Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “What’s the matter, Senor?” he asked, quickly on the alert to defend me if necessary from a new enemy.

  “Potage.... Can you make out in this wretched light what is on that signboard?”

  “I read....” for Potage knew how to read, “I read: ‘Jim’s Bar de Santiago del Compestello.’”

  “Then I’m not under a delusion,” I said, “and here I am outside the famous bar where the jovial ‘middy’ comes for his blessed cocktails.”

  I remembered that on the evening of my first attempt to escape from the “Vengeance,” the “middy,” expecting to get a few hours off duty, made an appointment to meet me at Jim’s counter so that we might celebrate my freedom by lifting our elbows. But this very excellent plan was frustrated by the trouble in the Cies Islands which nearly proved fatal to me, and forced me to return to the “Vengeance.” Nevertheless, if my memory served me, the bar kept by the famous Jim was situated at the corner of the Calle Réal and the Collegiate Church, and we were still some distance from that spot.

  “Let’s go in,” I said, impelled by a curiosity less to see Jim and his bar than the “middy,” a chance customer whom for many reasons I should have been happy to meet.

  We went into the bar. Jim received us with his broadest smile as be took up his concoctions in pewter mugs. It came back to me that Jim was an ex-champion boxer in the British Navy. I took the trouble to make sure so that there might be no mistake.

  “Yes, that’s me right enough. I’m the Jim you mean,” replied the ex-boxer and manufacturer of cocktails.

  “You’ve moved your bar, then?”

  “That’s right. The sanctimonious, the bigots, the hypocrites and the candle carriers don’t appreciate a pick-me-up, master,” declared Jim with a smile that was broader than ever — if that were possible — and stretched from ear to ear, displaying a formidable array of teeth. “ I wasn’t paying expenses at the corner of the Collegiate. Our worthy merchantmen and King’s Navy men have to pass so many bars on the road from the mole to Santa Maria, that poor Jim’s business was bound to suffer. In business you must think of everything. So I finished by leaving the church square to set up shop in this charming blind alley, celebrated for the finest and most terrible love story as everyone in Vigo knows.”

  “Really! What love story was that?”

  “Do you know so little about Vigo,” returned Jim in astonishment, “that you’ve never heard of the terrible adventure of Señorita Dolores and her mother?”

  I gave a start.

  “Then it happened here,” I said.

  “In this very place, Señor. In this very place, Dolores’ mother, instead of selling cocktails like poor Jim, supplied the best sherries and distributed her smiles, while the beautiful Dolores sold cigarettes in the shop next door.” He pointed to a closed door which must at one time have communicated with the tobacconist’s shop, but was now permanently blocked up. An immense war map hung over the door from one side of the wall to the other, partly concealing the door.

  “I’m very glad, I assure you, to make acquaintance with so celebrated a place.... Then according to you it was in the shop next door that the Señorita...”

  “Yes, yes. It was there that she got to know Kessel’s gang... the so-called Kessel. Ancient history. Ancient history... known to everybody in Vigo. What can I do for you, Monsieur Herbert of Renich?”

  I had mounted a stool. I scrambled down in amazement.

  “How did you learn?... How did you learn?... Do you know me then?”

  “I’ve never as much as seen you before, but it’s not difficult to be famous when you have at your heels such a jolly little page-boy.”

  He pointed, of course, to Potage who came in at that moment after carefully exploring the immediate neighbourhood in which, it seemed to him, some undesirable persons lived. Potage heard what was said and in a trice bounded on a stool, and from the stool to the counter holding up his little fists (feather-weight) to the immense Jim (heavy-weight) who simply laughed at him.

  “I’ve killed my nigger,” said Jim, “a nigger weighing fourteen stone more than you, with a single blow from my fist.”

  “And I’ve made a bull del muerta flinch merely with a look...” declared Potage.

  I intervened between Potage and Jim with great authority, and succeeded, thanks to a few opportune words, in calming them both. Were not both, in their way, sportsmen, and ought they not to feel a certain mutual admiration, which I might bring to a head with some blessed cocktails as the “middy” would say?

