I could not refuse. I nodded and he took off running. No sooner was he gone that Briar re-asserted himself, "Gentlemen, let's not be hasty. The plug is made of slate. If heated, slate will fragment and crack, since petroleum is one of its components. You could place the plug over a controlled source of heat, like a propane torch. The plug should eventually crack into smaller pieces."
"Briar, your idea is completely ridiculous. There could be paper in there, old, dry paper. it would burn up with the plug? Seems like a bad idea," O'Flanahan argued.
Before Briar could voice an objection, Ives Vallin returned, breathing hard, his hair wildly out of place from his race to the truck. He lifted the stone cylinder and overturned it, laying it down on its side. Jacques, knowing his brother's moods, tried asking a question but Ives beat him to the punch. "Watch this!" he exclaimed.
He lifted a long-handled five-kilo hammer up into the air, handling it as if it were a toothpick. I heard Mrs Leblanc's sharp intake of a breath. Briar screamed in my ear, "Wait, stop, we can burn..."
I barely had time to grab the laptop before the hammer came down, smashing the cylinder right in the middle! The poor card table was simply not able to deal with the massive blow and collapsed in two, crashing to the ground and taking the cylinder with it.
I sat there, stunned, as the dust settled from the tremendous impact. Jacques Vallin was the first to recover, jumping up in rage and smacking his brother on the head, completely forgetting about his previous head injury. Ives clasped his head in pain as Jacques screamed. "You idiot. I keep telling you. Wait until we've talked before acting, Brother. You have to wait."
"No, hold on there, Jacques, you're being unfair. Look at the cylinder," Raymonde said.
There, in the wreck of the card table, lay the cylinder, broken into two equal pieces, an ancient sheaf of papers, wrapped in oilcloth, spilling out of it. Ives' face broke into a wide smile and he exclaimed, "See, See, Brother, I was right after all."
Setting the laptop down on an empty chair, I gave Ives a light slap on the back. "Good job, Ives, good job!"
He beamed, overjoyed. I gently pulled the sheaf of papers from the broken cylinder. It was roughly rolled up, tied with rotting string. Opening it carefully, I revealed a neat, clean handwriting.
Leblanc's Journal!
***
Another round of coffee and tea had been served. Ives had the chance to explain. He spoke slowly, trying to say it properly, "It was the shape, that's what it was. When Brother was speaking, I was looking at the cylinder and it made me think of a spool. It was narrower in the center, with a thick line circling the cylinder. If I was to hit it in the middle with my best hammer, it should crack right along that line."
It seemed obvious in hindsight. The cylinder was meant to be broken. We had over-complicated the whole thing. There was a slight tension in the air, everyone wondering what we should next. "The thing we set out to find is finally ours: Leblanc's journal. If you are willing, I will read his journal out loud, so we may all discover what he wanted us to learn."
MY FINAL STORY
By Maurice Leblanc
Patrice:
I have just left my beloved Etretat. All its wonders and its secrets, gone, just like that. I am sure I will never see it again. This is a one way trip. Always has been, I would venture to say. Somehow, my trip has been rather more adventurous than most. Overall, I would have preferred a calmer life.
I can only hope, when this horrendous burden is finally exposed, my peers will judge me more favourably than I have judged myself. By this point, I have done everything in my power, to put things right. I probably will never know if my trap will work, if the monster will fall for so vain a ploy, but I must believe in its success. The alternative is unthinkable.
I am writing this journal, this confession, my son, hoping that, by presenting my view, by telling you how events unfolded, I can explain my shortcomings through these meagre words. Normally a story like this would start at the beginning but for you to have found this text, certain things must already be known. Therefore, the starting point of my adventure has to be the day when I received the letter. If you will allow me, I will relate to you the events, which have led me, step by step, to this very moment, forced to run away from my beloved home in fear and desperation.
ERGO
The Letter and the Man Who Wrote It.
