As for the twisted wire, that will in fact make a much better 2 than the 7 previously assigned to it, the full, rounded hook of the coat-hanger representing—whereas it has been passed over in silence until now—the upper loop of the figure, to which the horizontal rod designed to take the trousers will supply a lower stroke that is almost in proportion. And the object will easily fall into place behind the apple munched by Lady Caroline, since Inspector Francis used it (unless there has been a mix-up with another, similarly hooked piece of wire) to pull from beneath the cast-iron grating, through one of whose holes it had slipped, the apple core of which the side that was still covered with its polished skin had caught the policeman's eye by virtue of its aggressively green colour.
Since there is no reason to fritter away the precious minutes of the test in tergiversation, those minutes being undoubtedly limited, I stoop in order to effect, rather than go on thinking about it, the permutation envisaged above: the broken coathanger in place of the blue shoe and vice versa. In seven steps and three movements the thing is done.
I must thereby have brought about, more or less unwittingly, one of the combinations favourable to the system, because the situation changes immediately: the arm holding the threatened light-bulb withdraws through the judas in a slow, continuous movement, as if activated by clockwork, and reappears without a noticeable break, this time to offer on the upturned palm of the open hand a large, battery-powered flashlamp. New-looking, nickel-plated, flawless, the appliance also appears to be complete and in good working order; the thumb switch is in the on position and the white-hot filament is giving off a powerful, almost unbearable light through its round pane of glass . . .
A very good thing, too, considering that about ten seconds later the glare that illuminates my cell and that I have not yet managed to trace to any source dims rapidly as if under the effect of a rheostat and goes out altogether in less time than it has taken to write. Without any hesitation I seize hold of the electric torch. This was certainly the right thing to do, as far, at least, as I can tell at the moment, because the arm disappears backwards, still with the same uniform slowness that makes it seem like a mechanical limb, in the beam of light that I have trained on it. And the square judas, operated by an invisible mechanism, shuts with a sharp bang. Then nothing more.
I was expecting the little slats filling its whole central portion to rotate on their axes as usual, giving a hint, in the semi-darkness of the top slit, or else of the one just below it, of the two staring eyes of a keeper. But nothing of the kind happens this time.
Before long I notice, in the course of examining the door more closely by the direct light of the large portable lamp, that the heavy leaf is not fully closed: the edge that opens is standing several millimetres proud of the fixed jamb, which I have always seen lying exactly flush with it. I move the torch to right and left in order to alter the way its light falls, anxious to make sure that the great novelty of my discovery is not due to the lighting being very different from what I am used to. I have to repeat the experiment several times, with variations, though without managing to make up my mind definitely. That the present arrangement is of long standing seems to me highly improbable, but I cannot say for certain that it is impossible.
Be that as it may, there is nothing else to be attempted but escape. I select with care the spot on the floor where I am going to put down the precious electric lamp, having first extinguished it. When everything is in place I apply the tips of my eight fingers to the projecting edge of the armoured panel, then I pull towards me. The door swings smoothly on its hinges. Before it has emitted the slightest creak it is already far enough ajar for me to pass through. No other sound, whether a swish or a crackle, marks my exit. I find myself, extinguished torch in hand, out in the corridor. After briefly weighing up in my mind whether it would not be best to leave the cell open in order to be able to take refuge there in the event of danger, I choose the opposite solution: to return the leaf to its initial position, which will avoid alerting any patrols.
Plunged, in consequence, into the very deepest darkness (was there a vague glimmer before, coming from inside the cell?), I venture a few steps in what I believe to be the right direction, namely the one opposed to that which by my calculations leads to the interrogation rooms. But I have scarcely gone five or six metres before I feel completely lost. Hearing nothing suspicious—apart, that is, from the distant, intermittent dripping of water—I light my torch again for a moment by means of a quick to-and-fro push on the control button.
