Vorski raised his head. A man was standing in front of him, leaning against one of the uprights of the dolmen. The man was of the average height, with a slender, well-built figure, and seemed to be still young, notwithstanding his hair, which was turning grey at the temples. He wore a blue-serge jacket with brass buttons and a yachting-cap with a black peak.
“Don’t trouble to rack your brains,” he said. “You don’t know me. Let me introduce myself: Don Luis Perenna, grandee of Spain, a noble of many countries and Prince of Sarek. Yes, don’t be surprised: I’ve taken the title of Prince of Sarek, having a certain right to it.”
Vorski looked at him without understanding. The man continued:
“You don’t seem very familiar with the Spanish nobility. Still, just test your memory: I am the gentleman who was to come to the rescue of the d’Hergemont family and the people of Sarek, the one whom your son François was expecting with such simple faith . . . . Well, are you there? . . . Look, your companion, the trusty Otto, he seems to remember! . . . But perhaps my other name will convey more to you? It is well and favourably known. Lupin . . . . Arsène Lupin . . . .”
Vorski watched him with increasing terror and with a misgiving which became more accentuated at each word and movement of this new adversary. Though he recognized neither the man nor the man’s voice, he felt himself dominated by a will of which he had already felt the power and lashed by the same sort of implacable irony. But was it possible?
“Everything is possible,” Don Luis Perenna went on, “including even what you think. But I repeat, what a silly beast you’re making of yourself! Here are you playing the bold highwayman, the dashing adventurer; and you’re frightened the moment you set eyes on one of your crimes! As long as it was just a matter of happy-go-lucky killing, you went straight ahead. But the first little jolt throws you off the track. Vorski kills; but whom has he killed? He has no idea. Is Véronique d’Hergemont dead or alive? Is she fastened to the oak on which you crucified her? Or is she lying here, on the sacrificial table? Did you kill her up there or down here? You can’t tell. You never even thought, before you stabbed, of looking to see what you were stabbing. The great thing for you is to slash away with all your might, to intoxicate yourself with the sight and smell of blood and to turn live flesh into a hideous pulp. But look, can’t you, you idiot? When a man kills, he’s not afraid of killing and he doesn’t hide the face of his victim. Look, you idiot!”
He himself stopped over the corpse and unwrapped the veil around the head.
Vorski had closed his eyes. Kneeling, with his chest pressed against the dead woman’s legs, he remained without moving and kept his eyes obstinately shut.
“Are you there now?” chuckled Don Luis. “If you daren’t look, it’s because you’ve guessed or because you’re on the point of guessing, you wretch: am I right? Your idiot brain is working it out: am I right? There were two women in the Isle of Sarek and two only, Véronique and the other . . . the other whose name was Elfride, I understand: am I right? Elfride and Véronique, your two wives, one the mother of Raynold, the other the mother of François. So, if it’s not François’ mother whom you tied on the cross and whom you’ve just stabbed, then it’s Raynold’s mother. If the woman lying here, with her wrists bruised by the torture, is not Véronique, then she’s Elfride. There’s no mistake possible: Elfride, your wife and your accomplice; Elfride, your willing and subservient tool. And you know it so well that you would rather take my word for it than risk a glance and see the livid face of that dead woman, of your obedient accomplice tortured by yourself. You miserable poltroon!”
Vorski had hidden his head in his folded arms. He was not weeping. Vorski could not weep. Nevertheless, his shoulders were jerking convulsively; and his whole attitude expressed the wildest despair.
This lasted for some time. Then the shaking of the shoulders ceased. Still Vorski did not stir.
