Dorothy stopped them at the moment that d’Estreicher was on the point of shooting. Drawn to her full height in front of them, she protected them, certain that the scoundrel would not pull the trigger. But he was aiming straight at her bosom; and the young men could not stir, while, his fight arm outstretched, with his left hand still holding the other revolver, he felt for the lock.
“Leave it to us, mademoiselle!” cried Webster, beside himself.
“A single movement and he kills me,” she said.
The scoundrel did not utter a word, he opened the door behind him, flattened himself against the wall, then slipped quickly out.
The three young men sprang forward like unleashed hounds — only to dash themselves against the obstacle of the heavy door.
CHAPTER XV
THE KIDNAPING OF MONTFAUCON
FOR A MINUTE or two extreme confusion reigned in the room. Errington and Webster struggled furiously with the old lock. Almost past use, it worked badly from the inside. Exasperated and maddened at having let the enemy escape, they got in one another’s way and their efforts only ended in their jamming it.
Marco Dario raged at them.
“Get on! Get on! What are you messing about like that for?... It’s d’Estreicher, isn’t it, mademoiselle? The man you spoke of? He murdered his confederate?... He stole the medal from you? Holy Virgin, hurry up, you two!”
Dorothy tried to reason with them:
“Wait, I implore you. Think. We must work together.... It’s madness to act at random!”
But they did not listen to her; and, when the door did open, they rushed down the staircase, while she called out to them:
“I implore you.... They’re below.... They’re watching you.”
Then a whistle, strident and prolonged, rent the air. It came from without.
She ran to the window. Nothing was to be seen from it, and in despair she asked herself:
“What does that mean? He isn’t calling his confederates. They’re with him now. Then, why that signal?”
She was about to go down in her turn when she found herself caught by her petticoat. From the beginning of the scene, in front of d’Estreicher and his leveled revolvers, Maître Delarue had sunk down in the darkest corner, and now he was imploring her, almost on his knees:
“You aren’t going to abandon me — with the corpse?... And then that scoundrel might come back!... His confederates!”
She pulled him to his feet.
“No time to lose.... We must go to the help of our friends...”
“Go to their help? Stout young fellows like them?” he cried indignantly.
Dorothy drew him along by the hand as one leads a child. They went, anyhow, half-way down the staircase. Maître Delarue was sniveling, Dorothy muttering:
“Why that signal? To whom was it given? And -what are they to do?”
An idea little by little took hold of her. She thought of the four children who had remained at the inn, of Saint-Quentin, of Montfaucon. And this idea so tormented her that three parts of the way down the staircase she stopped at the hole which pierced the wall, which she had noticed as they came up. After all what could an old man and a young girl do to help three young men?
“What is it?” stammered the notary. “Can one hear the f-f-f-fight?”
“One can’t hear anything,” she said bending down.
She squeezed herself into the narrow passage and crawled to the opening. Then, having looked more carefully than she had done in the afternoon, she perceived on her right, on the cornice, a good-sized bundle, thrust down into a crack, screened in front by wild plants. It was a rope-ladder. One of its ends was fastened to a hook driven into the wall.
“Excellent,” she said. “It’s evident that on occasions d’Estreicher uses this exit. In the event of danger it’s an easy way to safety, since this side of the tower is opposite the entrance in the interior.”
The way to safety was less easy for Maître Delarue, who began by groaning.
“Never in my life! Get down that way?”
“Nonsense!” she said. “It isn’t thirty-five feet — only two stories.”
“As well commit suicide.”
“Do you prefer a knife stuck in you? Remember that d’Estreicher has only one aim — the codicil. And you have it.”
Terrified, Maître Delarue made up his mind to it, on condition that Dorothy descended first to make sure that the ladder was in a good state and that no rungs were missing.
Dorothy did not bother about rungs. She gripped the ladder between her legs and slid from the top to bottom. Then catching hold of the two ropes she kept them as stiff as she could. The operation was nevertheless painful and lengthy; and Maître Delarue expended so much courage on it that he nearly fainted at the lower rungs. The sweat trickled down his face and over his hands in great drops.
With a few words Dorothy restored his courage. “You can hear them.... Don’t you hear them?”
Maître Delarue could hear nothing. But he set out at a run, breathless from the start, mumbling: “They’re after us!... In a minute they’ll attack us!”
A side-path led them through thick brushwood to the main path, which connected the keep with the clearing in which the solitary oak stood. No one behind them.
More confident, Maître Delarue threatened: “The blackguards! At the first house I send a messenger to the nearest police station.... Then I mobilize the peasants — with guns, forks and anything handy. And you, what’s your plan?”
“I haven’t one.”
“What? No plan? You?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve acted rather at random, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, you see clearly—”
“I’m not afraid for myself.”
“For whom?”
“For my children.”
Maître Delarue exclaimed:
“Gracious! You’ve got children?”
“I left them at the inn.”
“But how many have you?”
“Four.”
The notary was flabbergasted.
“Four children! Then you’re married?”
