Bournef could not get over his astonishment and became more and more suspicious.
“How do you know that, after taking the four millions, we shall not insist on more?”
“Insist on what? The secret of the site?”
“Yes.”
“Because you know that I would as soon die as tell it you. The four millions are the maximum. Do you want them or don’t you? I ask for no promise in return, no oath of any kind, for I am convinced that, when you have filled your pockets, you will have but one thought, to clear off, without handicapping yourselves with a murder which might prove your undoing.”
The argument was so unanswerable that Bournef ceased discussing and asked:
“Is the safe in this room?”
“Yes, between the first and second windows, behind my portrait.”
Bournef took down the picture and said:
“I see nothing.”
“It’s all right. The lines of the safe are marked by the moldings of the central panel. In the middle you will see what looks like a rose, not of wood but of iron; and there are four others at the four corners of the panel. These four turn to the right, by successive notches, forming a word which is the key to the lock, the word Cora.”
“The first four letters of Coralie?” asked Bournef, following Essarès’ instructions as he spoke.
“No,” said Essarès Bey, “the first four letters of the Coran. Have you done that?”
After a moment, Bournef answered:
“Yes, I’ve finished. And the key?”
“There’s no key. The fifth letter of the word, the letter N, is the letter of the central rose.”
Bournef turned this fifth rose; and presently a click was heard.
“Now pull,” said Essarès. “That’s it. The safe is not deep: it’s dug in one of the stones of the front wall. Put in your hand. You’ll find four pocket-books.”
It must be admitted that Patrice Belval expected to see something startling interrupt Bournef’s quest and hurl him into some pit suddenly opened by Essarès’ trickery. And the three confederates seemed to share this unpleasant apprehension, for they were gray in the face, while Bournef himself appeared to be working very cautiously and suspiciously.
At last he turned round and came and sat beside Essarès. In his hands he held a bundle of four pocket-books, short but extremely bulky and bound together with a canvas strap. He unfastened the buckle of the strap and opened one of the pocket-books.
His knees shook under their precious burden, and, when he had taken a huge sheaf of notes from one of the compartments, his hands were like the hands of a very old man trembling with fever.
“Thousand-franc notes,” he murmured. “Ten packets of thousand-franc notes.”
Brutally, like men prepared to fight one another, each of the other three laid hold of a pocket-book, felt inside and mumbled:
“Ten packets . . . they’re all there. . . . Thousand-franc notes . . .”
And one of them forthwith cried, in a choking voice:
“Let’s clear out! . . . Let’s go!”
A sudden fear was sending them off their heads. They could not imagine that Essarès would hand over such a fortune to them unless he had some plan which would enable him to recover it before they had left the room. That was a certainty. The ceiling would come down on their heads. The walls would close up and crush them to death, while sparing their unfathomable adversary.
Nor had Patrice Belval any doubt of it. The disaster was preparing. Essarès’ revenge was inevitably at hand. A man like him, a fighter as able as he appeared to be, does not so easily surrender four million francs if he has not some scheme at the back of his head. Patrice felt himself breathing heavily. His present excitement was more violent than any with which he had thrilled since the very beginning of the tragic scenes which he had been witnessing; and he saw that Coralie’s face was as anxious as his own.
Meanwhile Bournef partially recovered his composure and, holding back his companions, said:
“Don’t be such fools! He would be capable, with old Siméon, of releasing himself and running after us.”
Using only one hand, for the other was clutching a pocket-book, all four fastened Essarès’ arm to the chair, while he protested angrily:
“You idiots! You came here to rob me of a secret of immense importance, as you well knew, and you lose your heads over a trifle of four millions. Say what you like, the colonel had more backbone than that!”
They gagged him once more and Bournef gave him a smashing blow with his fist which laid him unconscious.
“That makes our retreat safe,” said Bournef.
“What about the colonel?” asked one of the others. “Are we to leave him here?”
“Why not?”
But apparently he thought this unwise; for he added:
“On second thoughts, no. It’s not to our interest to compromise Essarès any further. What we must do, Essarès as well as ourselves, is to make ourselves scarce as fast as we can, before that damned letter of the colonel’s is delivered at headquarters, say before twelve o’clock in the day.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“We’ll take the colonel with us in the motor and drop him anywhere. The police must make what they can of it.”
“And his papers?”
“We’ll look through his pockets as we go. Lend me a hand.”
They bandaged the wound to stop the flow of blood, took up the body, each holding it by an arm or leg, and walked out without any one of them letting go his pocket-book for a second.
Patrice Belval heard them pass through another room and then tramp heavily over the echoing flags of a hall.
“This is the moment,” he said. “Essarès or Siméon will press a button and the rogues will be nabbed.”
Essarès did not budge.
Siméon did not budge.
Patrice heard all the sounds accompanying their departure: the slamming of the carriage-gate, the starting-up of the engine and the drone of the car as it moved away. And that was all. Nothing had happened. The confederates were getting off with their four millions.