I was able to verify on the instant that I was certainly on the axis of the passage since there was nothing in front of me, but on reflection I am worried about having noticed nothing at the sides either: no lateral surface threw back the least pallor. After a further few metres (perhaps ten or so) I can stand it no longer and press the contact again, at the same time waving the beam from side to side of my path. To my great astonishment I find myself in a kind of gallery that gives the impression of having been hollowed out of the depths of the earth: irregular, partially (and roughly) faced with blackish rubble, shored up in places with poorly squared mine supports, it bears little resemblance—if my recollections are correct—to the corridor leading to the cells, which despite its odd layout had ordinary plastered walls painted a light colour, at least on their upper part. However, not daring to leave my lamp on too long for fear, still, of raising the alarm, I put off a thorough examination of the walls around me until another time.
I move forward in the dark, proceeding carefully with one hand held out in front of me to detect any obstacles. After a stretch that I find difficult to quantify, spatially as well as temporally, my right foot strikes noisily against a very light metal object, which rolls away with a hollow sound after this sharp contact with my shoe. I freeze, ears on the alert for the expected outcome of so untimely a din.
But nothing happens. And after about a minute I venture to illuminate the scene in order to see what sort of thing I have come up against. I should have guessed: it's an empty beer-can, more dented than my kick can possibly have accounted for, its trade-mark almost wholly obscured by a thick layer of earthy dust; the design beneath, which can in fact still be made out at certain points, reminds me of something—even something fairly recent—but what? The floor all around has the uneven look of beaten or rather trodden-down earth; damp, studded with bumps and hollows, it has dark, shallow pools here and there, the residue of some spilt liquid (beer?) unless they are the product of rainwater leaks.
This cavern probably leads nowhere, at any rate to no exit effected in the usual fashion. Possibly, even, no one ever passes through it, has not for a long time, and I run no further risk of making unpleasant encounters. So there is no serious reason why I should extinguish my lamp, especially as the traps, pit props, muddy hollows, or large stones across my path, appear to be multiplying as I go. My attention is caught at this point by a short, light-coloured line, purer in tone, that might be a pencil, a dart, a paintbrush . . . I take two steps and pick the thing up—it's a piece of wood, flat and elongated in shape, which when wiped with a cuff turns out to be a calibrated school ruler of the kind known as a double decimetre. This one is coloured bright yellow and cannot have been in the mud for long because it is neither warped nor has it lost its paint.
Without my understanding why it strikes me forcibly that I must hang onto this object in order to insert it later in a particular place in a pattern from which it is missing, or else to form a number somewhere that this stroke would complete by representing the figure 1 in it, or else . . . It is like a very recent recollection that I can manage neither to bring to the surface nor to dismiss.
But now, with the torch lighting my way, I find fresh reasons for anxiety endlessly presenting themselves to my mind. To begin with there are recent prints in the fresh mud, prints of hands and feet, bare and fairly small as if some youngsters had been walking here on all fours, going in the same direction as myself . . . And immediately gunshots
start to ring out at irregular intervals, seemingly quite close though it is difficult to say with any certainty because of these low vaults, which muffle the detonations while at the same time prolonging them with multiple echoes.
There must be at least two gunmen, probably three, positioned close together and aiming in the same direction. As I am trying to reach a more precise estimate of their distance while at the same time proceeding on my way with redoubled caution, I see on the ground in front of me, in the circle of light cast by my lamp, a small high-heeled shoe—size thirty-five, or thirty-six at most—blue in colour but so mud-stained that this is visible, or rather detectable, in only a very few places; the heel is half off, possibly broken during a mad rush across this difficult terrain.