  “Now,” I said, when order was restored in the bar, “tell me, Jim, how you got to know my name.”

  “I knew it because it was mentioned here a few minutes ago.”

  “Here?”

  “In the very seat where that gentleman is sitting now.” It was then that I perceived, fallen across a table, a man whose features were not unknown to me. I had seen that face before somewhere. The man was dressed in a somewhat nondescript manner; a combination of sailor, soldier and civilian.

  “A sailor?” I said, at a venture.

  “Perhaps,” replied Jim. “Certainly one who has escaped from the twelve apostles.... But he’s too big a boozer and too big a gossip. It’ll bring him bad luck. That sort of thing’s happened before. Here, guv’nor, it’s time to go. I’ve no accommodation for man or beast.” Jim shook the man, who decided to pull himself together and call for whisky. But Jim’s reply was to take him in his arms as if he were a child, which was not to the liking of the other who began to protest.

  “Jim, Jim, you’re no chum,” he declared. “Where do you expect me to go at this hour?”

  “Go back to your work. There’s no other answer for a decent fellow who evidently wants to see the paternal home again one of these days.”

  “Go back to the twelve apostles!” he roared. “I’d rather kick the bucket here.”

  “That’s your look out, but go and kick the bucket somewhere else, silly babbler.” And Jim put him into the street and closed the door.

  “I’ve had enough of him,” he said angrily. “I shall finish by getting myself into trouble, and I’m not asking for that as you may suppose. Here’s another one who’ll have a pretty adventure in the streets to-night and will deserve all he gets. He wants to be a Croesus without taking any risks. Where’s the common sense of the world? No one forced him to deal with the twelve apostles.”

  “What do you mean by ‘escaped from the twelve apostles?’”

  Jim looked at me and laughed, obviously thinking that I was assuming ignorance for a joke but that it wouldn’t pass muster with him.

  “You should ask the Senor who mentioned your name in this bar just now,” he replied.

  “But what Senor? How is it he came here for me seeing that this is the first time I’ve set foot in your place?”

  “He wasn’t looking for you here, but when he comes ashore he never passes my bar without looking in, and he asked me if I had, by any chance, seen Monsieur Herbert of Renich, who was easily recognised, for he was accompanied by his page-boy looking, he said, like half a toreador; no offence I hope, Master Potage.”

  Once more I had to throw myself on Potage and hold him back as he was about to leap at Jim; but of course it all ended in another round of cocktails, and during their confection I thought deeply over what I had just learnt. It seemed to me that the “authorities” in the Cies Islands who had refused my letters were not ignorant of it all. Doubtless they were curious to find out how I was spending my time in Vigo. Accordingly they made enquiry at my hotel and learnt from the major-domo what manner of servant it was who accompanied me everywhere.

  They must know now on the “Vengeance” that I was in Vigo. The “middy” had himself, perhaps, been informed of it, and no doubt had hastened on shore and was looking for me even if only to have one or two blessed cocktails with me. As things stood, I could not think of anything that could be more pleasant or more useful to me. Unfortunately the description of the person who was dis
playing such interest in me, whose name Jim would not mention — perhaps he didn’t know it — convinced me that it could not have been the “middy.” Then who was it? I was exceedingly puzzled and I did not prolong my stay in the Bar de Santiago del Compestello, although the tragic memory of Dolores’ terrible adventure led me to regard the place with the keenest interest. We walked away, Potage and I, and Jim put up his shutters.

  “Senor,” said Potage, “this thoroughfare is very dark and the blind alley is some distance from the traffic. The shop next door to Señor Jim’s bar, has a hoarding round it, and it has been disused since the tragedy he was talking about. I’ve inspected the premises, and to my thinking they would make a wonderful hiding-place for the lady from the Castle if, as I have no doubt, we succeed within the next forty-eight hours in getting her down from the balcony. What do you say?”

