The Caves of Etretat: Part One of Four, Page 3

  What could this little town be hiding? Certainly not a hollow needle, as Maurice Leblanc suggested in his Arsene Lupin story. Etretat's great secret was a camouflaged docking point, hidden below the massive cliffs, invisible from above and inaccessible on foot. One could only reach the hidden dock thanks to a tunnel that pierced the cliff itself. This tunnel made it possible to leave France for England discreetly, or vice-versa.

  Who dug these tunnels? No matter their origins, the elite kept the secret of the kings of France during many long centuries. During the early part of the nineteenth century, they took new precautions to ensure silence was maintained. Rich families purchased key neighbouring properties. A tunnel, which once connected the hidden docks to a small valley, was lengthened to reach into Etretat's Donjon, then later, to the Villa Le Petit Val and finally, to the Villa des Oeuillets, owned by Mr Beaugrand, jeweller for the Queen.

  Today, this secret is no more. Some tunnels were rediscovered by local fishermen but the majority no longer exist. Access to the eight hundred metre long passageway is completely forbidden. The ancient dock was eroded long ago by the tide and the collapsing cliffs have buried its few remains. The Villa des Roches tunnel has been walled up, although one can still see its entrance point to the left of the stairs leading up the Amont cliff.

  Etretat has not yet revealed all its knowledge. During the occupation, the Germans made many discoveries. Unfortunately, all such documents, housed in the City of Havre, were destroyed at the end of the war during an allied bombing run.

  This text is a partial summary of a document written by Valere Catogan, a nom de plume used by Raymond Lindon, who researched the history of Etretat, aided by Maurice Leblanc.

  End of document.

  'The Secret of the Kings of France' was much more plausible than a supposed hollow needle. The author, Raymond Lindon, had sought to hide his identity by writing under a pseudonym. I could not help but wonder why. In addition, the article mentioned Leblanc had helped Lindon with the book.

  Leblanc was always involved. His story of the Hollow Needle, while admittedly fictitious, seemed intended to attract attention to Etretat. In my case, it had succeeded. Another fact struck me: it was now 5:00AM and I was exhausted. I went to bed, my head brimming over with tunnels, treasures, and secrets.

  ***

  The next few days were very busy. I took an indefinite leave of absence from my business, a successful antique bookstore owned by the family for generations, leaving it in the capable hands of my manager. The police had released my father's remains and I struggled through the funeral arrangements and the reading of the will.

  I was the only one present.

  Norton had been right about one thing: my parents had left me a veritable fortune, more than fifty million dollars. I had not known they had such wealth. It had never been apparent in our daily life. I almost felt betrayed. Where had these riches come from? Was it from my grandfather? My great-grandfather?

  Normally, when I had such questions, I would turn to my father for help. I was now forever deprived of his calm advice. Yet, he was not completely gone. I could still imagine his voice, 'You won't solve anything in that state, son. You have to calm down, get a bit of perspective on things. Take some time and think things through.'

  I found solace in following his advice, allowing my anger and sadness, to settle. Logic and planning slowly took their place.

  I had no confidence either Norton or the police would find the killer, or solve the deeper mysteries surrounding the case. I also had to be realistic. I was no detective. Despite my facility in finding connections, I had no experience in these worldly matters. I had never been the physical type, always more cerebral in my pursuits and shunning public activities. I might be up to the task given time but time was exactly what I did not have. It could be no coincidence my father sent the book before being killed. He was being watched and had to act.

  I faced a crucial choice: keep the book safe and do nothing, or take up the hunt. If I did nothing, I allowed the death of my father and Darlene to go un-avenged. I would be a sitting duck, waiting for the killer to decide my fate. There was really no choice. I had to solve the mystery before the killer. Unfortunately, I was playing catch-up.

  I needed help.

  My father had known I would not have time to cover all the bases. He suggested I assemble a team. Sharing the secret was risky but necessary. Thanks to my father's will, I now had ample resources. The inheritance money implied something else: the treasure had to be something else than mere wealth.

