And Don Luis continued, unrelentingly and without intermission:
“Come along, come along! . . . It’s a mere nothing and it means eternal rest! . . . How good it feels, already! To forget! To cease fighting! . . . Think of the gold which you have lost. . . . Three hundred millions gone for ever! . . . And Coralie lost as well. Mother and daughter: you can’t have either. In that case, life is nothing but a snare and a delusion. You may as well leave it. Come, one little effort, one little movement. . . .”
That little movement the miscreant made. Hardly knowing what he did, he pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the room; and Essarès fell forward, with his knees on the floor. Don Luis had to spring to one side to escape being splashed by the blood that trickled from the man’s shattered head.
“By Jove!” he cried. “The blood of vermin like that would have brought me ill-luck. And, Lord, what crawling vermin it is! . . . Upon my word, I believe that this makes one more good action I’ve done in my life and that this suicide entitles me to a little seat in Paradise. What say you, captain?”
CHAPTER XIX. FIAT LUX!
ON THE EVENING of the same day, Patrice was pacing up and down the Quai de Passy. It was nearly six o’clock. From time to time, a tram-car passed, or some motor-lorry. There were very few people about on foot. Patrice had the pavement almost to himself.
He had not seen Don Luis Perenna since the morning, had merely received a line in which Don Luis asked him to have Ya-Bon’s body moved into the Essarès’ house and afterwards to meet him on the quay above Berthou’s Wharf. The time appointed for the meeting was near at hand and Patrice was looking forward to this interview in which the truth would be revealed to him at last. He partly guessed the truth, but no little darkness and any number of unsolved problems remained. The tragedy was played out. The curtain had fallen on the villain’s death. All was well: there was nothing more to fear, no more pitfalls in store for them. The formidable enemy was laid low. But Patrice’s anxiety was intense as he waited for the moment when light would be cast freely and fully upon the tragedy.
“A few words,” he said to himself, “a few words from that incredible person known as Arsène Lupin, will clear up the mystery. It will not take him long. He will be gone in an hour. Will he take the secret of the gold with him, I wonder? Will he solve the secret of the golden triangle for me? And how will he keep the gold for himself? How will he take it away?”
A motor-car arrived from the direction of the Trocadéro. It slowed down and stopped beside the pavement. It must be Don Luis, thought Patrice. But, to his great surprise, he recognized M. Masseron, who opened the door and came towards him with outstretched hand:
“Well, captain, how are you? I’m punctual for the appointment, am I not? But, I say, have you been wounded in the head again?”
“Yes, an accident of no importance,” replied Patrice. “But what appointment are you speaking of?”
“Why, the one you gave me, of course!”
“I gave you no appointment.”
“Oh, I say!” said M. Masseron. “What does this mean? Why, here’s the note they brought me at the police-office: ‘Captain Belval’s compliments to M. Masseron. The problem of the golden triangle is solved. The eighteen hundred bags are at his disposal. Will he please come to the Quai de Passy, at six o’clock, with full powers from the government to accept the conditions of delivery. It would be well if he brought with him twenty powerful detectives, of whom half should be posted a hundred yards on one side of Essarès’ property and the other half on the other.’ There you are. Is it clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” said Patrice, “but I never sent you that note.”
“Who sent it then?”
“An extraordinary man who deciphered all those problems like so many children’s riddles and who certainly will be here himself to bring you the solution.”
“What’s his name?”
“I sha’n’t say.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that! Secrets are hard to keep in war-time.”
“Very easy, on the contrary, sir,” said a voice behind M. Masseron. “All you need do is to make up your mind to it.”
M. Masseron and Patrice turned round and saw a gentleman dressed in a long, black overcoat, cut like a frock-coat, and a tall collar which gave him a look of an English clergyman.
“This is the friend I was speaking of,” said Patrice, though he had some difficulty in recognizing Don Luis. “He twice saved my life and also that of the lady whom I am going to marry. I will answer for him in every respect.”
M. Masseron bowed; and Don Luis at once began, speaking with a slight accent:
“Sir, your time is valuable and so is mine, for I am leaving Paris to-night and France to-morrow. My explanation therefore will be brief. I will pass over the drama itself, of which you have followed the main vicissitudes so far. It came to an end this morning. Captain Belval will tell you all about it. I will merely add that our poor Ya-Bon is dead and that you will find three other bodies: that of Grégoire, whose real name was Mme. Mosgranem, in the barge over there; that of one Vacherot, a hall-porter, in some corner of a block of flats at 18, Rue Guimard; and lastly the body of Siméon Diodokis, in Dr. Géradec’s private hospital on the Boulevard de Montmorency.”
“Old Siméon?” asked M. Masseron in great surprise.
“Old Siméon has killed himself. Captain Belval will give you every possible information about that person and his real identity; and I think you will agree with me that this business will have to be hushed up. But, as I said, we will pass over all this. There remains the question of the gold, which, if I am not mistaken, interests you more than anything else. Have you brought your men?”
“Yes, I have. But why? The hiding-place, even after you have told me where it is, will be what it was before, undiscovered by those who do not know it.”
“Certainly; but, as the number of those who do know it increases, the secret may slip out. In any case that is one of my two conditions.”
“As you see, it is accepted. What is the other?”
“A more serious condition, sir, so serious indeed that, whatever powers may have been conferred upon you, I doubt whether they will be sufficient.”
“Let me hear; then we shall see.”
“Very well.”
And Don Luis, speaking in a phlegmatic tone, as though he were telling the most unimportant story, calmly set forth his incredible proposal:
“Two months ago, sir, thanks to my connection with the Near East and to my influence in certain Ottoman circles, I persuaded the clique which rules Turkey to-day to accept the idea of a separate peace. It was simply a question of a few hundred millions for distribution. I had the offer transmitted to the Allies, who rejected it, certainly not for financial reasons, but for reasons of policy, which it is not for me to judge. But I am not content to suffer this little diplomatic check. I failed in my first negotiation; I do not mean to fail in the second. That is why I am taking my precautions.”
