Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

“Chamois? Sham was! I tell you once more, we’re done, captain, done brown! Old Siméon is a wonderful old hand! He’s a match worth meeting. He gives you a run for your money. He laid a trap in which I’ve been fairly caught. It’s a magnificent joke, but there’s moderation in all things. We’ve been fooled enough to last us the rest of our lives. Let’s be serious now.”

  “But . . .”

  “Aren’t you satisfied yet, captain? After the Belle Hélène do you want to attack the Chamois? As you please. You can get out at Mantes: Only, I warn you, Siméon is in Paris, with three or four hours’ start of us.”

  Patrice gave a shudder. Siméon in Paris! In Paris, where Coralie was alone and unprotected! He made no further protest; and Don Luis ran on:

  “Oh, the rascal! How well he played his hand! The Memoirs of Benjamin Franklin were a master stroke. Knowing of my arrival, he said to himself, ‘Arsène Lupin is a dangerous fellow, capable of disentangling the affair and putting both me and the bags of gold in his pocket. To get rid of him, there’s only one thing to be done: I must act in such a way as to make him rush along the real track at so fast a rate of speed that he does not perceive the moment when the real track becomes a false track.’ That was clever of him, wasn’t it? And so we have the Franklin book, held out as a bait; the page opening of itself, at the right place; my inevitable easy discovery of the conduit system; the clue of Ariadne most obligingly offered. I follow up the clue like a trusting child, led by Siméon’s own hand, from the cellar down to Berthou’s Wharf. So far all’s well. But, from that moment, take care! There’s nobody at Berthou’s Wharf. On the other hand, there’s a barge alongside, which means a chance of making enquiries, which means the certainty that I shall make enquiries. And I make enquiries. And, having made enquiries, I am done for.”

  “But then that man . . . ?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, an accomplice of Siméon’s, whom Siméon, knowing that he would be followed to the Gare Saint-Lazare, instructs in this way to direct me to Mantes for the second time. At Mantes the comedy continues. The Belle Hélène passes, with her double freight, Siméon and the bags of gold. We go running after the Belle Hélène. Of course, on the Belle Hélène there’s nothing: no Siméon, no bags of gold. ‘Run after the Chamois. We’ve transhipped it all on the Chamois.’ We run after the Chamois, to Rouen, to Le Hâvre, to the end of the world; and of course our pursuit is fruitless, for the Chamois does not exist. But we are convinced that she does exist and that she has escaped our search. And by this time the trick is played. The millions are gone, Siméon has disappeared and there is only one thing left for us to do, which is to resign ourselves and abandon our quest. You understand, we’re to abandon our quest: that’s the fellow’s object. And he would have succeeded if . . .”

  The car was traveling at full speed. From time to time Don Luis would stop her dead with extraordinary skill. Post of territorials. Pass to be produced. Then a leap onward and once more the breakneck pace.

  “If what?” asked Patrice, half-convinced. “Which was the clue that put you on the track?”

  “The presence of that woman at Mantes. It was a vague clue at first. But suddenly I remembered that, in the first barge, the Nonchalante, the person who gave us information — do you recollect? — well, that this person somehow gave me the queer impression, I can’t tell you why, that I might be talking to a woman in disguise. The impression occurred to me once more. I made a mental comparison with the woman at Mantes. . . . And then . . . and then it was like a flash of light. . . .”

  Don Luis paused to think and, in a lower voice, continued:

  “But who the devil can this woman be?”

  There was a brief silence, after which Patrice said, from instinct rather than reason:

  “Grégoire, I suppose.”

  “Eh? What’s that? Grégoire?”

  “Yes. Yes, Grégoire is a woman.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, obviously. Don’t you remember? The accomplice told me so, on the day when I had them arrested outside the café.”

  “Why, your diary doesn’t say a word about it!”

  “Oh, that’s true! . . . I forgot to put down that detail.”

  “A detail! He calls it a detail! Why, it’s of the greatest importance, captain! If I had known, I should have guessed that that bargee was no other than Grégoire and we should not have wasted a whole night. Hang it all, captain, you really are the limit!”

