of the castle which they surrounded, an old Louis XIII roof, surmounted by very slender bell-turrets arranged corbel-wise around a higher steeple which ran to a point.
Beautrelet did no more that day. He felt the need to reflect and to prepare his plan of attack without leaving anything to chance. He held Lupin safe; and it was for Beautrelet now to select the hour and the manner of the combat.
He walked away.
Near the bridge, he met two country-girls carrying pails of milk. He asked:
“What is the name of the castle over there, behind the trees?”
“That’s the Chateau de l’Aiguille, sir.”
He had put his question without attaching any importance to it. The answer took away his breath:
“The Chateau de l’Aiguille?—Oh!—But in what department are we? The Indre?”
“Certainly not. The Indre is on the other side of the river. This side, it’s the Creuse.”
Isidore saw it all in a flash. The Chateau de l’Aiguille! The department of the Creuse! L’AIGUILLE CREUSE! The Hollow Needle! The very key to the document! Certain, decisive, absolute victory!
Without another word, he turned his back on the two girls and went his way, tottering like a drunken man.
CHAPTER SIX
AN HISTORIC SECRET
BEAUTRELET’S RESOLVE WAS SOON TAKEN: he would act alone. To inform the police was too dangerous. Apart from the fact that he could only offer presumptions, he dreaded the slowness of the police, their inevitable indiscretions, the whole preliminary inquiry, during which Lupin, who was sure to be warned, would have time to effect a retreat in good order.
At eight o’clock the next morning, with his bundle under his arm, he left the inn in which he was staying near Cuzion, made for the nearest thicket, took off his workman’s clothes, became once more the young English painter that he had been and went to call on the notary at Eguzon, the largest place in the immediate neighborhood.
He said that he liked the country and that he was thinking of taking up his residence there, with his relations, if he could find a suitable house.
The notary mentioned a number of properties. Beautrelet took note of them and let fall that some one had spoken to him of the Chateau de l’Aiguille, on the bank of the Creuse.
“Oh, yes, but the Chateau de l’Aiguille, which has belonged to one of my clients for the last five years, is not for sale.”
“He lives in it, then?”
“He used to live in it, or rather his mother did. But she did not care for it; found the castle rather gloomy. So they left it last year.”
“And is no
one living there at present?”
“Yes, an Italian, to whom my client let it for the summer season: Baron Anfredi.”
“Oh, Baron Anfredi! A man still young, rather grave and solemn-looking—?”
“I’m sure I can’t say.—My client dealt with him direct. There was no regular agreement, just a letter—”
“But you know the baron?”
“No, he never leaves the castle.—Sometimes, in his motor, at night, so they say. The marketing is done by an old cook, who talks to nobody. They are queer people—”
“Do you think your client would consent to sell his castle?”
“I don’t think so. It’s an historic castle, built in the purest Louis XIII style. My client was very fond of it; and, unless he has changed his mind—”
“Can you give me his name and address?”
“Louis Valmeras, 34, Rue du Mont-Thabor.”
Beautrelet took the train for Paris at the nearest station. On the next day but one, after three fruitless calls, he at last found Louis Valmeras at home. He was a man of about thirty, with a frank and pleasing face. Beautrelet saw no need to beat about the bush, stated who he was and described his efforts and the object of the step which he was now taking:
“I have good reason to believe,” he concluded, “that my father is imprisoned in the Chateau de l’Aiguille, doubtless in the company of other victims. And I have come to ask you what you know of your tenant, Baron Anfredi.”
“Not much. I met Baron Anfredi last winter at Monte Carlo. He had heard by accident that I was the owner of the Chateau de l’Aiguille and, as he wished to spend the summer in France, he made me an offer for it.”
“He is still a young man—”
“Yes, with very expressive eyes, fair hair—”
“And a beard?”
“Yes, ending in two points, which fall over a collar fastened at the back, like a clergyman’s. In fact, he looks a little like an English parson.”
“It’s he,” murmured Beautrelet, “it’s he, as I have seen him: it’s his exact description.”
“What! Do you think—?”
“I think, I am sure that your tenant is none other than Arsène Lupin.”
The story amused Louis Valmeras. He knew all the adventures of Arsène Lupin and the varying fortunes of his struggle with Beautrelet. He rubbed his hands:
“Ha, the Chateau de l’Aiguille will become famous!—I’m sure I don’t mind, for, as a matter of fact, now that my mother no longer lives in it, I have always thought that I would get rid of it at the first opportunity. After this, I shall soon find a purchaser. Only—”
“Only what?”
“I will ask you to act with the most extreme prudence and not to inform the police until you are quite sure. Can you picture the situation, supposing my tenant were not Arsène Lupin?”
Beautrelet set forth his plan. He would go alone at night; he would climb the walls; he would sleep in the park— Louis Valmeras stopped him at once:
“You will not climb walls of that height so easily. If you do, you will be received by two huge sheep-dogs which belonged to my mother and which I left behind at the castle.”
“Pooh! A dose of poison—”
“Much obliged. But suppose you escaped them. What then? How would you get into the castle? The doors are massive, the windows barred. And, even then, once you were inside, who would guide you? There are eighty rooms.”
