Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  In spite of a long and fatiguing journey in carriages which were the last word in discomfort, I arrived in Vigo in a fairly level frame of mind. Moreover, I began to think that an enterprise which I might not be able to manage alone had chances of success now that I was assisted by this worthy little scamp of a cripple, Potage.

  We put up at one of the principal hotels in Vigo, on the Promenade, that is to say, in the best part of the city. Here, too, Potage achieved a great success; all the more so as the major-domo took upon himself to bend over and adopt towards him a sneering manner which was very irritating, whereupon Potage, in a flash, turned over on his hands and shot forth his little platform at the major-domo catching him a blow which doubled him up. Enthusiastic shouts from the visitors who were present drowned the wails of the major-domo who had to take to his bed. And after that we were treated with proper respect.

  I went that evening to the chief post office. An idea had occurred to me. I asked to see the postmaster and was shown in to him.

  “Is there not a post to the Cies Islands, Monsieur?” I enquired.

  At this blunt question the postmaster placed his spectacles on his nose and looked at me as if I were some strange animal.

  “No, Senor,” he returned at last, “there is no post to the islands. There used to be a service but there isn’t one now.”

  “Still there are people on the islands.”

  “More people than ever, Senor. The islands have been let to a private company which, it seems, is engaged in the manufacture of high explosives of so dangerous a character that it is strictly prohibited for anyone to land on the islands. From what I hear no one is allowed even to go near them...”

  “For all that, the company must be in touch with the mainland.... And if you don’t deliver letters to them, they must come and fetch them.”

  “That’s exactly what does happen,” he replied. “We constantly receive letters addressed to the Cies Islands, notwithstanding that we have no post office or representative there; but by a special arrangement the company in question sends here for them twice a week.”

  “Might I ask what those days are, Monsieur?”

  “Tuesdays and Saturdays.”

  It was Monday. I thanked the postmaster and hastened back to the hotel; and I at once wrote to Captain Hyx, to Señorita Dolores and to Doctor Mederic Eristal. I explained in the three letters that I was the bearer of important information which would change the greatest grief into joy, but that it was absolutely essential for me to see Captain Hyx personally. In the letter which I wrote specially to him, I apologised for the liberty that I had taken in giving him the slip. I knew his sense of justice too well, I went on, to think that he would continue to bear me any malice, especially when he learnt the character of certain information of which I had consented, with great satisfaction, to be the bearer.

  I simply wrote the names of each person on the envelopes and the destination: Cies Islands. What else could I do? I knew nothing more. But I felt sure that the letters such as they were — particularly the one addressed to Captain Hyx — would reach the persons for whom they were intended.

  The next day seemed interminably long. I killed time as best I could, dragging Potage after me from the shops in the Calle del Principe to Santa Maria, the collegiate church. But the most beautiful churches in the world seemed to have lost their attraction for Potage and me now that we were no longer mendicants... And we ended by leaving the town and climbing to the summit of the surrounding hills.

  We stood on the very walls of Castro Castle from which the great expanse of roadstead was revealed to view. It was an enchanting spectacle. At our feet was the delightful bend between Castro point and Mont Guya wherein Vigo lay, the white houses rising tier upon tier in the rich verdure and descending from terrace to terrace to the harbour, to the mole with its ceaseless commercial activity.

  St. Andrés battery threw its spur into the emerald sea like a menace. And stretching to the far horizon was the bay; one of the finest, safest, broadest bays in the world. It was a veritable gulf was the Bay of Vigo, the father of a dozen other bays, each with a splendid harbour of refuge, nestling in this unique port, in shape like an estuary. Inland was a smiling landscape overspread with vines and trees and green fields. On the seashore were rugged banks and bare heaths and inaccessible rocks; a world in itself. And in the distance, in the distance some twenty-five miles away, rising from the waters in the mist like a dreamland or a nightmare, was the vague outline of the Cies Islands.