“Upon my word, you move me to pity, you poor old buffer!” said Don Luis. “Were you so fond of your Elfride as all that? She had become a habit, what? A mascot? Well, what can I say? People as a rule aren’t such fools as you! They know what they’re doing. They look before they leap! Hang it all, they stop to think! Whereas you go floundering about in crime like a new-born babe struggling in the water! No wonder you sink and go to the bottom . . . . The ancient Druid, for instance: is he dead or alive? Did Conrad stick a dagger into his back, or was I playing the part of that diabolical personage? In short, are there an ancient Druid and a Spanish grandee, or are the two individuals one and the same? This is all a sealed book to you, my poor fellow. And yet you’ll want an explanation. Shall I help you?”
If Vorski had acted without thinking, it was easy to see, when he raised his head, that on this occasion he had taken time to reflect; that he knew very well the desperate resolve which circumstances called upon him to take. He was certainly ready for an explanation, as Don Luis suggested, but he wanted it dagger in hand, with the implacable intention of using it. Slowly, with his eyes fixed on Don Luis and without concealing his purpose, he had freed his weapon and was rising to his feet.
“Take care,” said Don Luis. “Your knife is faked as your revolver was. It’s made of tin-foil.”
Useless pleasantry! Nothing could either hasten or delay the methodical impulse which urged Vorski to the supreme contest. He walked round the sacred table and took up his stand in front of Don Luis.
“You’re sure it’s you who have been thwarting all my plans these last few days?”
“The last twenty-four hours, no longer. I arrived at Sarek twenty-four hours ago.”
“And you’re determined to go on to the end?”
“Yes; and farther still, if possible.”
“Why? And in what capacity?”
“As a sportsman; and because you fill me with disgust.”
“So there’s no arrangement to be made?”
“No.”
“Would you refuse to go shares with me?”
“Ah, now you’re talking!”
“You can have half, if you like.”
“I’d rather have the lot.”
“Meaning that the God-Stone . . .”
“The God-Stone belongs to me.”
Further speech was idle. An adversary of that quality has to be made away with; if not, he makes away with you. Vorski had to choose between the two endings; there was not a third.
Don Luis remained impassive, leaning against the pillar. Vorski towered a head above him: and at the same time Vorski had the profound impression that he was equally Don Luis’ superior in every other respect, in strength, muscular power and weight. In these conditions, there was no need to hesitate. Moreover, it seemed out of the question that Don Luis could even attempt to defend himself or to evade the blow before the dagger fell. His parry was bound to come late unless he moved at once. And he did not move. Vorski therefore struck his blow with all certainty, as one strikes a quarry that is doomed beforehand.
And yet — it all happened so quickly and so inexplicably that he could not tell what occurred to bring about his defeat — and yet, three or four seconds later, he was lying on the ground, disarmed, defeated, with his two legs feeling as though they had been broken with a stick and his right arm hanging limp and paining him till he cried out.
Don Luis did not even trouble to bind him. With one foot on the big, helpless body, half-bending over his adversary, he said:
“For the moment, no speeches. I’m keeping one in reserve for you. It’ll strike you as a bit long, but it’ll show you that I understand the whole business from start to finish, that is to say, much better than you do. There’s one doubtful point: and you’re going to clear it up. Where’s your son François d’Hergemont?”
Receiving no reply, he repeated:
“Where’s François d’Hergemont?”
Vorski no doubt considered that chance had placed an unexpected trump in his hands and that the game was perhaps not absolutely lost, for he maintained an obstinate
silence.
“You refuse to answer?” asked Don Luis. “One . . . two . . . three times: do you refuse? . . . Very well!”
He gave a low whistle.
Four men appeared from a corner of the hall, four men with swarthy faces, resembling Moors. Like Don Luis, they wore jackets and sailor’s caps with shiny peaks.
A fifth person arrived almost immediately afterwards, a wounded French officer, who had lost his right leg and wore a wooden leg in its place.
“Ah, is that you, Patrice?” said Don Luis.
He introduced him formally:
“Captain Patrice Belval, my greatest friend; Mr. Vorski, a Hun.”
Then he asked:
“No news, captain? You haven’t found François?”
“No.”
“We shall have found him in an hour and then we’ll be off. Are all our men on board?”