“Yes, but that room with two windows, on the second story—”
“I know it, we call it the glycine room. But how will you find it? There are three staircases and a labyrinth of passages. I can give you the clue and explain the way to you, but you would get lost just the same.”
“Come with me,” said Beautrelet, laughing.
“I can’t. I have promised to go to my mother in the South.”
Beautrelet returned to the friend with whom he was staying and began to make his preparations. But, late in the day, as he was getting ready to go, he received a visit from Valmeras.
“Do you still want me?”
“Rather!”
“Well, I’m coming with you. Yes, the expedition fascinates me. I think it will be very amusing and I like being mixed up in this sort of thing.—Besides, my help will be of use to you. Look, here’s something to start with.”
He held up a big key, all covered with rust and looking very old.
“What does the key open?” asked Beautrelet.
“A little postern hidden between two buttresses and left unused since centuries ago. I did not even think of pointing it out to my tenant. It opens straight on the country, just at the verge of the wood.”
Beautrelet interrupted him quickly:
“They know all about that outlet. It was obviously by this way that the man whom I followed entered the park. Come, it’s fine game and we shall win it. But, by Jupiter, we must play our cards carefully!”
Two days later, a half-famished horse dragged a gipsy caravan into Crozant. Its driver obtained leave to stable it at the end of the village, in an old deserted cart-shed. In addition to the driver, who was none other than Valmeras, there were three young men, who occupied themselves in the manufacture of wicker-work chairs: Beautrelet and two of his Janson friends.
They stayed there for three days, waiting for a propitious, moonless night and roaming singly round the outskirts of the park. Once Beautrelet saw the postern. Contrived between two buttresses placed very close together, it was almost merged, behind the screen of brambles that concealed it, in the pattern formed by the stones of the wall.
At last, on the fourth evening, the sky was covered with heavy black clouds and Valmeras decided that they should go reconnoitring, at the risk of having to return again, should circumstances prove unfavorable.
All four crossed the little wood. Then Beautrelet crept through the heather, scratched his hands at the bramble-hedge and, half raising himself, slowly, with restrained movements, put the key into the lock. He turned it gently. Would the door open without an effort? Was there no bolt closing it on the other side? He pushed: the door opened, without a creak or jolt. He was in the park.
“Are you there, Beautrelet?” asked Valmeras. “Wait for me. You two chaps, watch the door and keep our line of retreat open. At the least alarm, whistle.”
He took Beautrelet’s hand and they plunged into the dense shadow of the thickets. A clearer space was revealed to them when they reached the edge of the central lawn. At the same moment a ray of moonlight pierced the clouds; and they saw the castle, with its pointed turrets arranged around the tapering spire to which, no doubt, it owed its name. There was no light in the windows; not a sound.
Valmeras grasped his companion’s arm:
“Keep still!”
“What is it?”
“The dogs, over there—look—”
There was a growl. Valmeras gave a low whistle. Two white forms leapt forward and, in four bounds, came and crouched at their master’s feet.
“Gently—lie down—that’s it—good dogs—stay there.”
And he said to Beautrelet:
“And now let us push on. I feel more comfortable.”
“Are you sure of the way?”
“Yes. We are near the terrace.”
“And then?”
“I remember that, on the left, at a place where the river terrace rises to the level of the ground-floor windows, there is a shutter which closes badly and which can be opened from the outside.”
They found, when they came to it, that the shutter yielded to pressure. Valmeras removed a pane with a diamond which he carried. He turned the window-latch. First one and then the other stepped over the balcony. They were now in the castle, at the end of a passage which divided the left wing into two.
“This room,” said Valmeras, “opens at the end of a passage. Then comes an immense hall, lined with statues, and at the end of the hall a staircase which ends near the room occupi
ed by your father.”
He took a step forward.
“Are you coming, Beautrelet?”
“Yes, yes.”
“But no, you’re not coming—What’s the matter with you?”
He seized him by the hand. It was icy cold and he perceived that the young man was cowering on the floor.
“What’s the matter with you?” he repeated.
“Nothing—it’ll pass off—”
“But what is it?”
“I’m afraid—”
“You’re afraid?”
“Yes,” Beautrelet confessed, frankly, “it’s my nerves giving way—I generally manage to control them—but, to-day, the silence—the excitement—And then, since I was stabbed by that magistrate’s clerk—But it will pass off—There, it’s passing now—”
He succeeded in rising to his feet and Valmeras dragged him out of the room. They groped their way along the passage, so softly that neither could hear a sound made by the other.
A faint glimmer, however, seemed to light the hall for which they were making. Valmeras put his head round the corner. It was a night-light placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed through the frail branches of a palm tree.
“Halt!” whispered Valmeras.
Near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun.
Had he seen them? Perhaps. At least, something must have alarmed him, for he brought the gun to his shoulder.
Beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant, and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest.
Meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the man. He lowered his weapon. But his head was still turned in the direction of the tub.
Terrible minutes passed: ten minutes, fifteen. A moonbeam had glided through a window on the staircase. And, suddenly, Beautrelet became aware that the moonbeam was shifting imperceptibly, and that, before fifteen, before ten more minutes had elapsed, it would be shining full in his face.
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