He loosened the gag and listened. This time, Patrice did not hear the few words which the victim uttered. But the other, the leader, almost immediately burst into a rage:
“Eh? What’s that you’re proposing? Upon my word, but you’re a cool hand! An offer of this kind to me! That’s all very well for Bournef or his fellows. They’ll understand, they will. But it won’t do for me, it won’t do for Colonel Fakhi. No, no, my friend, I open my mouth wider! I’ll consent to go halves, but accept an alms, never!”
Patrice listened eagerly and, at the same time, kept his eyes on Coralie, whose face still contorted with anguish, wore an expression of the same rapt attention. And he looked back at the victim, part of whose body was reflected in the glass above the mantelpiece. The man was dressed in a braided brown-velvet smoking-suit and appeared to be about fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fleshy face, a large hooked nose, eyes deep set under a pair of thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks covered with a thick grizzled beard. Patrice was also able to examine his features more closely in a portrait of him which hung to the left of the fireplace, between the first and second windows, and which represented a strong, powerful countenance with an almost fierce expression.
“It’s an Eastern face,” said Patrice to himself. “I’ve seen heads like that in Egypt and Turkey.”
The names of all these men too — Colonel Fakhi, Mustapha, Bournef, Essarès — their accent in talking, their way of holding themselves, their features, their figures, all recalled impressions which he had gathered in the Near East, in the hotels at Alexandria or on the banks of the Bosphorus, in the bazaars of Adrianople or in the Greek boats that plow the Ægean Sea. They were Levantine types, but of Levantines who had taken root in Paris. Essarès Bey was a name which Patrice recognized as well-known in the financial world, even as he knew that of Colonel Fakhi, whose speech and intonation marked him for a seasoned Parisian.
But a sound of voices came from outside the door. It was flung open violently and the four men appeared, dragging in a bound man, whom they dropped to the floor as they entered.
“Here’s old Siméon,” cried the one whom Fakhi had addressed as Bournef.
“And the wife?” asked the leader. “I hope you’ve got her too!”
“Well, no.”
“What is that? Has she escaped?”
“Yes, through her window.”
“But you must run after her. She can only be in the garden. Remember, the watch-dog was barking just now.”
“And suppose she’s got away?”
“How?”
“By the door on the lane?”
“Impossible!”
“Why?”
“The door hasn’t been used for years. There’s not even a key to it.”
“That’s as may be,” Bournef rejoined. “All the same, we’re surely not going to organize a battue with lanterns and rouse the whole district for the sake of finding a woman . . .”
“Yes, but that woman . . .”
Colonel Fakhi seemed exasperated. He turned to the prisoner:
“You’re in luck, you old rascal! This is the second time to-day that minx of yours has slipped through my fingers! Did she tell you what happened this afternoon? Oh, if it hadn’t been for an infernal officer who happened to be passing! . . . But I’ll get hold of him yet and he shall pay dearly for his interference. . . .”
Patrice clenched his fists with fury. He understood: Coralie was hiding in her own house. Surprised by the sudden arrival of the five men, she had managed to climb out of her window and, making her way along the terrace to the steps, had gone to the part of the house opposite the rooms that were in use and taken refuge in the gallery of the library, where she was able to witness the terrible assault levied at her husband.
“Her husband!” thought Patrice, with a shudder. “Her husband!”
And, if he still entertained any doubts on the subject, the hurried course of events soon removed them, for the leader began to chuckle:
“Yes, Essarès, old man, I confess that she attracts me more than I can tell you; and, as I failed to catch her earlier in the day, I did hope this evening, as soon as I had settled my business with you, to settle something infinitely more agreeable with your wife. Not to mention that, once in my power, the little woman would be serving me as a hostage and that I would only have restored her to you — oh, safe and sound, believe me! — after specific performance of our agreement. And you would have run straight, Essarès! For you love your Coralie passionately! And quite right too!”
He went to the right-hand side of the fireplace and, touching a switch, lit an electric lamp under a reflector between the third and fourth windows. There was a companion picture here to Essarès’ portrait, but it was covered over. The leader drew the curtain, and Coralie appeared in the full light.
“The monarch of all she surveys! The idol! The witch! The pearl of pearls! The imperial diamond of Essarès Bey, banker! Isn’t she beautiful? I ask you. Admire the delicate outline of her face, the purity of that oval; and the pretty neck; and those graceful shoulders. Essarès, there’s not a favorite in the country we come from who can hold a candle to your Coralie! My Coralie, soon! For I shall know how to find her. Ah, Coralie, Coralie! . . .”
Patrice looked across at her, and it seemed to him that her face was reddened with a blush of shame. He himself was shaken by indignation and anger at each insulting word. It was a violent enough sorrow to him to know that Coralie was the wife of another; and added to this sorrow was his rage at seeing her thus exposed to these men’s gaze and promised as a helpless prey to whosoever should prove himself the strongest.