The letter was in German, which was intriguing, because this letter's author, Hister, had to know I was not fluent in German, making the letter an arrogant act. By pure coincidence, I had recently finished working with Germany to publish my latest novel. As a result, I was sufficiently acquainted with the language to translate the letter.
He wanted to meet in order to discuss certain things about my book, The Hollow Needle. His letter stated he had found archaeological evidence which indicated there was something more to my novel than fiction. Many are the times I have cursed myself for writing that story. If I had only known, back then, the truth behind Etretat's legends, I would never have drawn attention to it in so obvious a fashion. Yet, in my defence, what I had done in The Hollow Needle was the same process I used in my previous book and all the others since. No other person had ever noticed what I built into the stories.
Hister was the only one.
However, for the letter to arrive at the exact time when my own research was finally giving me some results, now that was a wonder. It was this coincidence which drove me to reply, not to accept his query but to refuse it, which I did in no uncertain terms, given the rudimentary grasp I had of his language.
He must have felt my negative response was too strong, that I was hiding something. It is the only possibility which would explain why he came despite my refusal. Up to this point I had pursued my research in absolute secrecy, hiding my activities with feigned illness. While people thought I was convalescing in bed, I was wandering the hillsides, in search of the secret Cochet had alluded to.
I met the priest Cochet only once but what a meeting it was. There was no mistaking our like minds, the connection immediate. I was very young, full of energy, feeling like the world was mine to seize. He was an older, more introspective man. The wisdom of those years had enabled his search for the hidden jewel in Etretat. He explained the original purpose of the tunnels. I had known about them but had not realised their true significance. We discussed the excavations and his discoveries, in particular the ones he kept to himself. He knew his time was limited on this earthly plane and desperately needed a successor to carry on his search, someone equal to the task, capable of life-long secrecy. His friends, Monseigneur Billard, Father Gelis and Father Boudet each suggested this research was not a waste of time. Rather the opposite, in fact.
That meeting, so long ago, seeded a purpose in me. It kept growing until it blossomed into obsession. I wrote a fictional story around it, as others had done before, and, in my folly, included the Fort of Frefosse. It was inevitable it be mentioned but, by attracting attention to it, I put in motion events that would involve the entire world.
For it was the fort that was the key, of this I was certain.
I had recently gone visiting the Royal Library to examine ancient documents concerning the Fort of Frefosse. It was there I found the plans for the fort, as presented to Francis the First by Guillaume Bude. It was there I saw the original overview of the dungeon, that I understood the geometric symbols on the walls. I drew them on the plan, circle, rectangle, triangle. So simple.
I made the decision to remove this drawing. I could not bring myself to destroy it, so placed it in a file of similar architectural drawings, hiding it in plain sight, my favourite trick. I returned home in exultation, to be confronted by Johann Hister's letter, threatening to expose everything.
That was my state of mind when I sent my response. I wrote quickly, reacting harshly, instead of using the usual caution and care. That was my mistake and I admit it here freely, Patrice. There is no denying it. Because, he came:
He arriv
ed, one early morning, while I was examining the fort from the outside, calculating its original size, to discover the exact position of the dungeon. A noise startled me. I turned to find a young man looking at me. Despite his unremarkable appearance, being slight physically, he exuded an arrogant confidence. I felt instantly repelled by him.
Nodding perfunctorily to the stranger, I walked away, as if I were done with my work and leaving. He stopped me with a sudden hand gesture and spoke haltingly, in badly accented French:
"I am Johann Hister. Sorry to have come. But must talk."
The intensity in his eyes was one I had not seen in a long time, not since I had met the Priest Cochet. Unlike Cochet, I distrusted this Johann Hister. His being here at this specific time made me distinctly uncomfortable. I had kept my own counsel to that point and still believed that was my best, and only, course of action. I reacted angrily, screaming, gesturing for him to leave. He tried to talk again. I remained obstinate, ignoring his attempts. He grew red-faced, letting go a jet of injurious German insults. In his outburst, I saw a gleam of such cold hatred, such malevolence, I became afraid he would do me physical harm. I braced for such an assault but it never came. Instead, he left without another word, glaring until he turned away. I stopped my work for the day and returned home.
