The Caves of Etretat: Part One of Four

The Caves of Etretat

  by

  Matt Chatelain

  Published by Matt Chatelain

  Copyright 2011 by Matt Chatelain

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover art by Matt Chatelain

  Cover design by Ebook Cover Design

  To contact author visit

  www.mattchatelain.com

  To Mom

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Top Secret Document from Weissmuller

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  A Selection from the Weissmuller Manuscript

  Chapter ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  My Final Story, by Maurice Leblanc

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Selection from the Weissmuller Manuscript

  Chapter Fourteen

  A selection from the Weissmuller Manuscript

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  A selection from the Weissmuller Manuscript

  Chapter Seventeen

  Addendum

  Special Author's Note

  An Interview with the Author

  The Sirenne Saga

  More Books by the Author

  About the Author

  Author website/Contact info

  Bonus-Excerpt from Book Two

  Second Bonus: Brief Excerpt from The Vostok Juncture

  Foreword

  I have been led to certain knowledge and this has caused me to re-evaluate everything I believe about the world.

  In light of what I now know, my last task, before I leave this world, will be to write a chronicle, these four books, so I may reveal how this began.

  A whole series of events were occurring in step with my journey. Others happened before I was born. I have inserted various journals at key points in this chronicle to clarify the multitude of connections leading me forward.

  The beginning of any path rarely indicates where it will end. Now I know the answer was within me from the very start. I couldn't see it, not until I had walked the entire way. After all, that is the purpose of the path.

  Paul Sirenne

  Prologue

  An excerpt from Weissmuller's final manuscript

  I watched through the window as Sirenne Senior and his wife walked up the stairs to their front porch. Without warning, Sirenne turned his head, his eyes riveted in my direction. Instinctively, I stepped back but needn't have. I was in the shadows, a habit built from decades of practice. There was no way he could have seen me.

  Sirenne's attention went back to his wife. She was fishing in her purse for the door key but couldn't find it. He pulled out his, unlocked the door, and opened it for her. She stepped in and he followed, closing the door behind them. I rubbed my hands together with satisfaction. It was all going according to plan.

  I picked up the phone and called a local delivery company to request a pickup. They would be here in less than an hour, enough time for the task at hand. The owners of this house wouldn't be back until early evening so I could do as I pleased and be gone long before they arrived.

  I sat down at the dining table and examined the note I had written to Sirenne's son, Paul. It was a masterpiece of forgery if I did say so myself. All I had left was the signature. I had several examples of Sirenne's signature from various documents I'd stolen while accompanying his son over for a visit.

  I couldn't believe Paul was still oblivious to the trap about to be sprung on him. I'd have expected, with all his supposed deductive abilities, that he would have begun suspecting something at the very least but such was not the case. The idiot remained blissfully unaware, going about his inane duties as if they mattered.

  I knew everything about him but he knew nothing about me. Yet. That would change. Soon, I would be all he thought about. I would become his purpose. I would force him out of lethargy and propel him into the arms of destiny whether he wanted to or not.

  He'll go there, kicking and screaming, but his antics will not stop my plan from coming into play. I will keep him off balance like I always have, by dogging his every step while leaving bread crumbs for him to follow. He'll think he's following a pre-ordained plan but, in the end, it will only profit me.

  I reflected about the years spent planning this and asked myself if it was worth it. My eyes fell onto the book on the table, The Hollow Needle, by Maurice Leblanc. It was what had started me down this road, all those years ago, and now, I had to see it through. I knew this, deep down, inside my core. I would never get the answers I sought, unless I forced Paul Sirenne to ferret them out.

  It had been a difficult pill to swallow, to accept I could never achieve what Paul had been selected to do. So, I'd come up with the next best thing. He would become my patsy instead of the hero.

  When he succeeds, I'll be there, waiting. When he screams victory, I will be there to stab him in the back. I will find my answers and Paul will find his end, which I'll gladly help along. I've already had enough of his irritating reluctance.

  I grabbed the pen and traced out Sirenne Senior's signature a few times on a blank sheet of paper before penning the final version on the carefully prepared letter. Satisfied with my workmanship, I folded the note and placed it inside the cover of the Hollow Needle.

  Paul will read that letter and, motivated by his father's death, will call his closest friends to help him solve the mystery of a lifetime and his quest will begin, or so he will believe. I will always be near him, in the shadows, anticipating his every move, ready to right the path if he goes off-course. It will be perfect and the idiot will never know he is being played.

  The doorbell rang. I opened, Hollow Needle, in hand.

  "Mr Sirenne?"

  "That's me. You brought a shipping envelope as I requested?" I asked.

  "Yes, Sir. Here it is," the delivery man replied.

  I slipped the Hollow Needle into the stiff envelope and sealed the top. I handed the package to the delivery man and he carefully jotted down the address I provided. "Please make sure it gets delivered on the date I've requested."

  "Of course, Sir. Our delivery dates are guaranteed."