At the same time, he wondered why Coralie remained in the room. Supposing that she could not leave the garden, nevertheless she was free to move about in that part of the house and might well have opened a window and called for help. What prevented her from doing so? Of course she did not love her husband. If she had loved him, she would have faced every danger to defend him. But how was it possible for her to allow that man to be tortured, worse still, to be present at his sufferings, to contemplate that most hideous of sights and to listen to his yells of pain?
“Enough of this nonsense!” cried the leader, pulling the curtain back into its place. “Coralie, you shall be my final reward; but I must first win you. Comrades, to work; let’s finish our friend’s job. First of all, twenty inches nearer, no more. Good! Does it burn, Essarès? All the same, it’s not more than you can stand. Bear up, old fellow.”
He unfastened the prisoner’s right arm, put a little table by his side, laid a pencil and paper on it and continued:
“There’s writing-materials for you. As your gag prevents you from speaking, write. You know what’s wanted of you, don’t you? Scribble a few letters, and you’re free. Do you consent? No? Comrades, three inches nearer.”
He moved away and stooped over the secretary, whom Patrice, by the brighter light, had recognized as the old fellow who sometimes escorted Coralie to the hospital.
“As for you, Siméon,” he said, “you shall come to no harm. I know that you are devoted to your master, but I also know that he tells you none of his private affairs. On the other hand, I am certain that you will keep silent as to all this, because a single word of betrayal would involve your master’s ruin even more than ours. That’s understood between us, isn’t it? Well, why don’t you answer? Have they squeezed your throat a bit too tight with their cords? Wait, I’ll give you some air. . . .”
Meanwhile the ugly work at the fireplace pursued its course. The two feet were reddened by the heat until it seemed almost as though the bright flames of the fire were glowing through them. The sufferer exerted all his strength in trying to bend his legs and to draw back; and a dull, continuous moan came through his gag.
“Oh, hang it all!” thought Patrice. “Are we going to let him roast like this, like a chicken on a spit?”
He looked at Coralie. She did not stir. Her face was distorted beyond recognition, and her eyes
seemed fascinated by the terrifying sight.
“Couple of inches nearer!” cried the leader, from the other end of the room, as he unfastened Siméon’s bonds.
The order was executed. The victim gave such a yell that Patrice’s blood froze in his veins. But, at the same moment, he became aware of something that had not struck him so far, or at least he had attached no significance to it. The prisoner’s hand, as the result of a sequence of little movements apparently due to nervous twitches, had seized the opposite edge of the table, while his arm rested on the marble top. And gradually, unseen by the torturers, all whose efforts were directed to keeping his legs in position, or by the leader, who was still engaged with Siméon, this hand opened a drawer which swung on a hinge, dipped into the drawer, took out a revolver and, resuming its original position with a jerk, hid the weapon in the chair.
The act, or rather the intention which it indicated, was foolhardy in the extreme, for, when all was said, reduced to his present state of helplessness, the man could not hope for victory against five adversaries, all free and all armed. Nevertheless, as Patrice looked at the glass in which he beheld him, he saw a fierce determination pictured in the man’s face.
“Another two inches,” said Colonel Fakhi, as he walked back to the fireplace.
He examined the condition of the flesh and said, with a laugh:
“The skin is blistering in places; the veins are ready to burst. Essarès Bey, you can’t be enjoying yourself, and it strikes me that you mean to do the right thing at last. Have you started scribbling yet? No? And don’t you mean to? Are you still hoping? Counting on your wife, perhaps? Come, come, you must see that, even if she has succeeded in escaping, she won’t say anything! Well, then, are you humbugging me, or what? . . .”
He was seized with a sudden burst of rage and shouted:
“Shove his feet into the fire! And let’s have a good smell of burning for once! Ah, you would defy me, would you? Well, wait a bit, old chap, and let me have a go at you! I’ll cut you off an ear or two: you know, the way we have in our country!”
He drew from his waistcoat a dagger that gleamed in the firelight. His face was hideous with animal cruelty. He gave a fierce cry, raised his arm and stood over the other relentlessly.
But, swift as his movement was, Essarès was before him. The revolver, quickly aimed, was discharged with a loud report. The dagger dropped from the colonel’s hand. For two or three seconds he maintained his threatening attitude, with one arm lifted on high and a haggard look in his eyes, as though he did not quite understand what had happened to him. And then, suddenly, he fell upon his victim in a huddled heap, paralyzing his arm with the full weight of his body, at the moment when Essarès was taking aim at one of the other confederates.
He was still breathing:
“Oh, the brute, the brute!” he panted. “He’s killed me! . . . But you’ll lose by it, Essarès. . . . I was prepared for this. If I don’t come home to-night, the prefect of police will receive a letter. . . . They’ll know about your treason, Essarès . . . all your story . . . your plans. . . . Oh, you devil! . . . And what a fool! . . . We could so easily have come to terms. . . .”
He muttered a few inaudible words and rolled down to the floor. It was all over.
A moment of stupefaction was produced not so much by this unexpected tragedy as by the revelation which the leader had made before dying and by the thought of that letter, which no doubt implicated the aggressors as well as their victim. Bournef had disarmed Essarès. The latter, now that the chair was no longer held in position, had succeeded in bending his legs. No one moved.