And now, scattered about, come the torn-off limbs and the torso, sliced into several sections, of a wax dummy. Holes with jagged edges, looking as if they were made by bullets, suggest that this disjointed doll has been used as a target for a practice session with combat rifles. Amid the gruesome remains I spot an electric light-bulb, half-buried in the clay but clearly identifiable if only by its holder, which is still trailing a length of double lead loosely twisted on itself; and now, a little farther on, it is on my own flashlamp that I train my beam, or at least on a replica of it, identical in every way in so far as one can appreciate its details, set as it now is in a sort of stony gangue, the only bits showing being one half of the metal cylinder, which is bisected lengthways at an angle, and the flared reflector with its protective glass, all these things here looking as if they consisted of the same reddish matter as the ground itself, from which the object has apparently emerged without managing to detach itself.
I have reached this point in my investigations when the light of the torch in my hand begins to fade abruptly and with such rapidity that I scarcely have time, on looking up, to notice on the wall close by a plane rectangle standing vertically and having approximately the size and shape of a door, at present closed. It is distempered in grey, but beneath the paint one can make out what look like small squares (or trapeziums) of paper, glued one beside another with, in some cases, the edges lifting slightly, describing large concentric circles that fill the entire panel. In places the grey paint is so thin—almost non-existent—that if the light were brighter one would probably be able to see the lines of print on the newspaper from which this unusual wallpapering material was cut with rapid, sweeping snips of the scissors. But the last glimmers still being emitted by my lamp have on the contrary just disappeared, leaving me in total darkness from now on, finally and completely resourceless.
All has been silent since the last shots, after becoming more and more spaced out, tailed off completely. I wait, motionless, not knowing what to do. In desperation I work the slide that activates the switch of my torch to and fro several times, my eyes fixed on the approximate position of the filament. To no effect, of course: I fail to detect the faintest redness. Eventually I throw the useless appliance away at random behind me, myself stubbornly remaining up against this flat surface that seemed to me to be a door.
Indeed, it is one. After an indeterminate period a vague, wan light develops in the vicinity, having appeared so gradually that I should find it impossible to say exactly when the phenomenon came into being. Soon, however, I can no longer shrink from this conclusion: I am still inside my cell, facing my own, closed door, which is painted iron-grey whereas everything else—ceiling, walls, and floor—is a uniform, dull, as it were abstract white. The wooden chair, too, is white. The wire coathanger hooked on the cramp-iron that holds in position the remains of the mirror is as usual painted black . . .
All of a sudden I remember: the hand-print was red, the shoe blue, the ruler yellow . . . Combining the ruler and the shoe would give one the garish green of the apple. There must be some hope of a solution there . . . The ruler and the hand together would give an orange, which must surely appear before long. . . The powerful hand on the delicately made lady's shoe would produce the verb violate, the recall of which very obviously appeared in the length of perished rope coiled back on itself in the form of an 8.
The two staring eyes are at their observation post in the semi-darkness of the corridor beyond the half-open steel slats that form a shutter in the middle of the square judas. Once again I feel the cry welling up in me. I am not sure I can contain it indefinitely. The shrill alarm-clock bell marking the start of the countdown rings out once again. Once again the slats of the shutter slowly and noiselessly close. I take two nervous steps to the right, two to the left, two forwards. I stoop and pick up the empty beer-can. The bolt of the judas snaps, heralding its imminent opening and the presentation of a fresh incriminating object. The numbers, separated by an interval that decreases at each stage, again begin their backward progression, spoken with faultless clarity by the passionless voice of the loudspeaker, the one used for the interrogations . . . Nine . . . Eight . . . Seven . . . Closer and closer together as less and less time is left. With all the strength of which I am still capable I hurl the beer-can at the armour-plated panel—right in its centre—which reverberates deep and long and majestically like the bronze door of a cathedral.
Up at the top of the beach, in the bathing-hut where she has just this minute finished getting dressed, Lady Caroline jumps when the metal object strikes violently against the outside of the door. She says to herself: some children are playing football with an old tin can. But the sentence is too serene to reassure her completely, so persistent is her impression of having been taken as a target, if not directly at least through the medium of the thin plank panel, its grey paint flaking off in little diamond shapes, trapeziums, or triangles, that conceals her body, stark naked a matter of seconds ago, from prying eyes and on which someone, after aiming carefully at its centre, has just scored a direct hit with an accurate shot.