A long silence followed, during which Patrice remained on tenterhooks. He did not believe that the drama had reached its last phase; and he was so much afraid of the unexpected which might still occur that he determined to make Coralie aware of his presence.
A fresh incident prevented him. Coralie had risen to her feet.
Her face no longer wore its expression of horror and affright, but Patrice was perhaps more scared at seeing her suddenly animated with a sinister energy that gave an unwonted sparkle to her eyes and set her eyebrows and her lips twitching. He realized that Coralie was preparing to act.
In what way? Was this the end of the tragedy?
She walked to the corner on her side of the gallery where one of the two spiral staircases stood and went down slowly, without, however, trying to deaden the sound of her feet. Her husband could not help hearing her. Patrice, moreover, saw in the mirror that he had lifted his head and was following her with his eyes.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs. But there was no indecision in her attitude. Her plan was obviously quite clear; and she was only thinking out the best method of putting it into execution.
“Ah!” whispered Patrice to himself, quivering all over. “What are you doing, Little Mother Coralie?”
He gave a start. The direction in which Coralie’s eyes were turned, together with the strange manner in which they stared, revealed her secret resolve to him. She had caught sight of the dagger, lying on the floor where it had slipped from the colonel’s grasp.
Not for a second did Patrice believe that she meant to pick up that dagger with any other thought than to stab her husband. The intention of murder was so plainly written on her livid features that, even before she stirred a limb, Essarès was seized with a fit of terror and strained every muscle to break the bonds that hampered his movements.
She came forward, st
opped once more and, suddenly bending, seized the dagger. Without waiting, she took two more steps. These brought her to the right of the chair in which Essarès lay. He had only to turn his head a little way to see her. And an awful minute passed, during which the husband and wife looked into each other’s eyes.
The whirl of thoughts, of fear, of hatred, of vagrant and conflicting passions that passed through the brains of her who was about to kill and him who was about to die, was reproduced in Patrice Belval’s mind and deep down in his inner consciousness. What was he to do? What part ought he to play in the tragedy that was being enacted before his eyes? Should he intervene? Was it his duty to prevent Coralie from committing the irreparable deed? Or should he commit it himself by breaking the man’s head with a bullet from his revolver?
Yet, from the beginning, Patrice had really been swayed by a feeling which, mingling with all the others, gradually paralyzed him and rendered any inward struggle illusory: a feeling of curiosity driven to its utmost pitch. It was not the everyday curiosity of unearthing a squalid secret, but the higher curiosity of penetrating the mysterious soul of a woman whom he loved, who was carried away by the rush of events and who suddenly, becoming once more mistress of herself, was of her own accord and with impressive calmness taking the most fearful resolution. Thereupon other questions forced themselves upon him. What prompted her to take this resolution? Was it revenge? Was it punishment? Was it the gratification of hatred?
Patrice Belval remained where he was.
Coralie raised her arm. Her husband, in front of her, no longer even attempted to make those movements of despair which indicate a last effort. There was neither entreaty nor menace in his eyes. He waited in resignation.
Not far from them, old Siméon, still bound, half-lifted himself on his elbows and stared at them in dismay.
Coralie raised her arm again. Her whole frame seemed to grow larger and taller. An invisible force appeared to strengthen and stiffen her whole being, summoning all her energies to the service of her will. She was on the point of striking. Her eyes sought the place at which she should strike.
Yet her eyes became less hard and less dark. It even seemed to Patrice that there was a certain hesitation in her gaze and that she was recovering not her usual gentleness, but a little of her womanly grace.
“Ah, Little Mother Coralie,” murmured Patrice, “you are yourself again! You are the woman I know. Whatever right you may think you have to kill that man, you will not kill him . . . and I prefer it so.”
Slowly Coralie’s arm dropped to her side. Her features relaxed. Patrice could guess the immense relief which she felt at escaping from the obsessing purpose that was driving her to murder. She looked at her dagger with astonishment, as though she were waking from a hideous nightmare. And, bending over her husband she began to cut his bonds.
She did so with visible repugnance, avoiding his touch, as it were, and shunning his eyes. The cords were severed one by one. Essarès was free.
What happened next was in the highest measure unexpected. With not a word of thanks to his wife, with not a word of anger either, this man who had just undergone the most cruel torture and whose body still throbbed with pain hurriedly tottered barefoot to a telephone standing on a table. He was like a hungry man who suddenly sees a piece of bread and snatches at it greedily as the means of saving himself and returning to life. Panting for breath, Essarès took down the receiver and called out:
“Central 40.39.”
Then he turned abruptly to his wife:
“Go away,” he said.
She seemed not to hear. She had knelt down beside old Siméon and was setting him free also.
Essarès at the telephone began to lose patience:
“Are you there? . . . Are you there? . . . I want that number to-day, please, not next week! It’s urgent. . . . 40.39. . . . It’s urgent, I tell you!”
And, turning to Coralie, he repeated, in an imperious tone:
“Go away!”
She made a sign that she would not go away and that, on the contrary, she meant to listen. He shook his fist at her and again said:
“Go away, go away! . . . I won’t have you stay in the room. You go away too, Siméon.”