“Yes.”
“Everything all right there?”
“Quite.”
He turned to the three Moors:
“Pick up the Hun,” he ordered, “and carry him up to the dolmen outside. You needn’t bind him: he couldn’t move a limb if he tried. Oh, one minute!”
He leant over Vorski’s ear:
“Before you start, have a good look at the God-Stone, between the flags in the ceiling. The ancient Druid wasn’t lying to you. It is the miraculous stone which people have been seeking for centuries . . . and which I discovered from a distance . . . by correspondence. Say good-bye to it, Vorski! You will never see it again, if indeed you are ever to see anything in this world.”
He made a sign with his hand.
The four Moors briskly took up Vorski and carried him to the back of the hall, on the side opposite the communicating passage.
Turning to Otto, who had stood throughout this scene without moving:
“I see that you’re a reasonable fellow, Otto, and that you understand the position. You won’t get up to any tricks?”
“No.”
“Then we shan’t touch you. You can come along without fear.”
He slipped his arm through Belval’s and the two walked away, talking.
They left the hall of the God-Stone through a series of three crypts, each of which was on a higher level than the one before. The last of them also led to a vestibule. At the far side of the vestibule, a ladder stood against a lightly-built wall in which an opening had been newly made. Through this they emerged into the open air, in the middle of a steep path, cut into steps, which wound about as it climbed upwards in the rock and which brought them to that part of the cliff to which François had taken Véronique on the previous morning. It was the Postern path. From above they saw, hanging from two iron davits, the boat in which Véronique and her son had intended to take flight. Not far away, in a little bay, was the long, tapering outline of a submarine.
Turning their backs to the sea, Don Luis and Patrice Belval continued on their way towards the semicircle of oaks and stopped near the Fairies’ Dolmen, where the Moors were waiting for them. They had set Vorski down at the foot of the tree on which his last victim had died. Nothing remained on the tree to bear witness to the abominable torture except the inscription, “V. d’H.”
“Not too tired, Vorski?” asked Don Luis. “Legs feeling better?”
Vorski gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
“Yes, I know,” said Don Luis. “You’re pinning your faith to your last card. Still, I would have you know that I also hold a few trumps and that I have a rather artistic way of playing them. The tree behind you should be more than enough to tell you so. Would you like another instance? While you’re getting muddled with all your murders and are no longer sure of the number of your victims, I bring them to life again. Look at that man coming from the Priory. Do you see him? He’s wearing a blue reefer with brass buttons, like myself. He’s one of your dead men, isn’t he? You locked him up in one of the torture-chambers, intending to cast him into the sea; and it was your sweet cherub of a Raynold who hurled him down before Véronique’s eyes. Do you remember? Stéphane Maroux his name was. He’s dead, isn’t he? No, not a bit of it! A wave of my magic wand; and he’s alive again. Here he is. I take him by the hand. I speak to him.”
Going up to the newcomer, he shook hands with him and said:
“You see, Stéphane? I told you that it would be all over at twelve o’clock precisely and that we should meet at the dolmen. Well, it is twelve o’clock precisely.”
Stéphane seemed in excellent health. He showed not a sign of a wound. Vorski looked at him in dismay and stammered:
“The tutor . . . . Stéphane Maroux . . . .”
“The man himself,” said Don Luis. “What did you expect? Here again you behaved like an idiot. The adorable Raynold and you throw a man into the sea and don’t even think of leaning over to see what becomes of him. I pick him up . . . . And don’t be too badly staggered, old chap. It’s only the beginning; and I have a few more tricks in my bag. Remember, I’m a pupil of the ancient Druid’s! . . . Well, Stéphane, where do we stand? What’s the result of your search?”
“Nothing.”
“François?”
“Not to be found.”
“And All’s Well? Did you send him on his master’s tracks, as we arranged?”
“Yes, but he simply took me down the Postern path to François’ boat.”
“There’s no hiding-place on that side?”
“Not one.”