  Chapter 2

  Assembling the Team

  After much deliberation, I chose three of my closest friends, Jonathan Briar, Fabian Coulter and Liam O'Flanahan, contacting them to arrange a preliminary meeting. A date was set for the day after the funeral.

  On that day, I woke at 8:00am, showered, placed both Hollow Needle copies in my satchel, and headed out on foot to The Top Nut, a small coffee bar. Inspector Norton was still following me in his car and I evaded him by walking through several mini-malls in quick succession.

  Ducking into the coffee shop, I stood in the doorway for a moment, looking around for my friends.

  "Hey, Paul, we're over here!"

  It was Fabian Coulter. I had selected him for his amazing skills with everything computer. He was a world-class hacker who had earned his repute in the highest circles. As a computer security consultant for the government, there was little he could not access. This thin, pasty thirty-year old, a perpetual night owl, was my closest friend. We had known each other for more than twenty years and I trusted him with my life. His enthusiasm, wiry strength, and keen intellect would serve well in our search.

  Seated next to him was Jonathan Briar. Tall, fit, and bald, the head of the history department at the University of Ottawa was an expert on ancient history. He had been my unofficial mentor for the past ten years. It was partly thanks to him the Dead Sea Scroll deception had been uncovered. His specialty, however, was Roman history. We had worked together many times before. Our most recent foray had been about a year ago, focusing on the legend of the San Saba Silver Mines. I had always been impressed by Briar's ability to quickly collate masses of research into pertinent information. Despite being in his mid-fifties, he was an energetic man, neither afraid of confrontation, nor of hard work.

  Finally, there was Liam O'Flanahan. Short and overweight, O'Flanahan was a publisher of unusual books and a self-admitted expert on mysteries, conspiracies and the bizarre. He was the one who had convinced me to waste two years of my life, and no small sum of money, on the Oak Island mystery, his personal obsession. This Irish, red-haired man, abrasive and irritating, would never rest until answers were found. I knew I could trust him.

  We had investigated mysteries before, spending evenings engaged in conversation about lost treasure and forgotten history. We were amateurs to be sure but, as a team, there would be little we could not figure out.

  "How was the funeral yesterday?" asked Briar "I'm so sorry I could not attend."

  I sat down as Bridget, the waitress, brought me a cup of coffee. "It went as well as it could have. I was emotional when I got home. It ended up being a pretty rough night. Anyway, I'm glad you all decided to come. You may not believe this but I think my father sent me a lead to another hunt just before he was murdered."

  "Is the hunt connected to his death?" O'Flanahan asked, already sniffing a possible conspiracy.

  They all knew about my father's hunts. Briar had even accompanied me on several occasions. He had been impressed at the twists and turns required to solve the devious puzzles.

  "Yes it is. Gentlemen, I called you here because I need your help. The Shadow-Killer, murdered my father and his wife. According to Norton, an Interpol inspector, this monster did it to send a message: the letters H and N." My mind flashed briefly on the bloody scene in my parent's house. I banished the image. "In all confidence, I must admit something: when questioned by Norton, I held back a key piece of evidence.
I would like to share that evidence with the three of you. I can only do it if you agree to join me in a hunt which could prove both dangerous and lucrative. Don't make this decision lightly. The Shadow-Killer involved and he is already on the job. I doubt he would hesitate to murder anyone who stood in his way. While making your decision, keep two facts in mind. One, I am convinced I cannot succeed without your help, and two, I am willing to pay you each a hundred thousand dollars if you agree."

  Coulter was the first to take the bait. "Paul, you don't even have to offer a single penny. I'd help you for nothing but if you're offering the money anyway, I won't object too strenuously."

  O'Flanahan exploded into a loud guffaw. "That's the spirit, Coulter. As for me, I'm all in. I mean, how can I not be? I live for conspiracies and you're giving me a hundred thousand bucks to get in on the ground floor plus it's dangerous. Who could resist that? Sounds like a hoot."

