Don Luis observed nothing in particular at Berthou’s Wharf; but, when he returned to the quay above, Patrice showed him a ladder lying right at the end of the pavement which skirted the garden of the lodge; and Don Luis recognized the ladder as the one whose absence he had noticed from the recess in the yard. With that quick vision which was one of his greatest assets, he at once furnished the explanation:
“As Siméon had the key of the garden, it was obviously Ya-Bon who used the ladder to make his way in. Therefore he saw Siméon take refuge there on returning from his visit to old Vacherot and after coming to fetch Coralie. Now the question is, did Siméon succeed in fetching Little Mother Coralie, or did he run away before fetching her? That I can’t say. But, in any case . . .”
Bending low down, he examined the pavement and continued:
“In any case, what is certain is that Ya-Bon knows the hiding-place where the bags of gold are stacked and that it is there most likely that your Coralie was and perhaps still is, worse luck, if the enemy, giving his first thought to his personal safety, has not had time to remove her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look here, captain, Ya-Bon always carries a piece of chalk in his pocket. As he doesn’t know how to write, except just the letters forming my name, he has drawn these two straight lines which, with the line of the wall, make a triangle . . . the golden triangle.”
Don Luis drew himself up:
“The clue is rather meager. But Ya-Bon looks upon me as a wizard. He never doubted that I should manage to find this spot and that those three lines would be enough for me. Poor Ya-Bon!”
“But,” objected Patrice, “all this, according to you, took place before our return to Paris, between twelve and one o’clock, therefore.”
“Yes.”
“Then what about the shot which we have just heard, four or five hours later?”
“As to that I’m not so positive. We may assume that Siméon squatted somewhere in the dark. Possibly at the first break of day, feeling easier and hearing nothing of Ya-Bon, he risked taking a step or two. Then Ya-Bon, keeping watch in silence, would have leaped upon him.”
“So you think . . .”
“I think that there was a struggle, that Ya-Bon was wounded and that Siméon . . .”
“That Siméon escaped?”
“Or else was killed. However, we shall know all about it in a few minutes.”
He set the ladder against the railing at the top of the wall. Patrice climbed over with Don Luis’ assistance. Then, stepping over the railing in his turn, Don Luis drew up the ladder, threw it into the garden and made a careful examination. Finally, they turned their steps, through the tall grasses and bushy shrubs, towards the lodge.
The daylight was increasing rapidly and the outlines of everything were becoming clearer. The two men walked round the lodge, Don Luis leading the way. When he came in sight of the yard, on the street side, he turned and said: “I was right.”
And he ran forward.
Outside the hall-door lay the bodies of the two adversaries, clutching each other in a confused heap. Ya-Bon had a horrible wound in the head, from which the blood was flowing all over his face. With his right hand he held Siméon by the throat.
Don Luis at once perceived that Ya-Bon was dead and Siméon Diodokis alive.
CHAPTER XVII. SIMÉON GIVES BATTLE
IT TOOK THEM some time to loosen Ya-Bon’s grip. Even in death the Senegalese did not let go his prey; and his fingers, hard as iron and armed with nails piercing as a tiger’s claws, dug into the neck of the enemy, who lay gurgling, deprived of consciousness and strength.
Don Luis caught sight of Siméon’s revolver on the cobbles of the yard:
“It was lucky for you, you old ruffian,” he said, in a low voice, “that Ya-Bon did not have time to squeeze the breath out of you before you fired that shot. But I wouldn’t chortle overmuch, if I were you. He might perhaps have spared you, whereas, now that Ya-Bon’s dead, you can write to your family and book your seat below. De profundis, Diodokis!” And, giving way to his grief, he added, “Poor Ya-Bon! He saved me from a horrible death one day in Africa . . . and to-day he dies by my orders, so to speak. My poor Ya-Bon!”
Assisted by Patrice, he carried the negro’s corpse into the little bedroom next to the studio.
“We’ll inform the police this evening, captain, when the drama is finished. For the moment, it’s a matter of avenging him and the others.”
He thereupon applied himself to making a minute inspection of the scene of the struggle, after which he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Siméon, whose clothes and shoes he examined closely.
Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy, whom he had propped against the wall of the lodge and was contemplating in silence, with a fixed stare of hatred. Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, the execrable demon who, two days before, had hatched the terrible plot and, bending over the skylight, had laughed as he watched their awful agony! Siméon Diodokis, who, like a wild beast, had hidden Coralie in some hole, so that he might go back and torture her at his ease!
He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with great difficulty. His wind-pipe had no doubt been injured by Ya-Bon’s clutch. His yellow spectacles had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick, grizzled eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.
“Search him, captain,” said Don Luis.
But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task, he himself felt in Siméon’s jacket and produced a pocket-book, which he handed to the officer.