Don Luis was silent and began to pace up and down before the dolmen. He seemed to be hesitating at the last moment, before beginning the series of actions upon which he had resolved. At last, addressing Vorski, he said:
“I have no time to waste. I must leave the island in two hours. What’s your price for setting François free at once?”
“François fought a duel with Raynold,” Vorski replied, “and was beaten.”
“You lie. François won.”
“How do you know? Did you see them fight?”
“No, or I should have interfered. But I know who was the victor.”
“No one knows except myself. They were masked.”
“Then, if François is dead, it’s all up with you.”
Vorski took time to think. The argument allowed of no debate. He put a question in his turn:
“Well, what do you offer me?”
“Your liberty.”
“And with it?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, the God-Stone.”
“Never!”
Don Luis shouted the word, accompanying it with a vehement gesture of the hand, and he explained:
“Never! Your liberty, yes, if the worst comes to the worst and because I know you and know that, denuded of all resources, you will simply go and get yourself hanged somewhere else. But the God-Stone would spell safety, wealth, the power to do evil . . .”
“That’s exactly why I want it,” said Vorski; “and, by telling me what it’s worth, you make me all the more difficult in the matter of François.”
“I shall find François all right. It’s only a question of patience; and I shall stay two or three days longer, if necessary.”
“You will not find him; and, if you do, it will be too late.”
“Why?”
“Because he has had nothing to eat since yesterday.”
This was said coldly and maliciously. There was a silence; and Don Luis retorted:
“In that case, speak, if you don’t want him to die.”
“What do I care? Anything rather than fail in my task and stop midway when I’ve got so far. The end is within sight: those who get in my way must look out for themselves.”
“You lie. You won’t let that boy die.”
“I let the other die right enough!”
Patrice and Stéphane made a movement of horror, while Don Luis laughed frankly:
“Capital! There’s no hypocrisy about you. Plain and convincing arguments. By Jingo, how beautiful to see a Hun laying bare his soul! Wha
t a glorious mixture of vanity and cruelty, of cynicism and mysticism! A Hun has always a mission to fulfil, even when he’s satisfied with plundering and murdering. Well, you’re better than a Hun: you’re a Superhun!”
And he added, still laughing:
“So I propose to treat you as Superhun. Once more, will you tell me where François is?”
“No.”
“All right.”
He turned to the four Moors and said, very calmly:
“Go ahead, lads.”
It was a matter of a second. With really extraordinary precision of gesture and as though the act had been separated into a certain number of movements, learnt and rehearsed beforehand like a military drill, they picked up Vorski, fastened him to the rope which hung to the tree, hoisted him up without paying attention to his cries, his threats or his shouts and bound him firmly, as he had bound his victim.
“Howl away, old chap,” said Don Luis, serenely, “howl as much as you like! You can only wake the sisters Archignat and the others in the thirty coffins! Howl away, my lad! But, good Lord, how ugly you are! What a face!”
He took a few steps back, to appreciate the sight better:
“Excellent! You look very well there; it couldn’t be better. Even the inscription fits: ‘V. d’H.,’ Vorski de Hohenzollern! For I presume that, as the son of a king, you are allied to that noble house. And now, Vorski, all you have to do is to lend me an attentive ear: I’m going to make you the little speech I promised you.”
Vorski was wriggling on the tree and trying to burst his bonds. But, since every effort merely served to increase his suffering, he kept still and, to vent his fury, began to swear and blaspheme most hideously and to inveigh against Don Luis:
“Robber! Murderer! It’s you that are the murderer, it’s you that are condemning François to death! François was wounded by his brother; it’s a bad wound and may be poisoned . . . .”
Stéphane and Patrice pleaded with Don Luis. Stéphane expressed his alarm:
“You can never tell,” he said. “With a monster like that, anything is possible. And suppose the boy’s ill?”
“It’s bunkum and blackmail!” Don Luis declared. “The boy’s quite well.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 238