  But all this was unable to affect his good-humor. While Patrice, overcome with presentiments, grew gloomier and gloomier, Don Luis began to sing victory in his turn:

  “Thank goodness! The battle is becoming serious! Really, it was too easy before; and that was why I was sulking, I, Lupin! Do you imagine things go like that in real life? Does everything fit in so accurately? Benjamin Franklin, the uninterrupted conduit for the gold, the series of clues that reveal themselves of their own accord, the man and the bags meeting at Mantes, the Belle Hélène: no, it all worried me. The cat was being choked with cream! And then the gold escaping in a barge! All very well in times of peace, but not in war-time, in the face of the regulations: passes, patrol-boats, inspections and I don’t know what. . . . How could a fellow like Siméon risk a trip of that kind? No, I had my suspicions; and that was why, captain, I made Ya-Bon mount guard, on the off chance, outside Berthou’s Wharf. It was just an idea that occurred to me. The whole of this adventure seemed to center round the wharf. Well, was I right or not? Is M. Lupin no longer able to follow a scent? Captain, I repeat, I shall go back to-morrow evening. Besides, as I told you, I’ve got to. Whether I win or lose, I’m going. But we shall win. Everything will be cleared up. There will be no more mysteries, not even the mystery of the golden triangle. . . . Oh, I don’t say that I shall bring you a beautiful triangle of eighteen-carat gold! We mustn’t allow ourselves to be fascinated by words. It may be a geometrical arrangement of the bags of gold, a triangular pile . . . or else a hole in the ground dug in that shape. No matter, we shall have it! And the bags of gold shall be ours! And Patrice and Coralie shall appear before monsieur le maire and receive my blessing and live happily ever after!”

  They reached the gates of Paris. Patrice was becoming more and more anxious:

  “Then you think the danger’s over?”

  “Oh, I don’t say that! The play isn’t finished. After the great scene of the third act, which we will call the scene of the oxide of carbon, there will certainly be a fourth act and perhaps a fifth. The enemy has not laid down his arms, by any means.”

  They were skirting the quays.

  “Let’s get down,” said Don Luis.

  He gave a faint whistle and repeated it three times.

  “No answer,” he said. “Ya-Bon’s not there. The battle has begun.”

  “But Coralie . . .”

  “What are you afraid of for her? Siméon doesn’t know her address.”

  There was nobody on Berthou’s Wharf and nobody on the quay below. But by the light of the moon they saw the other barge, the Nonchalante.

  “Let’s go on board,” said Don Luis. “I wonder if the lady known as Grégoire makes a practise of living here? Has she come back, believing us on our way to Le Hâvre? I hope so. In any case, Ya-Bon must have been there and no doubt left something behind to act as a signal. Will you come, captain?”

  “Right you are. It’s a queer thing, though: I feel frightened!”

  “What of?” asked Don Luis, who was plucky enough himself to understand this presentiment.

  “Of what we shall see.”

  “My dear sir, there may be nothing there!”

  Each of them switched on his pocket-lamp and felt the handle of his revolver. They crossed the plank between the shore and the boat. A few steps downwards brought them to the cabin. The door was locked.

  “Hi, mate! Open this, will you?”

  There was no reply. They now set about breaking it down, which was no easy matter, for it was massive and quite unlike an ord
inary cabin-door.

  At last it gave way.

  “By Jingo!” said Don Luis, who was the first to go in. “I didn’t expect this!”

  “What?”

  “Look. The woman whom they called Grégoire. She seems to be dead.”

  She was lying back on a little iron bedstead, with her man’s blouse open at the top and her chest uncovered. Her face still bore an expression of extreme terror. The disordered appearance of the cabin suggested that a furious struggle had taken place.

  “I was right. Here, by her side, are the clothes she wore at Mantes. But what’s the matter, captain?”

  Patrice had stifled a cry:

  “There . . . opposite . . . under the window . . .”

  It was a little window overlooking the river. The panes were broken.

  “Well?” asked Don Luis. “What? Yes, I believe some one’s been thrown out that way.”