  Considerably more restrained, Briar was the last one to speak. He was independently wealthy, so money would not be a serious enticement. "Paul, your offer certainly comes as a surprise, especially so soon after the double murder. I admire your courage and determination. Consider me in. As for your money, keep it! We'll use it in your father's hunt. I have no need of it. However, you now have us all exceedingly curious. It is time to reveal what you held back from Norton and why."

  I pulled out my father's copy of The Hollow Needle, along with the note. "This note is what prevented me from revealing everything to Norton. The authorities would only slow things down and I am convinced time is of the essence. My father's murder was the starting gun. We must hurry if we are to have the slightest chance of wrestling the prize from the killer."

  "You think this Shadow-Killer knows about the Hollow Needle?" asked a curious Briar.

  "I do. Norton said leaving clues is out of character for the killer. What made him do it then? Why did my father send me the book shortly before being murdered? He had to be trying to prevent the killer from getting it."

  "I see what you're getting at. The killer has got to know something and not just about that book. He knows something about the secret your dad was talking about," O'Flanahan added excitedly.

  "And my father outsmarted him, mailing the book before the killer could find it. Perhaps sending it is the very thing that got him murdered. We are dealing with a ruthless man, one who holds many more cards than we do."

  "Well, what are we wasting time for, then? Let's get on with some facts," prodded an incensed O'Flanahan.

  "Let's start with this: the book he sent me is, in fact, an exact duplicate of another he gave me when I was nine years old. This was my not my father's last hunt, but rather, his original one." Removing the second copy from my satchel, I dropped it on top of the first. O'Flanahan picked them up, a keen interest in his eyes.

  "I grew to know your father quite well over ten years," Briar said. "He was always purposeful and deliberate in his actions. What could he possibly have been trying to teach you, back then, when you were so young?"

  "I'm not sure it's like that. I don't think he intended for me to start on this particular hunt, at least not until the time was right. The second copy was intended to spur me to remember the first. After re-reading the book and prodded by a curious little comment from the editor, I was led to an internet page suggesting Etretat may be at the centre of a forgotten historical mystery. As I see it now, all previous hunts were preparing me for this original hunt."

  "Are you sure you're not reading more into this than is really there? We've all done that before," Coulter asked, playing the devil's advocate.

  "I am convinced this is a real trail and I think we should follow it. I need you to help me confirm I'm not deluding myself."

  "What do you want us to do, Paul?" Coulter responded.

  "This warrants a little more armchair detective work, despite the pressure of time. I was wondering if you would each spend a couple of days doing individual research and we could compare notes on Thursday evening."

  "You know I live to investigate forgotten history," Briar said "My skills could be of some use. I will search out what information I can about that area of France. Did you perhaps bring any pictures of the fort you mentioned?"

  I fished for the before and after pictures. They had the desired effect.

  "The fort is completely destroyed in this later picture. Who did that and why?" questioned Coulter.

  "It certainly is strange," agreed O'Flanahan. "The extent of the damage suggests an explosion. What else would cause that kind of destruction?"

  "Don't forget about the editor's note. It states the army was involved. What's that about?" I added.

  "I might be able to help with that. Most cities have converted their documents to electronic format. I can hack into those sites in my sleep. I'll see what I can turn up. Might clear this whole thing up. Might be nothing," suggested Coulter.

  "Might be something, though," interjected O'Flanahan. "I'll go through my contacts and my files as well. I've never heard about this tunnel stuff. I might find something that will help."

  My friends got up, eager to begin their research. I emptied my coffee cup, ordering a refill, feeling a bittersweet excitement at the thought of a new hunt, a gift my father had given me twenty-five years ago. "So Thursday evening then? I'll arrange for supper and we can review our findings."

  They nodded, each taking the time to offer some well-meant condolences before leaving. Somehow, they weren't necessary. My father was right here next to me. I sat back down, drank my coffee, and spent a few minutes with him in silence.