“No,” admitted Dorothy, not perceiving the good man’s mistake. “But I wish to secure their safety. Fortunately Saint-Quentin is not an idiot.”
“Saint-Quentin?”
“Yes, the eldest of the urchins... an artful lad, cunning as a monkey.”
Maître Delarue gave up trying to understand. Besides, nothing was of any importance to him but the prospect of being overtaken before he had passed that narrow, devilish causeway.
“Let’s run! Let’s run!” he said, for all that his shortness of breath compelled him to go slower every minute. “And then catch hold, mademoiselle! Here’s the second envelope! There’s no reason why I should carry such a dangerous paper on me; and after all it’s no business of mine.”
She took the envelope and put it in her purse just as they came into the court of the clock. Maître Delarue who could move only with great difficulty, uttered a cry of joy on perceiving his donkey in the act of browsing in the most peaceful fashion in the world, at some distance from the motorcycle and the two horses.
“You’ll excuse me, mademoiselle.”
He scrambled on to his mount. The donkey began by backing; and it threw the good man into such a state of exasperation that he belabored its head and belly with thumps and kicks. The donkey suddenly gave in and went off like an arrow.
Dorothy called out to him:
“Look out, Maître Delarue! The confederates have been warned!”
The notary heard the words, on the instant leaned back in the saddle, and tugged desperately at the reins. But nothing could stop the brute. When Dorothy got clear of the ruins of the outer wall, she saw him a long way off, still going hard.
Then she began to run again, in a growing disquiet: d’Estreicher’s whistle had been meant for confederates posted on the mainland at the entrance to the peninsula the access to which they were guarding. She said to hers
elf:
“In any case if I don’t get through, Maître Delarue will; and it is clear that Saint-Quentin will be warned and be on his guard.”
The sea, very blue and very calm, had ebbed to right and left, forming two bays on the other side of which rose the cliff of the coast. The path down the gorge was distinguishable by the dark cutting she saw in the mass of trees which covered the plateau. Here and there it rose to some height Twice she caught sight of the flying notary.
But as in her turn she reached the line of the trees, a report rang out ahead, and a little smoke rose in the air above what must have been the steepest point in the path.
There came cries and shouts for help; then silence. Dorothy doubled her speed in order to help Maître Delarue; undoubtedly he had been attacked. But after running for some minutes at such a pace that no sound could have reached her ears, she had barely time to spring out of the path to’ get out of the way of the furiously galloping donkey whose rider was crouching forward on its back with his aims knotted round its neck. Maître Delarue, since his head was glued to the further side of its neck, did not even see her.
More anxious than ever, since it was clear that Saint-Quentin and his comrades would not be warned if she did not succeed in getting through the path down the gorge and over the causeway, she started to run again. Then she caught sight of the figures of two men on one of the high points of the path in front, coming towards her. They were the confederates. They had barred the road to Maître Delarue and were now acting after the manner of beaters.
She flung herself into the bushes, dropped into a hollow full of dead leaves, and covered herself with them.
The confederates passed her in silence. She heard the dull noise of their hobnailed boots, which went further and further off in the direction of the ruins; and when she raised herself, they had disappeared.
Forthwith, having no further obstacle before her, Dorothy made her way down the path, so correctly described by the board as bad going, and came to the causeway which joined the peninsula to the mainland, observed that the Baron Davernoie and his old flame were no longer on the edge of the water, mounted the slope, and hurried towards the inn. A little way from it she called out:
“Saint-Quentin!... Saint-Quentin.”
Getting no answer, her forebodings redoubled. She passed in front of the house and saw no one. She crossed the orchard, went to the barn, and jerked open the caravan door. There once more — no one. Nothing but the children’s bags and the usual things.
“Saint-Quentin!... Saint-Quentin!” she cried again.
She returned to the house and this time she entered.
The little room which formed the café and in which stood the zinc counter, was empty. Overturned benches and chairs lay about the floor. On a table stood three glasses, half full, and a bottle. Dorothy called out:
“Madame Amoureux!”
She thought she heard a groan and went to the counter. Behind it, doubled up, her legs and arms bound, the landlady was lying with a handkerchief covering her mouth.
“Hurt?” asked Dorothy when she had freed her from the gag.
“No... no”...
“And the children?” said the young girl in a shaky voice.
“They’re all right.”
“Where are they?”
“Down on the beach, I think.”
“All of them?”
“All but one, the smallest.”
“Montfaucon.”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens! What has become of him?”
“They’ve carried him off.”
“Who?”
“Two men — two men who came in and asked for a drink. The little boy was playing near us. The others must have been amusing themselves at the bottom of the orchards behind the barns. We couldn’t hear them. And then of a sudden one of the men, with whom I was drinking a glass of wine, seized me by the throat while the second caught hold of the little boy.
“‘Not a word,’ said they. ‘If you speak, we’ll squeeze your throttle. Where are the other nippers?’
“It occurred to me to say that they were down on the beach fishing among the rocks.