  O Vigo, Vigo, how long did I stand gazing upon your enigmatic and magnificent panorama! Mostly the eyes that look upon you see but the usual roads, squares, castles, rocks fashioned picturesquely by nature or by the hand of man; but for me something was hidden from sight. And I did not know what it was. In the Cies Islands which I had merely crossed, I had seen enough to give me a violent longing to divine what that secret was. Gabriel, on his part, had said enough to excite my curiosity in a north-easterly direction, near Limens Bay, so guarded from sight.... Much nearer, almost at my feet, I might discover, perhaps, if I were thoroughly to search with a pair of binoculars, the sinister castle in which one night a disastrous incident occurred between Señorita Dolores and the exponents of “kultur....” And, finally, a secret instinct warned me that it was in this delightful and formidable setting that I was destined to fathom the mystery of Captain Hyx and, consequently, of the Invisible Battle.

  Where was it fought, where was it fought this unseen struggle in which so many gallant warriors went to their death far from the world’s ken?... Where?... And why?... With what object?

  My dear Herbert of Renich, take care! All this does not concern you. You are a neutral. You are forgetting far too much. You must see that the whole business will bring down trouble upon your head. Fear and shim the mysterious, the enchanting voice of Vigo. Here is a piece of advice full of wisdom: Do the work for which you came and fly; fly at the earliest moment if they give you the opportunity, believe me!

  Obviously, obviously, it would be the wisest course. But I am entitled to let my thoughts wander while I am waiting for the answers to my letters, and to watch through my excellent binoculars from the summit of Castro Castle, the life in the harbour, the movements to and fro of the steamers, and the little fishing boats bending under their white triangles like sea-birds on the wing.... Hullo, what’s that? Below me, almost underneath my feet — a pair of binoculars bring people and things astonishingly near — a motor launch has just glided behind Castro Point, coming from the harbour. A man is standing upright in the motor launch, and I catch sight of a profile which is by no means unfamiliar. I am not mistaken. I am not blind.

  Those square shoulders, that thick-set frame, that movement of the head, and that bulldog jaw.... Well, there can be no doubt about it. It is Lieutenant Smith, the Irishman, second in command of the “Vengeance”; Captain Hyx’s willing and subservient tool.

  Potage and I ran down the slopes of Castro Castle faster than we climbed them. But I began to wonder what the object of this great haste was, for I had no intention of overtaking the Irishman who was already far out to sea, on the way to the Cies Islands. All the same he may have brought answers to my letters. We hastened bade to the hotel.

  The major-domo handed Potage some letters for me without making fun of him this time. They were the letters which I had sent off the night before, returned through the post bearing the words: “Not known in the Cies Islands.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE BAT OF VIGO AT NIGHT

  “PULL AWAY... PULL away... in silence.”

  A In the dark waters of San Francisco creek, on the farther side of the mole, beyond the harbour at Vigo where a thousand lights gleamed and were mirrored in the waves rippling round the quays and the ships, Potage and I, keeping in the shadow of the rocks which sheltered us like a screen, pulled at the oars of our little craft....

  And now we could sail steadily onward. We no longer had anything to fear from sounds that might b
etray our presence. I switched on the current, and to the pulsation of the motor off we went to the Cies Islands. Potage was certainly a most valuable companion in an adventure. His powers of invention were never at a loss, and he had probably rescued me from a painfully embarrassing position.

  The return of my letters threw me into a state of gloomy dismay. Not only were they not taken to the Cies Islands, but there was every reason to believe that Captain Hyx’s special postman had refused to accept them. It would appear that in order to correspond with the Cies Islands, it was necessary to “know the way” — to know certain secret signs which were prescribed by the authorities and communicated solely to those whose assistance they might require. My own letters, like those of many other persons, doubtless, were not wanted. They were left on my hands. What was I to do?