  “I think it’s an excellent idea, Potage. It’s worthy of you, and comes at the right moment to relieve me of my anxiety about the lady. I don’t suppose that Jim who seems a very decent, good-natured fellow will refuse to assist us in the circumstances.”

  “There’s no necessity to tell him about it, and perhaps it would be better not to,” rapped out Potage, who did not look upon Jim with much favour. “ I’ve had a look round the place. We can reach the Señorita’s shop through the basement. I’ll see to that part of the business. No one will suspect anything, and I undertake to get the food to our guest without letting anyone as much as catch sight of my shadow on the wall.”

  “Thank Heaven, Potage.... I can never be too grateful for the day when I met you first.”

  “You may smile, Señor,” squeaked Potage, “but may I be the lowest class aficionado and incapable of managing a novillada if this business is not finished before the third sunrise. Get these worries off your mind, Señor...

  Look out,” he added, holding me back, “or you’ll fall over that drunken man.”

  As a matter of fact we had to walk round a man’s body which lay stretched across our path. We were already moving away when it occurred to Potage to strike a match, and we uttered a second exclamation, for we recognised the man who obstructed the way. It was he who had been in the Bar de Santiago and whom Jim had so courteously sent about his business, predicting that he would come to a bad end. The man was dead with his throat cut.

  And I fled followed by Potage and the memory of Jim’s fatal words: “Silly babbler.... It’ll bring him bad luck.... That sort of thing has happened before.... Escaped from the twelve apostles.”

  In a flash the face which I vaguely remembered took definite shape in my mind, such as it appeared at the beginning of a memorable day when I was tearing across the sunken road in the Cies Islands, and was held up by a march past of slow artillery. It was the “non-com.” who gave the commands, with such queer gestures, standing opposite me on the flank of this artillery section, moving like a train of caterpillars. He was another victim of the Invisible Battle.... Some unfortunate man who had attempted to escape his destiny!...

  When would this night in which I was either walking on gold or in blood come to an end? I, too, had been very near the gaolers of Vigo. I, too, perhaps deserved to be treated as a “silly babbler.” Why had Jim winked at me with such a knowing look as he spoke of ‘escaping from the twelve apostles’? Perhaps there was nothing more compromising than that wink. Woe-betide me! Who was to say that I, like the other man, might not meet with a “pretty adventure in the streets...” At length we turned into the Promenade. And here were the hotel and the unsympathetic major-domo. He was on duty, it seems, night and day.

  “Señor,” he said, “someone is waiting for you here.”

  “Here!”

  “Yes, in your room, Señor. He told me that you were expecting him.”

  “I?... But I’m not expecting anyone.” Nevertheless it did not take me long to throw myself into the lift, to run to my room, one hand in my pocket, clutching my revolver, the useful Potage at my feet ready to dash into the fray.

  CHAPTER XXI

  IN WHICH FURTHER MENTION IS MADE OF THE FAMOUS MARK

  AS SOON AS the door was opened a man who was sitting in my chair rose to his feet, placed a glass on the table, and came towards me with outstretched hands.

  “It’s none too soon, my dear Herbert of Renich.”

  I was in the presence of the worthy doctor, Mederic Eristal, who had so carefully taken care of me on board the “Vengeance.”

  “Hurrah!” I gasped with enthusiasm. And I went on as I clasped his hands: “Amalia?... Give me news of Amalia.”

  “She is still alive,” he replied. “Calm yourself.”

  “Still alive!... But what a dreadful answer.... Has her life been really in danger then?”

  “Can you doubt it? Her life is always in danger.”

  “Will this horror never cease....”

  “Ever since the Hun outrage against the ‘Lot-et-Gironde,’ and particularly since it is known that Von Treischke was on board the submarine, Captain Hyx has been like a raging lion.”

  “May Heaven have mercy on us,” I groaned. “But Heaven is with us since it has arranged for me to come in time.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the doctor.

  But I had no wish to waste valuable time answering him and unfolding my plans. I had too many questions to put to him.