Meanwhile, the sense of terror which the whole scene had produced seemed rather to increase with the silence. On the ground was the corpse, with the blood flowing on the carpet. Not far away lay Siméon’s motionless form. Then there was the prisoner, still bound in front of the flames waiting to devour his flesh. And standing near him were the four butchers, hesitating perhaps what to do next, but showing in every feature an implacable resolution to defeat the enemy by all and every means.
His companions glanced at Bournef, who seemed the kind of man to go any length. He was a short, stout, powerfully-built man; his upper lip bristled with the mustache which had attracted Patrice Belval’s attention. He was less cruel in appearance than his chief, less elegant in his manner and less masterful, but displayed far greater coolness and self-command. As for the colonel, his accomplices seemed not to trouble about him. The part which they were playing dispensed them from showing any empty compassion.
At last Bournef appeared to have made up his mind how to act. He went to his hat, the gray-felt hat lying near the door, turned back the lining and took from it a tiny coil the sight of which made Patrice start. It was a slender red cord, exactly like that which he had found round the neck of Mustapha Rovalaïof, the first accomplice captured by Ya-Bon.
Bournef unrolled the cord, took it by the two buckles, tested its strength across his knee and then, going back to Essarès, slipped it over his neck after first removing his gag.
“Essarès,” he said, with a calmness which was more impressive than the colonel’s violence and sneers, “Essarès, I shall not put you to any pain. Torture is a revolting process; and I shall not have recourse to it. You know what to do; I know what to do. A word on your side, an action on my side; and the thing is done. The word is the yes or no which you will now speak. The action which I shall accomplish in reply to your yes or no will mean either your release or else . . .”
He stopped for a second or two. Then he declared:
“Or else your death.”
The brief phrase was uttered very simply but with a firmness that gave it the full significance of an irrevocable sentence. It was clear that Essarès was faced with a catastrophe which he could no longer avoid save by submitting absolutely. In less than a minute, he would have spoken or he would be dead.
Once again Patrice fixed his eyes on Coralie, ready to interfere should he perceive in her any other feeling than one of passive terror. But her attitude did not change. She was therefore accepting the worst, it appeared, even though this meant her husband’s death; and Patrice held his hand accordingly.
“Are we all agreed?” Bournef asked, turning to his accomplices.
“Quite,” said one of them.
“Do you take your share of the responsibility?”
“We do.”
Bournef brought his hands together and crossed them, which had the result of knotting the cord round Essarès’ neck. Then he pulled slightly, so as to make the pressure felt, and asked, unemotionally:
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
There was a murmur of satisfaction. The accomplices heaved a breath; and Bournef nodded his head with an air of approval:
“Ah, so you accept! It was high time: I doubt if any one was ever nearer death than you were, Essarès.” Retaining his hold of the cord, he continued, “Very well. You will speak. But I know you; and your answer surprises me, for I told the colonel that not even the certainty of death would make you confess your secret. Am I wrong?”
“No,” replied Essarès. “Neither death nor torture.”
“Then you have something different to propose?”
“Yes.”
“Something worth our while?”
“Yes. I suggested it to the colonel just now, when you were out of the room. But, though he was willing to betray you and go halves with me in the secret, he refused the other thing.”
“Why should I accept it?”
“Because you must take it or leave it and because you will understand what he did not.”
“It’s a compromise, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
Bournef shrugged his shoulders:
“A few thousand-franc notes, I expect. And you imagine that Bournef and his friends will be such fools? . . . Come, Essarès, why do you want us to compromise? We know your secret alm
ost entirely. . . .”
“You know what it is, but not how to use it. You don’t know how to get at it; and that’s just the point.”
“We shall discover it.”
“Never.”
“Yes, your death will make it easier for us.”
“My death? Thanks to the information lodged by the colonel, in a few hours you will be tracked down and most likely caught: in any case, you will be unable to pursue your search. Therefore you have hardly any choice. It’s the money which I’m offering you, or else . . . prison.”
“And, if we accept,” asked Bournef, to whom the argument seemed to appeal, “when shall we be paid?”
“At once.”
“Then the money is here?”
“Yes.”
“A contemptible sum, as I said before?”
“No, a much larger sum than you hope for; infinitely larger.”
“How much?”
“Four millions.”
CHAPTER V. HUSBAND AND WIFE
THE ACCOMPLICES STARTED, as though they had received an electric shock. Bournef darted forward:
“What did you say?”
“I said four millions, which means a million for each of you.”
“Look here! . . . Do you mean it? . . . Four millions? . . .”
“Four millions is what I said.”
The figure was so gigantic and the proposal so utterly unexpected that the accomplices had the same feeling which Patrice Belval on his side underwent. They suspected a trap; and Bournef could not help saying:
“The offer is more than we expected. . . . And I am wondering what induced you to make it.”
“Would you have been satisfied with less?”
“Yes,” said Bournef, candidly.
“Unfortunately, I can’t make it less. I have only one means of escaping death; and that is to open my safe for you. And my safe contains four bundles of a thousand bank-notes each.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 192