  I watched him leave before I returned inside the house and removed the mask I'd been wearing. If interrogated, the delivery man would describe Sirenne. Once again, I'd covered every eventuality. This would work. It had to.

  I cleaned up the place, made sure no trace of my presence was left behind. I left through the rear entrance and went out through the back yard. Soon I was back in front of Sirenne Senior's house. It was finally time to get this show on the road.

  I walked up the stairs to the porch and knocked on the door. Sirenne answered with a surprised look. "Oh, hi. Is Paul with you?"

  "No, I'm afraid not. In fact, it's him I've come about. Something has cropped up and I believe it's quite important. I thought it best to have a word with you before broaching the subject with Paul. It's about Etretat," I said, dropping the name abruptly.

  He reacted exactly as expected, looking concerned and guilty at the same time. "Etretat? Where did you hear that name?"

  I stared at him i
ntently. "That is what I came to see you about. I have learned information which leads me to think Paul is being set-up for some type of doomsday plan and it starts with Etretat. I figured it might be best to come talk to you about it first."

  He nodded solemnly. "You thought right. Come on in and tell me what you've found. Maybe Paul doesn't need to be involved at all."

  "Perhaps," I nodded back.

  He moved aside and let me in. It was the last mistake he would ever make.

  CHAPTER 1

  Murdered!

  I had a feeling something was wrong before I even opened my front door. The three men standing on my porch, flashing their badges, did nothing to dispel my concerns. Behind them, I noticed a parked car with a rotating red light stuck on its dash. The tallest man spoke softly, "Good evening. Sorry to disturb you at this late hour. We are looking for a man named Sirenne. Paul Sirenne."

  "I'm Paul Sirenne. What is this about?"

  "My name is Detective Harris. This is my partner, Detective Stafford and this is Inspector Norton from Interpol, who is here strictly as an observer. I'm afraid I have some bad news. I was wondering if we might come in for a few minutes?"

  Worried, I stepped aside and allowed them in. The two detectives entered, followed by the grimy-looking Inspector who walked in quickly, his shifty eyes darting nervously left and right. The men accompanied me to the study, where several easy chairs served as a setting for the conversation.

  Detective Harris pulled out a small tape recorder, placing it on the coffee table between us. Detective Stafford excused himself, asking directions to the kitchen, claiming to be thirsty. The Interpol Inspector remained standing, his beady eyes never leaving me.

  "Sorry about the tape recorder. My memory is terrible and I can't take field notes, not legible ones anyway. It's always so difficult in these cases. I never know exactly how to proceed. However, experience has taught me being direct is the lesser of two evils. I'd like you to prepare yourself for a shock, Mr Sirenne, a bad shock."

  Harris shifted in his chair, waiting for my reaction. A hard knot in my stomach replaced the butterflies previously fluttering there. I nodded.

  "Mr Sirenne, your parents have been murdered."

  "What? That's impossible, Detective. I just saw my father and Darlene three days ago. They were fine," I protested, choking up.

  "I'm terribly sorry but we are positive of our facts. Their identity was confirmed through fingerprinting. Your father, identified as Paul Sirenne, and his wife, identified as Darlene Sirenne, were killed two nights ago, shortly after midnight."

  "What happened? Was it robbery?"

  "No, I'm afraid it's nothing that easy, Mr Sirenne. They were murdered, then mutilated. Nothing was stolen, as far as we can tell."

  My head was spinning.

  "They never did anything to anyone. Who would want to hurt them?"

  Inspector Norton answered.

  "Detective Harris doesn't know why, nobody does. However, I may know who has done it. I'm not from here, you see. I'm not even supposed to be on this case. Did you know someone called the murder in? Curious, isn't it? As soon as I heard about them, I knew they matched the pattern of a murderer I call the Shadow-Killer. By chance, I was right here, in town for a convention. Lucky for you and for the local police. I've been investigating the Shadow-Killer for many years now, spending every hour of my spare time. He is the most elusive monster I have ever encountered, responsible for at least forty-five murders, most of them in Europe. I now believe he has come here, to Ottawa, to kill your parents."

  "I want to see them."

  Detective Harris jumped in, taking back control of the conversation. "I'd suggest you don't, Mr Sirenne. He left a grisly scene. It's better if you remember your parents as you last saw them."

  "I don't care."

  "I know how you feel, believe me, but you should give this some time. Anyway, the bodies have already been taken to our forensics lab…"

  Norton interrupted Harris again, "For all the good it will do. The Shadow-Killer never leaves a speck of dust behind. You'd know that, Detective, if you'd seen what I've seen."

  Ignoring him, Detective Harris continued, "Anyway, listen, how about we talk a bit more and after that, if you still want to see them, we'll take you down to the morgue. It's the best I can offer right now."