I had been unnerved by the timing of Hister's appearance because I now was convinced I had found the entranceway of the cave system. It was in the dungeon, of this I was positive. Not in the dungeon of today, however. That was nothing but a converted wine cellar, yet another false trail. My research determined the real dungeon entrance had been bricked up long ago.
There was an exterior door accessing the servant's quarters from the courtyard. This door led to an extremely curious feature: a sudden turn in the corridor, the purpose of which was not evident from the building's architecture. Closer examination revealed expert brickwork had been done at this turning point.
I was convinced this was the way to the ancient dungeon. Despite my concerns about Johann Hister, I returned the next day with tools, determined to get out of sight before spying eyes could notice my presence. Earlier that year, I had rented the fort through a third party, an expensive thing to do at the time but necessary to keep things quiet.
A pickaxe served me well to remove the bricks. Within four hours, I broke through the thick wall and flashed my lantern into the hole, seeing a long dusty hallway with a descending staircase at its end. I redoubled my energy and soon cleared a hole big enough to crawl to the other side. Carrying a small shovel, my lantern, and a spare candle in my back pocket, I headed along the dark, echoing hallway.
It was utterly devoid of any feature, solidly built of large stone blocks. Dust caked the floor and made me cough. I walked slowly, approaching the staircase. Halfway there, I saw an oddly shaped doorway on my right, leading to a narrow staircase, its upper landing lost in the darkness. The odd, oblique construction implied it was a secret passage, probably leading to a camouflaged entrance in some room upstairs. An alternate access point might explain the bricked-up corridor.
Returning to the corridor, I continued my way to the end. This slightly curving staircase was much older than the other one. Its steps, carved from the bedrock, were deeply worn. Descending past the foundations of the fort, I noticed various rock strata in the ceiling above my head, with a layer of crumbly stone in the centre. Rock dust littered the floor, evidence of continuing disintegration. SUM
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, I entered a round room. There was little evidence of it ever being a dungeon. More of a storeroom, perhaps. It was large and circular, ten metres in diameter, with five columns supporting the vaulted ceiling. The columns dissected the room, placed like the five points of a star.
Using the small shovel as a broom, I carefully swept the dust out of the way. Standing back, I examined the columns, looking for geometric symbols. I saw the circle first, carved at head height in the column to the left of the entrance. The one opposite that, to the right of the entrance, bore a rectangle. Bringing my eyes back to the left again, I saw a triangle on the next column. Exactly as anticipated.
The final two columns had geometric designs, instead of simple symbols. One was a rectangle lying down inside a triangle. The last column, opposite the dungeon's entrance, had three triangles next to each other, the middle one slightly elevated above the other two. It was a code.
Solving the Riddle
The original Roman fort had once been much bigger and heavily fortified. During the Francis years, its shape had been refined, due to Francis' burgeoning interest in architecture. At the time, the fort's original location had seemed to be a most curious choice. I had gone to Rome to search for documents concerning this, which had led me to the crypts of the Vatican. Through special dispensation, I was allowed to peruse ancient Roman letters and documents. I found one in which approval for a fort was being requested. This letter was from a legatus legionis named Manius Stertinius Gallicus, the man in charge of the local garrison. Using this information as a starting point, I came to believe another element had been involved: smugglers!
While exploring the town of Etretat, I had found a corner stone on one of the oldest buildings, which was obtained from the fort after a change in its layout. To my surprise and great interest, I noticed three geometrical shapes roughly carved into the stone. A circle with a rectangle and triangle inside. To the untrained eye, it looked like a childish drawing of a house.