  “The veil . . . that blue veil,” stammered Patrice, “is her nurse’s veil . . . Coralie’s. . . .”

  Don Luis grew vexed:

  “Nonsense! Impossible! Nobody knew her address.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Still what? You haven’t written to her? You haven’t telegraphed to her?”

  “Yes . . . I telegraphed to her . . . from Mantes.”

  “What’s that? Oh, but look here. This is madness! You don’t mean that you really telegraphed?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You telegraphed from the post-office at Mantes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was there any one in the post-office?”

  “Yes, a woman.”

  “What woman? The one who lies here, murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she didn’t read what you wrote?”

  “No, but I wrote the telegram twice over.”

  “And you threw the first draft anywhere, on the floor, so that any one who came along. . . . Oh, really, captain, you must confess . . . !”

  But Patrice was running towards the car and was already out of ear-shot.

  Half an hour after, he returned with two telegrams which he had found on Coralie’s table. The first, the one which he had sent, said:

  “All well. Be easy and stay indoors. Fondest love.

  “Captain Patrice.”

  The second, which had evidently been despatched by Siméon, ran as follows:

  “Events taking serious turn. Plans changed. Coming back. Expect you nine o’clock this evening at the small door of your garden.

  “Captain Patrice.”

  This second telegram was delivered to Coralie at eight o’clock; and she had left the home immediately afterwards.

  CHAPTER XVI. THE FOURTH ACT

  “CAPTAIN,” SAID DON Luis, “you’ve scored two fine blunders. The first was your not telling me that Grégoire was a woman. The second . . .”

  But Don Luis saw that the officer was too much dejected for him to care about completing his charge. He put his hand on Patrice Belval’s shoulder:

  “Come,” he said, “don’t upset yourself. The position’s not as bad as you think.”

  “Coralie jumped out of the window to escape that man,” Patrice muttered.

  “Your Coralie is alive,” said Don Luis, shrugging his shoulders. “In Siméon’s hands, but alive.”

  “Why, what do you know about it? Anyway, if she’s in that monster’s hands, might she not as well be dead? Doesn’t it mean all the horrors of death? Where’s the difference?”

  “It means a danger of death, but it means life if we come in time; and we shall.”

  “Have you a clue?”

  “Do you imagine that I have sat twiddling my thumbs and that an old hand like myself hasn’t had time in half an hour to unravel the mysteries which this cabin presents?”

  “Then let’s go,” cried Patrice, already eager for the fray. “Let’s have at the enemy.”

  “Not yet,” said Don Luis, who was still hunting around him. “Listen to me. I’ll tell you what I know, captain, and I’ll tell it you straight out, without trying to dazzle you by a parade of reasoning and without even telling you of the tiny trifles that serve me as proofs. The bare facts, that’s all. Well, then . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Little Mother Coralie kept the appointment at nine o’clock. Siméon was there with his female accomplice. Between them they bound and gagged her and brought her here. Observe that, in their eyes, it was a safe spot for the job, because they knew for certain that you and I had not discovered the trap. Nevertheless, we may assume that it was a provisional base of operations, adopted for part of the night only, and that Siméon reckoned on leaving Little Mother Coralie in the hands of his accomplice and setting out in search of a definite place of confinement, a permanent prison. But luckily — and I’m rather proud of this — Ya-Bon was on the spot. Ya-Bon was watching on his bench, in the dark. He must have seen them cross the embankment and no doubt recognized Siméon’s walk in the distance. We’ll take it that he gave chase at once, jumped on to the deck of the barge and arrived here at the same time as the enemy, before they had time to lock themselves in. Four people in this narrow space, in pitch darkness, must have meant a frightful upheaval. I know my Ya-Bon. He’s terrible at such times. Unfortunately, it was not Siméon whom he caught by the neck with that merciless hand of his, but . . . the woman. Siméon took advantage of this. He had not let go of Little Mother Coralie. He picked her up in his arms and went up the companionway, flung her on the deck and then came back to lock the door on the two as they struggled.”

  “Do you think so? Do you think it was Ya-Bon and not Siméon who killed the woman?”

