By the time I was done, my tears had dried, evaporated by a burning resolve, an inflexible resolution. I did not know how, I did not know when, but I would catch the Shadow-Killer. He would pay for what he had done.
***
I returned home and collapsed on my bed, falling into a fitful sleep. Next morning, feeling somewhat more settled, I made a few phone calls. I informed my lawyer and he began doing what was necessary to wrap up my father's affairs. I also went to the police station, as requested, to make a statement. I ended up talking to Detective Harris again.
I made my statement. The detective assured me I had been eliminated as a serious suspect. He promised to let me know about any progress in the case. He informed me Norton was a loose cannon, acting pretty much as he pleased. The local police were in charge of the investigation and Norton had done nothing but slow things down.
I had not been home five minutes, when the doorbell rang. A delivery truck was parked in front, the driver waiting at the door with a package.
"Who's it from?"
The driver looked at his clipboard. "Uhm, ah, here we are. It was a sent by a 'Mr Sirenne', three days ago, with instructions to be delivered today."
I signed for it hurriedly and he handed me a thick envelope. Closing the door in the driver's face, I ripped the package open, pulling out a large hardcover book, 'The Hollow Needle', by Maurice Leblanc. The letters HN!
I opened the front cover and found a small note, readily identifying the almost illegible scrawl as my father's handwriting:
Son,
After all this time, I have decided to send you this book for safekeeping. Despite its innocent appearance, it is the key to an incredible secret and riches beyond belief. Our family has been keeping it safe, waiting for the time when you are ready.
Someone has been watching me, Paul. A man with a European accent. I was planning to give you this book in six months, on your thirty-fifth birthday, but his presence has changed all that. There is no time to waste, son. You must begin the hunt now.
Read the book. Only by looking beyond its words will you succeed.
I know you will need help. Organize a small team but choose only your most trusted friends. Remember- secrets of this nature have a tendency to attract trouble. No matter what you do, keep your research discreet.
Good luck. Call me as soon as you can.
Your Father.
A knock at the front door interrupted me. I closed the book, putting it down. It was Norton. Norton with a European accent. I did not let him in, forcing him to talk from the front porch. He held a tape recorder in his left hand, aiming it like a gun. "Ah, Mr Sirenne. I hope you are calmer today, so we can finish our conversation."
"I'm not sure we have a conversation to finish, Inspector."
"Mr Sirenne, no matter what Harris has told you, I am the only one who knows what we are dealing with. The man who did this is unlike other serial killers. He's in a class of his own. Usually his murders have a twisted logic that means something only to him. In the case of your parents, he departed from his long-established pattern and left the clearest message. HN. These simple letters have convinced me he specifically chose your parents. Did you know he watched them for at least two weeks before moving in for the kill? He meant for this message to be seen and I am having trouble thinking of anyone else but you. By the way, what did that truck just deliver?"
His voice dropped and his gaze sharpened. He left the question hanging in the air, saying nothing else, pressuring me for an answer.
"I own an antique bookstore, Inspector. The package was a book I ordered, nothing more. As for those letters, I gave you my answer last night. Despite thinking about it from every angle I can imagine, I still have no idea what they might mean."
He brushed aside my answer. "Look at it from my viewpoint, Sirenne: the Shadow-Killer doesn't play around. Either he left this message for you or he just killed your parents as a lark, leaving you to inherit all their money, which, by the by, is a considerable sum, is it not?"
"Inspector, this 'talk' is over."
His demeanour changed instantly. "Fine, I understand, you are still upset. I will leave but you would do well to remember my words. This killer has an agenda and I am convinced you are part of it, willing or not. You had better be careful. You really don't want to get on his bad side. Nor on mine, for that matter. I think he will get in touch with you and I will be there when he does."
"I admire your tenacity, Inspector but you have misjudged this situation. I have nothing to do with the Shadow-Killer. My father and his wife have just been killed and I am trying to come to terms with that. It is very difficult to know how to react, a fact you are taking advantage of. I need some time to reflect and grieve."
Norton turned off the cassette recorder, his eyes stopping their incessant movement and riveting on me. He stepped closer, bringing his unshaven face within inches of mine, his voice low and threatening. "I've been chasing this monster for fifteen years. I've seen the bodies he's left behind, checked every detail, talked to every witness. In all those years, he has never left a single clue to anyone, except for this time. This is my best chance to catch him. Either you hired him or he left you a message. I don't care which it is, as long as it leads me to him. One thing's for sure. You're not going to stand in my way, playing your stupid games!"
He was either crazy or he was goading me. I pulled away, distancing my face from his stinking breath. "Listen, Inspector, surely you recognise I want the murderer found as much as you do. Stop wasting your time with pointless accusations and get back to the real job, of catching the killer."
"Fine, Mr Sirenne. Have it your way but don't think this is over, because it's not," he raged, heading back down the front stairs, muttering to himself.
I didn't know if it had been right to lie but it was too late now.