  “Where do you come from?” I asked. “And how is it that you are here?”

  “Oh, I needn’t mince matters with you. I’ve had enough of the twelve apostles.”

  “Hush!” I exclaimed, placing my hand over his mouth. “We’ve just knocked up against the body of a man who was certainly killed because he, too, had had enough of the twelve apostles.... Now, my dear doctor, be so kind as to explain to me what the twelve apostles have to do with it.”

  “What! Haven’t you guessed yet?”

  “Yes, I’ve guessed, or I’ve seen. I know now what the Invisible Battle is. I’ve guessed where it had to be fought, the famous Mark six metres eighty-five. I’ve heard moans...”

  “Not to the extent that I have.”

  “I’ve heard gaspings that came from the sea. I know where they are fighting and what they are dying for. But, once more, I ask what have the twelve apostles to do with it all?”

  “Ignoramus!” Mederic Eristal flung at me disdainfully, and he took me by the arm and led me to the open window.

  It was about four o’clock in the morning. Over the harbour and the roadstead a great silence reigned, a silence heavy and oppressive. One or two lighthouses in the direction of the Cies Islands pierced the mysterious gloom. Farther away still, near San Francisco Bay, the sea was illuminated by the moon’s silver beam. No movement was perceptible save that of the sea. Nothing could be seen. Nothing could be heard. It was the profound and absolute peace of night, the hour when mankind sleeps.

  “The battle is in full swing,” said the doctor. And he gazed with folded arms into the dark and silent bay. “ Yes,” he went on after a pause, “in those few square miles the most relentless, the most terrific, the most wonderful struggle has been waging for months past. And why? Why? Because one day the twelve apostles appeared in haste from the distant horizon and sought refuge in this broad bay.”

  “But what twelve apostles?”

  “The twelve Spanish galleons bore the names of the apostles.”

  Leading me to the small table on which he had brought together his customary supplies of schiedam and cocaine, in order to support his eloquence, the worthy Mederic Eristal narrated in detail the fabled story which I knew only from having read the dozen lines which history books devote to the War of the Spanish Succession. He began by explaining precisely what a galleon was.

  Once a year, at the end of September, twelve of the most powerful vessels in the Spanish service, bearing the names of the twelve apostles, used to sail from Cadiz for the West Indies convoyed by men-of-war. The mission of those vessels was to bring back the yield from the gold mines, and the tribute levied by the
mother country on the incalculable riches of her new colonial empire. They were called galleons, but the galleons themselves did not alone suffice to bring home those wonderful riches. When they set out from Cadiz, other ships sailed from Seville, and these were called by the generic term of the fleet.

  The fleet and the galleons touched at the Canaries, the Antilles, and the Windward islands and then separated. The fleet was bound for Mexico, where they were filled to the water level; and the galleons repaired to Portobello, a new city, or rather an immense mart where the marvellous wealth of Chili and Peru was gathered together. Three officials supervised the collection of the treasure from Peru to Panama and its transport to Portobello where it was transferred to the galleons. The galleons which were crammed with bullion, doubloons and pieces of eight, left Portobello after a six weeks’ stay, bound for Havana, and here they joined the fleet laden with treasure from Mexico. Then the combined fleets set sail for Europe. As may be imagined they kept a good look out, and as far as possible acted in concert. It was a period at which it was rather perilous to ship gold on the high seas, for it was the heyday of the buccaneers. As to the galleons, otherwise called the galleons of Vigo, the facts are absolutely historic and have been related by the best writers. This is what came about:

  The event took place in 1702. At that time Louis XIV, thinking that he could abolish the Pyrenees at his will, imposed the Duke of Anjou, his grandson, on the Spanish throne. This prince who reigned more or less successfully under the name of Philip V had to face powerful enemies. The royal houses of Holland, Austria and England had signed at the Hague, the year before, a treaty of alliance, the object of which was to wrest the Spanish crown from Philip V in order to place it on the brow of an Archduke to whom they prematurely gave the name of Charles III.