It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Siméon Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There was a collection of business documents, invoices and memoranda, addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey’s secretary, and, among these papers, a letter from Amédée Vacherot, running as follows:
“Dear M. Siméon,
“I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has taken a snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at the hospital, at a moment when they were talking together. I am so glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when he hears it!”
At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon’s hand, a sort of personal note:
“Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie Essarès are free to love each other and to marry.”
“That’s your father’s writing, is it not?” asked Don Luis.
“Yes,” said Patrice, in bewilderment. “And it is also the writing of the letters which he addressed to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it’s too hideous to be true! What a man! What a scoundrel!”
Siméon moved. His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. Then, coming to himself entirely, he looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice, asked:
“Where’s Coralie?”
And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone:
“Where’s Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her? She must be dying!”
Siméon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled:
“Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . .”
He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice’s rage increased:
“Will you attend?” he shouted. “I won’t wait any longer! It’ll cost you your life if you don’t answer!”
The man’s eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a visible effort, he repeated:
“Patrice! Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long! . . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . .”
“As mortal enemies,” said Patrice, with emphasis. “Death
stands between us: Ya-Bon’s death, Coralie’s perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must speak, or . . .”
“Patrice, is it really you?” the man repeated, in a whisper.
The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocket-book which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice’s roughness, whined:
“You wouldn’t hurt me, Patrice. You must have found some letters; and you now know the link that binds us together. Oh, how happy I should have been . . . !”
Patrice had released his hold and stood staring at him in horror. Sinking his voice in his turn, he said:
“Don’t dare to speak of that: I won’t, I won’t believe it!”
“It’s the truth, Patrice.”
“You lie! You lie!” cried the officer, unable to restrain himself any longer, while his grief distorted his face out of all recognition.
“Ah, I see you have guessed it! Then I need not explain . . .”
“You lie! You’re just a common scoundrel! . . . If what you say is true, why did you plot against Coralie and me? Why did you try to murder the two of us?”
“I was mad, Patrice. Yes, I go mad at times. All these tragedies have turned my head. My own Coralie’s death . . . and then my life in Essarès’ shadow . . . and then . . . and then, above all, the gold! . . . Did I really try to kill you both? I no longer remember. Or at least I remember a dream I had: it happened in the lodge, didn’t it, as before? Oh, madness! What a torture! I’m like a man in the galleys. I have to do things against my will! . . . Then it was in the lodge, was it, as before? And in the same manner? With the same implements? . . . Yes, in my dream, I went through all my agony over again . . . and that of my darling. . . . But, instead of being tortured, I was the torturer . . . What a torment!”
He spoke low, inside himself, with hesitations and intervals and an unspeakable air of suffering. Don Luis kept his eyes fixed on him, as though trying to discover what he was aiming at. And Siméon continued:
“My poor Patrice! . . . I was so fond of you! . . . And now you are my worst enemy! . . . How indeed could it be otherwise? . . . How could you forget? . . . Oh, why didn’t they lock me up after Essarès’ death? It was then that I felt my brain going. . . .”
“So it was you who killed him?” asked Patrice.
“No, no, that’s just it: somebody else robbed me of my revenge.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. . . . The whole business is incomprehensible to me. . . . Don’t speak of it. . . . It all pains me. . . . I have suffered so since Coralie’s death!”
“Coralie!” exclaimed Patrice.
“Yes, the woman I loved. . . . As for little Coralie, I’ve suffered also on her account. . . . She ought not to have married Essarès.”
“Where is she?” asked Patrice, in agony.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh,” cried Patrice, shaking with rage, “you mean she’s dead!”
“No, she’s alive, I swear it.”
“Then where is she? That’s the only thing that matters. All the rest belongs to the past. But this thing, a woman’s life, Coralie’s life . . .”
“Listen.”
Siméon stopped and gave a glance at Don Luis;
“Tell him to go away,” he said.
Don Luis laughed:
“Of course! Little Mother Coralie is hidden in the same place as the bags of gold. To save her means surrendering the bags of gold.”
“Well?” said Patrice, in an almost aggressive tone.
“Well, captain,” replied Don Luis, not without a certain touch of banter in his voice, “if this honorable gentleman suggested that you should release him on parole so that he might go and fetch your Coralie, I don’t suppose you’d accept?”
“No.”
“You haven’t the least confidence in him, have you? And you’re right. The honorable gentleman, mad though he may be, gave such proofs of mental superiority and balance, when he sent us trundling down the road to Mantes, that it would be dangerous to attach the least credit to his promises. The consequence is . . .”
“Well?”
“This, captain, that the honorable gentleman means to propose a bargain to you, which may be couched thus: ‘You can have Coralie, but I’ll keep the gold.’”
“And then?”