  On returning to my room I found a sealed letter which bore no stamp and which had been delivered, I could not doubt, by the constantly recurring miracle of German espionage. The letter, which contained no signature, gave me twenty-four hours in which to land on the Cies islands and to see Captain Hyx who, it was stated, was there at that moment. A postscript contained these words: “As soon as you are in possession of an answer from the Captain, by word of mouth or by letter, you must take it, without a moment’s delay, to Goya Castle. Here you will ask for Monsieur Fritz Schulze.” This was the name by which Fritz von Harschfeld was known in Spain. I knew who was behind Fritz and why he was so eager to obtain the Captain’s reply.

  Once more I asked myself what was I to do? If no one on the Cies Islands was informed of my coming, I should certainly be received with shots from rifles or machine-guns, as Gabriel himself had been menaced by them.

  It was then that Potage, seeing me in a state of such terrible perplexity, wished me to tell him the cause of my troubles, and, well, I confided in him. To land on the Cies Islands, at all costs, but to land a living man, if that were possible, such was the programme which, considering the conditions of the journey that I disclosed to him, seemed in my eyes to present insuperable difficulties. Thereupon Potage left me, and he did not hide from me that my lamentations prevented him from thinking things out.

  An hour later he returned. He was impatient to be off again, and caught hold of my legs, as was his custom, declaring that I must follow him, and everything was arranged. He triumphantly held up his clumped hands: “We haven’t a moment to lose,” he said, “not a moment....”

  We flung ourselves into the lift. I had some difficulty in following him when we reached the quay. To hasten my steps he spun round me on his deafening platform on rollers. A dog frisking at the feet of his master who was setting off for the hunt could not have been more importunate. Now and then he condescended to vouchsafe a shred of explanation. And I will at once state what he had done. To start with, he tried to hire a boat in which to make the journey. No one, of course, would take the responsibility of landing travellers on the Cies islands, for it was prohibited and dangerous.

  Potage next endeavoured to buy a boat; but he could not find one for sale. Since he could neither beg nor borrow, it occurred to him to steal one. And that is what he had done. But the boat itself! It was the only boat that could save the situation. It belonged to the Barcilleur himself; to the man upon whose door the “middy” of the “Vengeance” told me to knock, some weeks before, when he was assisting me to escape from the Cies Islands. How the boat happened to be at Vigo that same night and by what coincidence Potage became aware of it, was simplicity itself, but still it required the imagination and quick eye of a Potage.

  From the doorway of the sailors’ tavern in which he learnt the certainty that no one could be found to take him to the Cies Islands, Potage was gloomily looking out over the roadstead, his eyes turned vaguely towards the dark horizon, when his attention was attracted by an exceptionally powerful ray of light which swept the seas in the distance.... Cies Islands way.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s Mont Faro Lighthouse,” was the reply.

  “What’s Mont Faro?”

  “Mont Faro is one of the Cies Islands.”

  “Do you know the lighthouse keeper on the island?”

  “There are two lighthouse keepers, and they relieve each other every week. No one in the town knows them, for they’re new men and have no dealings with us, keeping to themselves like bears, and certainly obeying orders, but that’s no business of ours,” explained readily enough one of the sailors. The man would not have let his tongue run on so freely, perhaps, if Potage had not, from the moment of his coming to the tavern, made everyone laugh by his antics as a cripple. Moreover the men had no reason to be on their guard against him for he declared, when an opportunity offered, that he had placed himself at the disposal of a tourist, recently arrived in the town, who wished to visit the Cies Islands.

  Potage climbed on the tavern mantelpiece which was opposite the open door, in order to have a better view of the lighthouse and the pencil of light on the horizon. In this position, he declared, he looked like an object of art and could pass, if needs be, for a clock if they would take the trouble to fix two hands to his waist. He talked in this strain to make people laugh, like cripples and invalids in general, who prefer to be the first to make fun of their infirmities so as to spare themselves from being pitied by sensitive souls. But he went on with his plan.