“‘It’s true, that, is it, old ‘un?’ said they. ‘If you’re lying, you’re taking a great risk. Swear it.’
“‘I swear it.’
“‘And you too, nipper, answer. Where are your brothers and sisters?’
“I was terribly afraid, madam. The little boy was crying. But all the same he said, and well he knew it wasn’t true:
“‘They’re playing down below — among the rocks.’
“Then they tied me up and said:
“‘You stay there. We’re coming back. And if we don’t find you here, look out, mother.’
“And off they went, taking the little boy with them. One of them had rolled him up in his jacket.”
Dorothy, very pale, was considering. She asked:
“And Saint-Quentin?”
“He came in about half an hour afterwards to look for Montfaucon. He ended by finding me. I told him the story: ‘Ah,’ said he, the tears in his eyes. ‘Whatever will mummy say?’ He wanted to cut my ropes. I refused. I was afraid the men would come back. Then he took down an old broken gun from above the chimneypiece, a chassepot which dates from the time of my dead father, without any cartridges, and went off with the two others.”
“But where was he going?” said Dorothy. “Goodness, I don’t know. I gathered they were going along the seashore.”
“And how long ago is that?”
“A good hour at least.”
“A good hour,” murmured Dorothy.
This time the landlady did not refuse to have her bonds untied. As soon as she was free she said to Dorothy who wished to dispatch her to Périac in search of help:
“To Périac? Six miles! But, my poor lady, I haven’t the strength. The best thing you can do is to get there yourself as fast as your legs will carry you.”
Dorothy did not even consider this counsel. She was in a hurry to return to the ruins and there join battle with the enemy. She set off again at a run.
So the attack she had foreseen had indeed developed; but an hour earlier — that is to say before the signal was given — and the two men were forthwith posted on the path to the causeway with the mission to establish a barrage, then at the whistle to fall back on the scene of operations.
Only too well did Dorothy understand the motive of this kidnaping. In the battle they were fighting it was not only a matter of stealing the diamonds; there was another victory for which d’Estreicher was striving with quite as much intensity and ruthlessness. Now Montfaucon, in his hands, was the pledge of victory. Cost what it might, whatever happened, admitting even that the luck tamed against him, Dorothy must surrender at discretion and bend the knee. To save Montfaucon from certain death it was beyond doubt that she would not recoil from any act, from any trial.
“Oh, the monster!” she murmured. “He is not mistaken. He holds me by what I hold dearest!”
Several times she noticed, across the path, groups of small pebbles arranged in circles, or cut-off twigs, which were to her so much information furnished by Saint-Quentin. From them she learnt that the children instead of keeping straight along the path to the gorge, had turned off to the left and gone round the marsh to the seashore so betaking themselves to the shelter of the rocks. But she paid no attention to this maneuver, for she could only think of the danger which threatened Montfaucon and had no other aim than to get to his kidnapers.
She took her way to the peninsula, mounted the gorge, where she met no one, and reached the plateau. As she did so she heard the sound of a second report. Some one had fired in the ruins. At whom? At Maître Delarue? At one of the three young men?
“Ah,” she said to herself anxiously. “Perhaps I ought never to have left them, those three friends of mine. All four of us together, we could have defended ourselves. Instead of that, we are far from one another, helpless”...
What astonished her when she had crossed the outer wall, was the infinite silence into which she seemed to herself to enter. The field of battle was not large — a couple of miles long, at the most, and a few hundred yards across; and yet in this restricted space, in which perhaps nine or ten men were pitted against her, not a sound. Not a mutter of human speech. Nothing but the twittering of birds or the rustling of leaves, which fell gently, cautiously, as if things themselves were conspiring not to break the silence.
“It’s terrible,” murmured Dorothy. “What is the meaning of it? Am I to believe that all is over? Or rather that nothing has begun, that the adversaries are watching one another before coming to blows — on the one side Errington, Webster, and Dario, on the other d’Estreicher and his confederates?”
She advanced quickly into the court of the clock. There she saw still, near the two tied-up horses, the donkey, eating the leaves of a shrub, his bridle dragging on the ground, his saddle quite straight on his back, his coat shining with sweat.
What has become of Maître Delarue? Had he been able to rejoin the group of the foreigners? Had his mount thrown him and delivered him into the power of the enemy?
Thus at every moment questions presented themselves which it was impossible to answer. The shadow was thickening.
Dorothy was not timid. During the war, in the ambulances in the first line, she had grown used more quickly than many men to the bursting of shells; and the hour of bombardment did not shake her nerves. But mistress of her nerves as she was, on the other hand, she was more susceptible than a man of less courage to the influence of everything unknown, of everything that is unseen and unheard. Her extreme sensitiveness gave her a keen sense of danger; and at that moment she had the deepest impression of danger.
She went on however. An invincible force drove her on till she should find her friends and Montfaucon should be freed. She hurried to the avenue of great trees, crossed the clearing of the old solitary oak, and mounted the rising ground on which rose Cocquesin tower.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 302