  CHAPTER 3

  A Decision Is Reached

  I ordered a few pizzas as my friends seated themselves around the dining room table. I reflected on how different we were from each other. Coulter was a generally quiet man. O'Flanahan was loud, obnoxious, and out of shape. Finally, Briar, with his ageless face, taller than average, was a garrulous man who viewed everyone as a student. As for me, at thirty-five and slightly overweight, I was an average man whose only quality was a keen mind.

  They appeared anxious to share the material they had brought. I had set up a dry-erase board on an easel in a corner of the dining room. "First, I want to say thank you for coming in through the back."

  "You kidding? Outsmarting that Interpol cop was the most fun I've had this week," O'Flanahan commented. Coulter snickered in agreement.

  "The less attention from him the better. Anyway, from the look of those folders, it seems each of you have found some information. Where should we start?"

  "How about the origins of the fort? After all, that's what started this whole thing," suggested Briar. When no objection came, he cleared his throat and began a scholarly presentation.

  "As you might know, historically, Etretat was primarily a fishing village. During the 18th century, an oyster bed was added at the Queen's request. Long before all that, Etretat was a natural port. While the water near the shore is too shallow to allow ships to moor today, there were once deep trenches in the marine floor, allowing ships to anchor within the safe confines of the cove. These trenches, most of which have filled up with rubble over the centuries, extended right under the current location of Etretat. Under Etretat's famous beach are the remnants of a Roman shipyard."

  Briar went to the dry-erase board and, picking up a black marker, drew an outline of Etretat's beachfront, a rough semi-circular shape with a huge cliff on each side. Before Briar could continue his discourse, Coulter had a comment to make. "The cliffs you've drawn don't extend into the sea sufficiently to protect ships of any significant size."

  Briar smiled briefly. "While that may be true today, it is important to note the area's geology. Those cliffs are composed primarily of chalk. Turonian chalk, with Cenomanian protrusions, to be precise. Of more importance is the average erosion rate of chalk cliffs, which is approximately twenty centimetres per year. Geologically speaking, that's pretty fast. Romans occupied this area perhaps as early as fifty AD. A quick calculation
informs us the cliffs advanced into the channel almost four hundred metres further back then. That would have provided significant protection for a very large fleet indeed."

  Drawing another map, Briar connected a line from Etretat to an area near the Seine River. "I located a reference to an ancient Roman road linking Etretat and Lillebonne, or Juliobonna, to the Romans. Lillebonne was an active trading town. For some reason, the Romans felt it was worthwhile to build a road between these two towns. Today, there's nothing left except for a few remnants of the road and some Roman ruins on the north side of town."

  Briar had barely sat down when O'Flanahan stood, a wide smile on his face. He moved to the easel and started pacing back and forth. "That was real interesting but I think you missed the point, Briar. Sure we're looking to get some history but what we're really looking for is TREASURE! And I think I found it. Let's forget all that Roman nonsense and instead, focus on King Francis the First, who took over the fort, in the early 1500's. He renovated it and installed at least one cannon, which is still on display at the Museum of Rouen. He used the fort to protect the port but also, I suspect, to extort passage fees from ships sailing within reach of his cannons."

  The doorbell rang, interrupting O'Flanahan's discourse. Pizza was received, the driver was paid, and drinks were served. We found ourselves back at the table, munching in time with O'Flanahan's speech. "Francis the First was the original Renaissance monarch. He was well-educated, interested in culture, architecture, and artists, which is mainly what he spent his money on, apart from his incessant wars. Francis even convinced Da Vinci to retire to France. Imagine Da Vinci roaming the Fort of Frefosse. Think of what that could mean!" he said, his eyes far away. An exaggerated cough from Briar snapped him back to reality. "Uhm, yes, anyway, another area of interest was exploration. Francis funded Jacques Cartier on at least three expeditions to Canada, to search for gold and diamonds. Cartier's first voyage was in 1534."