Keeping others in the dark was not a new thing. I was born with a predisposition for secrecy and solitude. My father had reinforced my secretive approach to life through frequent games of strategy and planning. I had learned to keep my own counsel, to do things my way. I hated it when someone told me what to do. Dealing with the law was no different. The police had a tendency to abuse their position of power. In any case, I didn't like Norton and I didn't like the way he was shadowing me. I would involve him when I was ready and not a minute before.
When my mother was killed in a car accident three years ago, my father and I had drawn closer. He had later remarried, with Darlene, but I had never gotten close to her. Now they were both gone, taken from me. All I had left was to solve the mystery hidden within the pages of the book my father had sent me, his final wish. The Shadow-Killer was probably not far behind, looking for the same book and the clues it contained.
I returned to the study and examined the book more closely. It was a good quality, leather-bound hardcover, with nothing particularly remarkable about it, except perhaps for its excellent condition. Maurice Leblanc's Hollow Needle had originally been published in 1909 but this copy was printed in 1955.
I recalled a similar book, a gift from my father on my ninth birthday. It too had come with a cryptic message though I no longer recalled what it was. What had my father been trying to tell me? This was not a new process. Nothing had ever been simple with my father. It was always a puzzle or a mystery, never a straight answer. 'Keeps your mind active and alert, ready for anything', he would say.
As a child, I grew to love the little challenges he frequently prepared for me. My keen mind eagerly ferreted out every clue, every hint. I would rarely fail in my efforts, anxious to see the smile in his eyes and feel the congratulatory pressure of his hand on my shoulder.
Every now and then, he presented me with a masterpiece puzzle, every exquisite detail worked out perfectly. He called them hunts. Once I had solved a hunt, he would invariably organize another in short order. I could see him now, pointing the way to the start of a new trail, calling out, ‘The hunt is on, Paul. The hunt is on! What waits
for you at the end? You'll never know unless you begin.'
This book had to be a clue leading to such a hunt, the last hunt I would get from my father.
I wondered where I had placed the other copy of The Hollow Needle. I wanted to read the note it contained. Vaguely remembering it in my bedroom, I headed upstairs, three steps at a time, feeling a tinge of excitement despite the situation. Entering my room, I checked the small shelf above my bed, finding the book easily, to my relief. I found my father's original note, an old piece of Vellum paper affixed to the back cover, the tape holding it in place dried out and yellowed.
Dear Paul:
On the occasion of your ninth birthday, I give you the same book my father gave to me when I was nine. It's a wonderful story but it is also so much more. It is the beginning.
The beginning and the end,
Follow the circle, it bends.
The end and the beginning,
The answer in the connecting.
Your Father
PS:
A real story ends near Etretat
Lost until Paul infers new ideas subtly
You ought understand responsibility,
Necessarily after moiling Etretat
When I read the note at age nine, I had not grasped my father's true intent. Today, it was obvious he was signalling the start of a hunt. Something was going on in the town of Etretat and it was connected with this book.
It was time to read the Hollow Needle again, with fresh eyes and new purpose. I returned to the study, placing the two copies next to each other on the coffee table. They were virtually identical. I chose one at random, sat back in the recliner, and re-discovered Leblanc's finest novel.
It was a story full of historical mystery and treasure, with no less than the venerable Sherlock Holmes making an appearance. Filled with charm, respect and a proper code of ethics, ensconcing the reader in another era, when even villains had morals.
Its main character was a man named Arsene Lupin, developed by Leblanc, as a French counterpart to the immensely popular Sherlock Holmes in Britain. Lupin, a gentleman-thief, was a likeable rogue, able to steal your heart and your paintings at the same time. He was possessed of the same clarity of thinking as his British alter-ego, making him a perfect adversary for Holmes.
At the story's core was a fantastic concept. In France, off the chalk cliffs of the small town of Etretat, a hundred metre pillar of rock projected mightily from the salt waters of the English Channel. According to Leblanc, the needle of rock was hollow, a secret held for centuries by the kings and queens of France. Used as a stronghold and a repository for treasure, knowledge of its existence had been lost during the upheaval of the French Revolution. Of course, gentleman-thief Arsene Lupin rediscovered it and used it as his stronghold. Access to it was found near the Fort of Frefosse, located on top of the southern chalk cliff overlooking Etretat.
At the bottom of one page in the book, I noticed a note from the editors:
'A few years after this book was originally released to the public, the army was commissioned to alter the fort because of undue attention since the book's publication.'
It was all very convincing. So convincing I found myself half-believing the Needle was truly hollow. I got up from the recliner and went to my desk, turning the computer on. I called up a search engine on the internet, entering the name 'Etretat'. I was surprised to find it was a real place and even found several pictures of the Needle. Encouraged, I tried other search queries, such as 'treasure', 'hollow', etc. I landed in a website with the following statement:
'Etretat, a popular tourist destination, often attracts treasure hunters looking for the famous entrance to the hollow needle. Well folks, the needle is indeed there, however it is, without a doubt, completely solid.'
I had hit a brick wall but this was not my first hunt. There were always obstacles and pitfalls along the way. Treasure was an incredibly elusive prey, far rarer than one would think. Many of them had already been found or plundered, while others had been proven to be wild goose chases, such as the Oak Island mystery.