  Detective Stafford came back into the study with a glass of water, as Norton interrupted Harris yet again, "Mr Sirenne, I am convinced your parents were selected, chosen, by the Shadow-Killer for some reason. Detective Harris was right not to want you to see their bodies. The Shadow-Killer's modus operandi is brutal. He is inhuman when killing people. Seeing what he leaves behind is hard, even for seasoned officers. But what he did with your parents is truly horrible."

  I was numbed. Norton continued his rapid-fire delivery, disregarding the looks from Detective Harris, "The killer wanted to leave a message for someone. He staged the bodies, placing them in a way that would, uhm, look like two letters- an H and an N. Does that mean anything to you?"

  My mind was a blank. I could hardly think, let alone reason. "An H and an N? HN? No, I'm sorry it doesn't, Inspector."

  How could a human body be positioned to look like an N? The H seemed easy enough, but the N baffled me. How could anyone position a body to look like a proper N?

  "Mr Sirenne, don't go down that road. I know what you're thinking. Norton, how could you blurt it out like that? Listen to me, just let it go," warned Detective Harris.

  My mind kept working, ignoring his advice, bending an imaginary stick figure this way, that way, desperately trying to make it fit an N.

  "Tell me how he did it."

  "You don't want to know, Mr Sirenne, don't ask me that," Harris retorted, looking increasingly ill at ease.

  "Tell me!"

  "I'll tell him, Detective, if you're too squeamish."

  "Norton, no. You're just an observer here."

  "Give me a break with those stupid rules. He's got to understand what he's facing. I'm going to tell him and you're not going to stop me." Norton sat next to the scowling Detective Harris, and looked me straight in the eyes. "He placed your father in the shape of an H by opening up his arms and legs, his body acting as the centre bar. I believe the legs wouldn't take the right position so he, uhm, he cut the tendons. That way he could place both legs in a straight line. He cut off the head to finish the job."

  The image burned into my brain. Norton continued with his description, his voice tightly controlled, his eyes never leaving mine. "The N was harder. Again, he used the body as the angled bar in the centre of the letter. After removing the head, he placed the shoulders at the top and dropped the right arm as the first bar of the 'N'. I suppose he didn't like the short length of the arm. The proportions probably seemed wrong to him. No matter why, he removed the left arm from her body and placed it below the right one, clasping the hands, to make that bar as long as the legs, the other vertical bar of the N. He then placed both heads on the ground, one after each body. I think he was trying to make sure we knew the letters represented full words, although I have no idea what those words might be. I had hoped you would know?" He stopped speaking, chewing his lower lip strongly enough to leave marks.

  My head felt ready to explode. "Inspector Norton, Detectives, perhaps we could continue this later. I don't think I can handle any more right now."

  Norton's mouth softened into an insincere smile. Detective Harris cut off whatever he was going to say. "We understand. You need some time to recover from the shock. However, we will need to meet again soon. We'd like you to come down to the station and make an official statement, at some point in the next few days."

  He rose, picking up his tape recorder and handing me his card. The Interpol Inspector followed him out of the study, a sullen look on his face. Before the three men reached the front door, I asked one final question, "Has my father's house been released by the police?"

  Detective Stafford replied, "Yes, Sir, it has. That was
one of the reasons we came to see you. I guess I forgot to mention it. The Forensics Department finished with it a few hours ago. See you down at the station, Mr Sirenne."

  The detectives left the house, arguing with Norton. I watched them drive off, only one thought making it through the numbness.

  I needed to go to my father's house.

  Located in the Glebe area of Ottawa, it had been my birthplace and my home until I moved into my own house ten years ago. Now, I had to go there to face the end of my family. I didn't feel ready.

  While driving toward my father's place, my rear view mirror allowed me the occasional glimpse of a familiar vehicle and its driver, Norton, his companions nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was intent on protecting me but I doubted it. His comments had seemed disjointed, despite the circumstances. Everything had come across as insincere, as if he were following another agenda. I resolved to ignore him for the time being. Let him do his watching.

  To some, police protection might seem comforting. To me, it felt like an irritant. I preferred to mind my own business and for others to do the same, even in dire circumstances. That way no one got hurt. I almost changed my opinion when I arrived at my father's house. I hurried up the entrance staircase and stopped in front of the door, taking a deep breath, frozen in place.

  Breaking the spell and forcing myself to move, I removed the police tape with a trembling hand and entered. The entrance hallway seemed normal but it felt wrong, too quiet. I walked into the living room and there it was, the bloody outline of the H and the N. I was horrified by the bloodstained dots after each gruesome letter, knowing what had left those imprints.

  Seized by a sudden, irresistible impulse, I ran to the kitchen, filled a large bucket with hot water and picked up a heavy bristle brush.

  Those stains had to go!

  I returned to the living room, trying to stay calm, to think nothing about what the stains represented. I knelt down, splashed water on the floor, and began scrubbing the dark stains. I didn't care if I scratched the wood. At some point, I was crying, great wracking sobs, the tears streaming down my cheeks and dripping onto the bloodstains.