  “I’m sure of it. If there were no other proof, there is this particular fracture of the wind-pipe, which is Ya-Bon’s special mark. What I do not understand is why, when he had settled his adversary, Ya-Bon didn’t break down the door with a push of his shoulder and go after Siméon. I presume that he was wounded and that he had not the strength to make the necessary effort. I presume also that the woman did not die at once and that she spoke, saying things against Siméon, who had abandoned her instead of defending her. This much is certain, that Ya-Bon broke the window-panes . . .”

  “To jump into the Seine, wounded as he was, with his one arm?” said Patrice.

  “Not at all. There’s a ledge running along the window. He could set his feet on it and get off that way.”

  “Very well. But he was quite ten or twenty minutes behind Siméon?”

  “That didn’t matter, if the woman had time, before dying, to tell him where Siméon was taking refuge.”

  “How can we get to know?”

  “I’ve been trying to find out all the time that we’ve been chatting . . . and I’ve just discovered the way.”

  “Here?”

  “This minute; and I expected no less from Ya-Bon. The woman told him of a place in the cabin — look, that open drawer, probably — in which there was a visiting-card with an address on it. Ya-Bon took it and, in order to let me know, pinned the card to the curtain over there. I had seen it already; but it was only this moment that I noticed the pin that fixed it, a gold pin with which I myself fastened the Morocco Cross to Ya-Bon’s breast.”

  “What is the address?”

  “Amédée Vacherot, 18, Rue Guimard. The Rue Guimard is close to this, which makes me quite sure of the road they took.”

  The two men at once went away, leaving the woman’s dead body behind. As Don Luis said, the police must make what they could of it.

  As they crossed Berthou’s Wharf they glanced at the recess and Don Luis remarked:

  “There’s a ladder missing. We must remember that detail. Siméon has been in there. He’s beginning to make blunders too.”

  The car took them to the Rue Guimard, a small street in Passy. No. 18 was a large house let out in flats, of fairly ancient construction. It was two o’clock in the morning when they rang.

  A long time elapsed before the door opened; and, as the
y passed through the carriage-entrance, the porter put his head out of his lodge:

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “We want to see M. Amédée Vacherot on urgent business.”

  “That’s myself.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, I, the porter. But by what right . . . ?”

  “Orders of the prefect of police,” said Don Luis, displaying a badge.

  They entered the lodge. Amédée Vacherot was a little, respectable-looking old man, with white whiskers. He might have been a beadle.

  “Answer my questions plainly,” Don Luis ordered, in a rough voice, “and don’t try to prevaricate. We are looking for a man called Siméon Diodokis.”

  The porter took fright at once:

  “To do him harm?” he exclaimed. “If it’s to do him harm, it’s no use asking me any questions. I would rather die by slow tortures than injure that kind M. Siméon.”

  Don Luis assumed a gentler tone:

  “Do him harm? On the contrary, we are looking for him to do him a service, to save him from a great danger.”

  “A great danger?” cried M. Vacherot. “Oh, I’m not at all surprised! I never saw him in such a state of excitement.”

  “Then he’s been here?”

  “Yes, since midnight.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No, he went away again.”

  Patrice made a despairing gesture and asked:

  “Perhaps he left some one behind?”

  “No, but he intended to bring some one.”

  “A lady?”

  M. Vacherot hesitated.

  “We know,” Don Luis resumed, “that Siméon Diodokis was trying to find a place of safety in which to shelter a lady for whom he entertained the deepest respect.”

  “Can you tell me the lady’s name?” asked the porter, still on his guard.

  “Certainly, Mme. Essarès, the widow of the banker to whom Siméon used to act as secretary. Mme. Essarès is a victim of persecution; he is defending her against her enemies; and, as we ourselves want to help the two of them and to take this criminal business in hand, we must insist that you . . .”

  “Oh, well!” said M. Vacherot, now fully reassured. “I have known Siméon Diodokis for ever so many years. He was very good to me at the time when I was working for an undertaker; he lent me money; he got me my present job; and he used often to come and sit in my lodge and talk about heaps of things. . . .”