Old Siméon got up and moved towards Essarès. It looked as though he wished to speak, no doubt to protest. But his action was undecided; and, after a moment’s reflection, he turned to the door and went without uttering a word.
“Go away, will you, go away!” Essarès repeated, his whole body expressing menace.
But Coralie came nearer to him and crossed her arms obstinately and defiantly. At that moment, Essarès appeared to get his call, for he asked:
“Is that 40.39? Ah, yes . . .”
He hesitated. Coralie’s presence obviously displeased him greatly, and he was about to say things which he did not wish her to know. But time, no doubt, was pressing. He suddenly made up his mind and, with both receivers glued to his ears, said, in English:
“Is that you, Grégoire? . . . Essarès speaking. . . . Hullo! . . . Yes, I’m speaking from the Rue Raynouard. . . . There’s no time to lose. . . . Listen. . . .”
He sat down and went on:
“Look here. Mustapha’s dead. So is the colonel. . . . Damn it, don’t interrupt, or we’re done for! . . . Yes, done for; and you too. . . . Listen, they all came, the colonel, Bournef, the whole gang, and robbed me by means of violence and threats. . . . I finished the colonel, only he had written to the police, giving us all away. The letter will be delivered soon. So you understand, Bournef and his three ruffians are going to disappear. They’ll just run home and pack up their papers; and I reckon they’ll be with you in an hour, or two hours at most. It’s the refuge they’re sure to make for. They prepared it themselves, without suspecting that you and I know each other. So there’s no doubt about it. They’re sure to come. . . .”
Essarès stopped. He thought for a moment and resumed:
“You still have a second key to each of the rooms which they use as bedrooms? Is that so? . . . Good. And you have duplicates of the keys that open the cupboards in the walls of those rooms, haven’t you? . . . Capital. Well, as soon as they get to sleep, or rather as soon as you are certain that they are sound asleep, go in and search the cupboards. Each of them is bound to hide his share of the booty there. You’ll find it quite easily. It’s the four pocket-books which you know of. Put them in your bag, clear out as fast as you can and join me.”
There was another pause. This time it was Essarès listening. He replied:
“What’s that you say? Rue Raynouard? Here? Join me here? Why, you must be mad! Do you imagine that I can stay now, after the colonel’s given me away? No, go and wait for me at the hotel, near the station. I shall be there by twelve o’clock or one in the afternoon, perhaps a little later. Don’t be uneasy. Have your lunch quietly and we’ll talk things over . . . Hullo! Did you hear? . . . Very well, I’ll see that everything’s all right. Good-by for the present.”
The conversation was finished; and it looked as if Essarès, having taken all his measures to recover possession of the four million francs, had no further cause for anxiety. He hung up the receiver, went back to the lounge-chair in which he had been tortured, wheeled it round with its back to the fire, sat down, turned down the bottoms of his trousers and pulled on his socks and shoes, all a little painfully and accompanied by a few grimaces, but calmly, in the manner of a man who has no need to hurry.
Coralie kept her eyes fixed on his face.
“I really ought to go,” thought Captain Belval, who felt a trifle embarrassed at the thought of overhearing what the husband and wife were about to say.
Nevertheless he stayed. He was not comfortable in his mind on Coralie’s account.
Essarès fired the first shot:
“Well,” he asked, “what are you looking at me like that for?”
“So it’s true?” she murmured, maintaining her attitude of defiance. “You leave me no possibility of doubt?”
“Why should I lie?” he snarled. “I should not have telephoned in your hearing if I hadn’t been sure that you were here all the time.”
“I was up there.”
“Then you heard everything?”
“Yes.”
“And saw everything?”
“Yes.”
“And, seeing the torture which they inflicted on me and hearing my cries, you did nothing to defend me, to defend me against torture, against death!”
“No, for I knew the truth.”
“What truth?”
“The truth which I suspected without daring to admit it.”
“What truth?” he repeated, in a louder voice.
“The truth about your treason.”
“You’re mad. I’ve committed no treason.”
“Oh, don’t juggle with words! I confess that I don’t know the whole truth: I did not understand all that those men said or what they were demanding of you. But the secret which they tried to force from you was a treasonable secret.”
“A man can only commit treason against his country,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not a Frenchman.”
“You were a Frenchman!” she cried. “You asked to be one and you became one. You married me, a Frenchwoman, and you live in France and you’ve made your fortune in France. It’s France that you’re betraying.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! And for whose benefit?”
“I don’t know that, either. For months, for years indeed, the colonel, Bournef, all your former accomplices and yourself have been engaged on an enormous work — yes, enormous, it’s their own word — and now it appears that you are fighting over the profits of the common enterprise and the others accuse you of pocketing those profits for yourself alone and of keeping a secret that doesn’t belong to you. So that I seem to see something dirtier and more hateful even than treachery, something worthy of a common pickpocket. . . .”
The man struck the arm of his chair with his fist:
“Enough!” he cried.
Coralie seemed in no way alarmed:
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 193