Treasure was incidental. I wanted to solve my father's last hunt and find the Shadow-Killer.
One thing was certain: whatever this Hollow Needle mystery might be, it was not about a hollow needle!
***
I was moving at great speed. I saw landscape flying by, forests, fields, tilled land, then more woods. What was I doing here? Where was I? With sudden clarity, I knew I was dreaming though this was no ordinary dream. I had no control over movement or direction, flying a few hundred feet above a realistic landscape. I could not perceive my body. The landscape changed. I was now moving past farms and roads, with the odd house here and there. I heard the sound of waves crashing somewhere ahead.
I approached a cliff with a number of strangely shaped patches of grass. A golf course. I slowed down until I was hovering over a big building. Just beyond it, a couple was walking along a path, their arms linked together. They were approaching a squat, cement structure, an old bunker. An intense yellowish light was emanating from its every opening. For a brief moment, the man looked up, his face illuminated by the bright glow, before turning back towards the bunker opening, walking in with the black-haired woman.
He had looked like me!
The surf was crashing heavily below. I flew towards the edge of the cliff, almost colliding with it before coming to a full stop. Without any warning, I entered into a vertiginous descent towards the water below. This felt more like falling than flying. Panic gripped me, my eyes locked on the rapidly approaching water.
I was going to hit hard!
I woke with a start, my arms and legs flailing, screaming out, drenched in sweat. It took almost fifteen minutes to slow my heartbeat and calm my nerves. I had fallen asleep in the recliner after reading the Hollow Needle. I could neither figure out what had brought on the vivid dream, which still disturbed me with its odd intensity, nor explain what it could possibly mean. The man entering the bunker- how could he be me? Who was the woman with him?
I was baffled.
A thought intruded, about the editor's comment in Leblanc's book. Why did the army change the fort, if the story about the hollow needle was false? Why even place such a comment in the book?
By now, I was sitting up in the recliner, any chance for sleep gone. I wouldn't be able to rest until I had some sort of answer. Sighing, I went back to my computer and typed 'Fort of Frefosse' into the search engine. A single photo of a tattered postcard showing a blurry picture of the fort, circa 1900, came up. That was it.
Trying different search engines, I came across another picture, dated November 28 1911, showing several people posing in an angle similar to the postcard. The fort's outline was radically different, the main structure completely destroyed, leaving a deep pit surrounded by a jumble of broken stones. All that remained of the fort were a few crumbling walls. The photo dovetailed nicely with the editor's note in the Hollow Needle but was it related to my father's hunt?
I found an online reference to Leblanc's Villa in Etretat. Originally purchased by an estate, it was later taken over by Leblanc's granddaughter, Victoire. She had renovated it into a bed and breakfast, themed around the Hollow Needle mystery.
Still searching, I located an internet site with something of substance. Maintained by a French caver, most of the site was about various cave systems but one page had a summary of a most interesting book:
The Secret of the Kings of France
or
The True Identity of Arsene Lupin
by Valere Catogan
Etretat is a small, nondescript town situated on the coast of the ancient Gaulish territory. What could have attracted emperors, kings and queens to this tiny village, lost in a small valley, nestled between two of the tallest chalk cliffs in the country? Historically, Etretat was previously known as Esttretat, as referenced in the 1628 Gerard Mercator Atlas. However, if you examine the map of the King's Navy (1534, Maritime Archives),
you will read:
'Ici est tr. Etat' (translation: Here is tr. State)
Could 'tr.' stand for treasure? Treasure of the State?
Here are a few facts, relating to Etretat's mystery:
1) In 1300, during the Hundred Year War, Henry the Fifth landed in Normandy with his troops somewhere on the Gaul coast, very likely the site of Etretat. How did Henry reach the top of the precipitous cliffs with his troops without anyone witnessing the invasion?
2) Alexander Dumas' novel of the Three Musketeers was based on historical facts: The Duke of Buckingham fell in love with Anne d'Autriche and he received the famous pearl necklace from her. How did he evade the vigilance of the Cardinal de Richelieu and enter several times into France, despite increased patrols along the coast?
3) In 1670, a secret treaty was signed by Charles the Second and Louis the Fourteenth, negotiated by the Duchess of Orleans. How did she leave France to reach England? Where did Jacques the Second, escaping from Guillaume d'Orange in 1688, land on the Normandy Coast?
4) Napoleon Bonaparte ordered plans to be drawn for the construction of a port of war in Etretat. This project was brought to a standstill by the insistence of Talleyrand. Fouchet noted Talleyrand never concerned himself with naval affairs. Prior to his unexplained naval concern, Talleyrand received a visit from the Baron of Bellevert, later declared an English spy. For years, Talleyrand did everything possible to distance Napoleon and his engineers from this small beach.
5) Why, after the 1830, 1848 and 1870 revolutions, did the de-throned kings head for the roads leading to Etretat, instead of others, such as those towards Calais, or Boulogne?
Could these events be connected to the secret held within Etretat's cliffs?