However, previous research indicated this to be a smuggler's sign. Located at the Fort of Frefosse, it had shown the way to the secret entrance of a smuggler's lair unlike any other in history. In addition, through Cochet, I knew secret tunnels ran through those cliffs. What more proof did I need?
Returning my attention to the columns, I played with possible combinations of the geometrical shapes, hoping to unlock the hidden doorway which had to be there. The smuggler's sign had shown a rectangle and triangle inside a circle. The circle was easy, as the room itself was circular. I noticed the columns were oddly positioned, not equidistant from each other. Perhaps they had some other, less obvious purpose.
Connecting four of the columns with straight, imaginary lines, I visualised a simple rectangle, mentally adding a triangle above the rectangle, with the fifth column as its top point, exactly the design I had seen carved on the corner stone. The resulting triangle, short and long, outlined an area on the floor.
This was exactly the same triangle shape as that on the fourth column. Visualizing a smaller rectangle inside this triangle, I realised this would create three triangles, one above the other two, the same design carved on the fifth column. Looking closer at the dungeon floor, I saw thin lines duplicating this design, unnoticed before, hidden in the complex tile patterns. That was the clue I needed. I rolled a large heavy barrel onto the triangle to my right and stood on the left one.
There was an audible 'CLICK' as soon as my weight pressed down on the triangle. I noticed the column beneath the ceiling line had moved into the wall. Reaching out, I pushed on it. It swung in, smoothly and silently. It was not a column; it was a door! Lupin would have been proud of me. My excitement could not have been more intense. After all these years, I had finally found the entrance to the caves beneath the fort.
I heard a sound behind me, something like a choked cough. Covering my lantern, I stood still in the dark, listening for the slightest noise. After several minutes of total silence, I relaxed my vigilance and walked through the revealed doorway, finding a curving staircase. I descended, my footsteps echoing hollowly. I soon reached bottom, a natural stone landing. Raising the lantern, I illuminated a large chamber, with openings in the distance, leading to further caves. A clutter of broken amphorae littered one corner. Further to my right, a long hallway headed off into the darkness. I wandered along the corridor for about ten metres when a gleam caught my eye, a reflection of light from the right.
I quickly ascertained I was looking at a narrow opening in the wall. S
queezing in, I found myself in a small room, about three metres square. There was a crack in the far wall. The bright gleam had come from there. I walked over to it but stopped when I heard another noise. Turning around, I saw something indistinct coming down. I dodged the oncoming object as best I could but received a staggering blow nonetheless. I fell to the ground hard, a cloud of dust all around, my eyesight fading in and out.
Although everything was a blur and fading fast, I recognised Hister's slight silhouette in the light cast by my lantern, holding my shovel high in the air. His illuminated face held a terrible rictus of hatred. He hit me again, after which, I knew no more!
The Treachery of Johann Hister
I woke in the dark. My head was pounding terribly and I was choking from the thick dust. I had been the victim of foul play. Hister had hit me from behind. Judging by the feel of the large gash on my head, he had probably thought me dead or dying. I certainly felt near death. The air was stuffy and hot, lacking oxygen.
I could see nothing and felt around for the lantern, growing panicky. My senses slowly returning, I remembered the spare candle I had stuffed in my back pocket. Finding it, I fished around my jacket for the small packet of matches I always kept there.
I felt such thankfulness for that small flame it could hardly be believed. I quickly put it to the wick of the candle and light sprang forth, although not as brightly as I had hoped, lacking sufficient air for a proper flame. Despite the dim light, I noted the crack with the bright gleam from before, was now a large gaping hole, revealing a stone recess. It had been hidden by a cleverly applied coat of painted plaster on a fitted wooden frame. Over the centuries, the plaster had dried out, falling away in places, revealing the natural shelf behind it. Something had been hidden in there.
It was now gone, surely stolen by that murderous Hister. Examining the recess, I found a small sack, in the deepest part. Pulling it out, the rotten cloth ripped, spilling out a handful of gold coins. I had been fooled and nearly killed by a thief.