“And then? It would be a capital notion, if you were alone with the honorable gentleman. The bargain would soon be concluded. But I’m here . . . by Jupiter!”
Patrice had drawn himself up. He stepped towards Don Luis and said, in a voice which became openly hostile:
“I presume that you won’t raise any opposition. It’s a matter of a woman’s life.”
“No doubt. But, on the other hand, it’s a matter of three hundred million francs.”
“Then you refuse?”
“Refuse? I should think so!”
“You refuse when that woman is at her last gasp? You would rather she died? . . . Look here, you seem to forget that this is my affair, that . . . that . . .”
The two men were standing close together. Don Luis retained that chaffing calmness, that air of knowing more than he chose to say, which irritated Patrice. At heart Patrice, while yielding to Don Luis’ mastery, resented it and felt a certain embarrassment at accepting the services of a man with whose past he was so well acquainted.
“Then you actually refuse?” he rapped out, clenching his fists.
“Yes,” said Don Luis, preserving his coolness. “Yes, Captain Belval, I refuse this bargain, which I consider absurd. Why, it’s the confidence-trick! By Jingo! Three hundred millions! Give up a windfall like that? Never. But I haven’t the least objection to leaving you alone with the honorable gentleman. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, talk it over between yourselves. Sign the compact. The honorable gentleman, who, for his part, has every confidence in his son, will tell you the whereabouts of the hiding-place; and you shall release your Coralie.”
“And you? What about you?” snarled Patrice, angrily.
“I? I’m going to complete my little enquiry into the present and the past by revisiting the room where you nearly met your death. See you later, captain. And, whatever you do, insist on guarantees.”
Switching on his pocket-lamp, Don Luis entered the lodge and walked straight to the studio. Patrice saw the electric rays playing on the panels between the walled-up windows. He went back to where Siméon sat:
“Now then,” he said, in a voice of authority. “Be quick about it.”
“Are you sure he’s not listening?”
“Quite sure.”
“Be careful with him, Patrice. He means to take the gold and keep it.”
“Don’t waste time,” said Patrice, impatiently. “Get to Coralie.”
“I’ve told you Coralie was alive.”
“She was alive when you left her; but since then . . .”
“Yes, since then . . .”
“Since then, what? You seem to have your doubts.”
“It was last night, five or six hours ago, and I am afraid . . .”
Patrice felt a cold shudder run down his back. He would have given anything for a decisive word; and at the same time he was almost strangling the old man to punish him. He mastered himself, however:
“Don’t let’s waste time,” he repeated. “Tell me where to go.”
“No, we’ll go together.”
“You haven’t the strength.”
“Yes, yes, I can manage . . . it’s not far. Only, only, listen to me. . . .”
The old man seemed utterly exhausted. From time to time his breathing was interrupted, as though Ya-Bon’s hand were still clutching him by the throat, and he sank into a heap, moaning.
Patrice stooped over him:
“I’m listening,” he said. “But, for God’s sake, hurry!”
“All right,” said Siméon. “All right.
She’ll be free in a few minutes. But on one condition, just one. . . . Patrice, you must swear to me on Coralie’s head that you will not touch the gold and that no one shall know . . .”
“I swear it on her head.”
“You swear it, yes; but the other one, your damned companion, he’ll follow us, he’ll see.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Yes, he will, unless you consent . . .”
“To what? Oh, in Heaven’s name, speak!”
“I’ll tell you. Listen. But remember, we must go to Coralie’s assistance . . . and that quickly . . . otherwise . . .”
Patrice hesitated, bending one leg, almost on his knees:
“Then come, do!” he said, modifying his tone. “Please come, because Coralie . . .”
“Yes, but that man . . .”
“Oh, Coralie first!”
“What do you mean? Suppose he sees us? Suppose he takes the gold from us?”
“What does that matter!”
“Oh, don’t say that, Patrice! . . . The gold! That’s the one thing! Since that gold has been mine, my life is changed. The past no longer counts . . . nor does hatred . . . nor love. . . . There’s only the gold, the bags of gold . . . I’d rather die . . . and let Coralie die . . . and see the whole world disappear . . .”
“But, look here, what is it you want? What is it you demand?”
Patrice had taken the two arms of this man who was his father and whom he had never detested with greater vehemence. He was imploring him with all the strength of his being. He would have shed tears had he thought that the old man would allow himself to be moved by tears.
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you. Listen. He’s there, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“In the studio?”
“Yes.”
“In that case . . . he mustn’t come out. . . .”
“How do you mean?”
“No, he must stay there until we’ve done.”
“But . . .”
“It’s quite easy. Listen carefully. You’ve only to make a movement, to shut the door on him. The lock has been forced, but there are the two bolts; and those will do. Do you consent?”
Patrice rebelled:
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 209