Instinctively the young woman casts her eyes about for something that might enable her to resist an attack: a hard object she could use as a defensive weapon or as a projectile. But all she sees, on the wooden shelf above the already broken mirror fixed to one of the side walls of the cell by three cramp-irons, is a large, perfectly spherical orange, soft-skinned and highly coloured, that she has not yet found time to squeeze between her palms in order to make the tartly sweet juice run down into her mouth, what with the many games, sentimental episodes, or minor accidents marking an afternoon that has been exceptionally rich in emotions of all kinds.
Lady Caroline smiles at these still very recent recollections. She says to herself: I asserted my power over the too-pretty Angelica, whose lithe body with its warmamber curves was drawing the convergent glances of the entire beach as she played ball while munching her apple, all with much graceful flexing of the limbs like a dancing-girl; on our escapade among the rocks I broke the heel of one of my blue shoes; I claimed quite unjustly that it was Angelique's fault, and I forced her to let me have in exchange the ones that, walking barefoot herself, she was holding in her hand; I soiled her dress with red marks without her daring to protest, I looked on shamelessly as she . . .
But here this chain of deliberately trivial thoughts is brusquely interrupted by a fresh sound from outside, more dramatic and also much more dangerous than the first . . . There can be no mistaking the fact that these are shots, fired at very close range from a large-calibre weapon: one . . . two . . . three . . . four detonations, a few seconds apart, followed immediately by a deathly silence falling from end to end of the vast beach, the joyful bustle of which is stilled as if by a spell; and Lady Caroline is again assailed by that causeless feeling of distress that has filled her since this morning with fear of the imminent arrival of an unforeseen, unforeseeable catastrophe, though one already hanging mute and transparent over her, destined to surprise her just when she is least expecting it.
Unable to stand not hearing anything any more, immured in her tiny packing-case prison where the absence of the traditional triangular aperture (occasionally still diamond- or heart-shaped) let in
to most hut doors at eye level as also of any kind of square judas, with or without a shutter, and even of the tiniest round hole stopped up with a crystal lens (set in the thickness of the wood) to extend its field of view, where this absence—it follows—in any case condemned the young lady to seeing nothing of what was happening outside, she, without further reflection and at the risk of falling into some trap that has been carefully laid for her, snaps back the spring of the bolt with a sharp movement, opens her door wide with a sudden push, emerges into the dazzling sunlight, takes three somewhat unsteady steps in the sparkling sand, and is brought to a halt, with her flowing dress of white muslin all lit up and lending its soft undulations to the sea breeze, her left hand half stretched out in front of her, perhaps in anticipation of a fall, or perhaps rather to protect herself, by the unbearable awfulness of the sight . . .
And suddenly she cries out in the unending silence, a long-drawn-out, manic cry that she could contain no longer. She says to herself: That's it! Now I really am mad. I've finally succumbed to the darting demons of my adolescence, which have always been lurking in the still-water depths of my green eyes with their shimmering irises. On my identity card I am Caroline de Saxe by birth, but my real name is Belzebeth, princess of the blood, more often called the bloody princess. I am walking now down the interminable corridor lined with tortures and murders. Even as a child, right at the back of the attic, where the beams came down too low . . . No, there's no time for that now! This long black car with its windows obscured by thick curtains, its motor ticking over, biding its time, on the grassy road that hugs the dune behind the row of bathing-huts, this I recognize: it's the ambulance from the mental hospital where in a few minutes I shall be back with the sinister Dr. Morgan and his textual experiments, having once again passed through the black door that has neither number nor key and is surmounted by a vertical eye within a triangle of gold fillets, carved point downwards.
Recollections of the Golden Triangle Page 9