  “For all that,” he said, “those lighthouse keepers don’t swim to and from the island to relieve each other.”

  “No, of course not,” was the reply. “Every week the Barcilleur comes to fetch one man and bring back the other.... Hullo! here is the Barcilleur as it happens...” And the sailor pointed to a small craft which had just turned the pier-head and was about to come alongside the quay steps, a hundred yards from the inn.

  “That’s the ‘Spuma,’” he volunteered. “You can easily recognise her by the three yellow lights at her foremast which permit her to sail in Cies waters. The Barcilleur will be here in five minutes.”

  As a matter of fact he soon came up. He was a veteran of the old school, always with a quid of tobacco in his mouth, and a great fancy for Jamaica rum. But he was no gossip. He said frankly that he came for news and that he didn’t bring any. It was not from him that one would learn what exactly was taking place in the Cies islands. Indeed it was quite possible that, as the sailors told Potage, he himself did not know overmuch.

  Potage had thought out a scheme. The Barcilleur stated that he should go back with the turn of the tide but that he had at least an hour’s work in the town before he could embark the lighthouse keeper. It gave Potage longer time than was necessary to come and inform me; for us to throw ourselves into the “Spuma” and quietly to haul down the lights so as not to be recognised when we were under way; to cast off the moorings and to pull round the pier.

  Once we were in San Francisco Creek the rest was easy. Especially as we discovered that the “Spuma” had a small motor — I remembered, then, that the “middy” had mentioned it. We could now hope to reach the Cies islands fairly quickly where, if we hoisted our three yellow lights, we should be allowed to land without hindrance. When we got to the roadstead we sailed under our ordinary lights. There was no doubt that with Potage’s assistance things would come out all right. My cripple had settled down on the bows and was piercing the darkness with an ardent gaze.

  Sometimes the night was impenetrable and sometimes it was illuminated by the moon’s radiance, for there were gusts of wind and clouds, great clouds which travelled straight from the west, the harbingers of a violent squall. Although we had the wind practically in our teeth, the “Spuma,” thanks to our engine and to sundry skilful manœuvres — I had indulged in some amount of boating on the Moselle — behaved herself quite well.

  We were now rounding Molino Point and we could already glimpse behind it the lighthouse at Brasileiro. I have learnt since — in what circumstances, alas! — to give a name to the various places, headlands, and low mountains of this bay which was in
fernal by night but a paradise by day. As I say, Potage was at the bows and I at the stem, and both of us were intent upon manoeuvring the boat, when on the rocky coast, about half a cable’s length away — we could almost have thrown ourselves upon it — a sort of mediæval citadel which up to then had been hidden from view loomed into sight under the moon; and seemed as if it had merged from the sea to watch us as we went past.

  I felt something like a thrill so little had I expected this apparition; and nevertheless I did not doubt that we were facing Goya Castle; the castle which Dolores had described to me; and which in places jutted further into the sea than even the rock itself. A mass of stone-work, formidable for the period at which it was built, stood well above the level of the highest tide, forming a circular breakwater with an entrance in the centre, closed by an iron grille, like the door of a prison. This structure, semicircular in shape, was crowned with battlements and projecting parapets that had not entirely crumbled to the dust, and formed a sort of inner harbour pertaining to the castle itself, concealing it in part from profane eyes seawards, and entirely protecting it landwards.

  I could the less allow myself to doubt that we were opposite Goya Castle, since the Castle was situated at the far end of the creek known as Goya Creek. Moreover, at the western extremity of the building between two towers the foundations of which penetrated directly beneath the sea, I seemed to recognise in the wall, which was off-set and protected on either side by two towers, the balcony window whence Dolores had been thrown into the sea. Nevertheless there was room for some doubt, inasmuch as a solid iron grating stood between the balcony and the window, and it seemed to me that this grating would interfere with any direct communication between the room and the outside world.... But we had already passed the place. The moon was again hidden behind the clouds and we were once more gliding over the ink-black waters.