He paused and then resumed, while his voice took on a rather more serious tone:
“At this moment, in April, 1915, as you are well aware, conferences are in progress between the Allies and the last of the great European powers that has remained neutral. These conferences are going to succeed; and they will succeed because the future of that power demands it and because the whole nation is uplifted with enthusiasm. Among the questions raised is one which forms the object of a certain divergency of opinion. I mean the question of money. This foreign power is asking us for a loan of three hundred million francs in gold, while making it quite clear that a refusal on our part would in no way affect a decision which is already irrevocably taken. Well, I have three hundred millions in gold; I have them at my command; and I desire to place them at the disposal of our new allies. This is my second and, in reality, my only condition.”
M. Masseron seemed utterly taken aback:
“But, my dear sir,” he said, “these are matters quite outside
our province; they must be examined and decided by others, not by us.”
“Every one has the right to dispose of his money as he pleases.”
M. Masseron made a gesture of distress:
“Come, sir, think a moment. You yourself said that this power was only putting forward the question as a secondary one.”
“Yes, but the mere fact that it is being discussed will delay the conclusion of the agreement for a few days.”
“Well, a few days will make no difference, surely?”
“Sir, a few hours will make a difference.”
“But why?”
“For a reason which you do not know and which nobody knows . . . except myself and a few people some fifteen hundred miles away.”
“What reason?”
“The Russians have no munitions left.”
M. Masseron shrugged his shoulders impatiently. What had all this to do with the matter?
“The Russians have no munitions left,” repeated Don Luis. “Now there is a tremendous battle being fought over there, a battle which will be decided not many hours hence. The Russian front will be broken and the Russian troops will retreat and retreat . . . Heaven knows when they’ll stop retreating! Of course, this assured, this inevitable contingency will have no influence on the wishes of the great power of which we are talking. Nevertheless, that nation has in its midst a very considerable party on the side of neutrality, a party which is held in check, but none the less violent for that. Think what a weapon you will place in its hands by postponing the agreement! Think of the difficulties which you are making for rulers preparing to go to war! It would be an unpardonable mistake, from which I wish to save my country. That is why I have laid down this condition.”
M. Masseron seemed quite discomforted. Waving his hands and shaking his head, he mumbled:
“It’s impossible. Such a condition as that will never be accepted. It will take time, it will need discussion. . . .”
A hand was laid on his arm by some one who had come up a moment before and who had listened to Don Luis’ little speech. Its owner had alighted from a car which was waiting some way off; and, to Patrice’s great astonishment, his presence had aroused no opposition on the part of either M. Masseron or Don Luis Perenna. He was a man well-advanced in years, with a powerful, lined face.
“My dear Masseron,” he said, “it seems to me that you are not looking at the question from the right point of view.”
“That’s what I think, monsieur le président,” said Don Luis.
“Ah, do you know me, sir?”
“M. Valenglay, I believe? I had the honor of calling on you some years ago, sir, when you were president of the council.”
“Yes, I thought I remembered . . . though I can’t say exactly . . .”
“Please don’t tax your memory, sir. The past does not concern us. What matters is that you should be of my opinion.”
“I don’t know that I am of your opinion. But I consider that this makes no difference. And that is what I was telling you, my dear Masseron. It’s not a question of knowing whether you ought to discuss this gentleman’s conditions. It’s a question of accepting them or refusing them without discussion. There’s no bargain to be driven in the circumstances. A bargain presupposes that each party has something to offer. Now we have no offer to make, whereas this gentleman comes with his offer in his hand and says, ‘Would you like three hundred million francs in gold? In that case you must do so-and-so with it. If that doesn’t suit you, good-evening.’ That’s the position, isn’t it, Masseron?”
“Yes, monsieur le président.”
“Well, can you dispense with our friend here? Can you, without his assistance, find the place where the gold is hidden? Observe that he makes things very easy for you by bringing you to the place and almost pointing out the exact spot to you. Is that enough? Have you any hope of discovering the secret which you have been seeking for weeks and months?”
M. Masseron was very frank in his reply:
“No, monsieur le président,” he said, plainly and without hesitation.
“Well, then. . . .”
And, turning to Don Luis:
“And you, sir,” Valenglay asked, “is it your last word?”
“My last word.”
“If we refuse . . . good-evening?”
“You have stated the case precisely, monsieur le président.”
“And, if we accept, will the gold be handed over at once?”
“At once.”
“We accept.”
And, after a slight pause, he repeated:
“We accept. The ambassador shall receive his instructions this evening.”
“Do you give me your word, sir?”
“I give you my word.”
“In that case, we are agreed.”
“We are agreed. Now then! . . .”
All these sentences were uttered rapidly. Not five minutes had elapsed since the former prime minister had appeared upon the scene. Nothing remained to do but for Don Luis to keep his promise.
It was a solemn moment. The four men were standing close together, like acquaintances who have met in the course of a walk and who stop for a minute to exchange their news. Valenglay, leaning with one arm on the parapet overlooking the lower quay, had his face turned to the river and kept raising and lowering his cane above the sand-heap. Patrice and M. Masseron stood silent, with faces a little set.
Don Luis gave a laugh:
“Don’t be too sure, monsieur le président,” he said, “that I shall make the gold rise from the ground with a magic wand or show you a cave in which the bags lie stacked. I always thought those words, ‘the golden triangle,’ misleading, because they suggest something mysterious and fabulous. Now according to me it was simply a question of the space containing the gold, which space would have the shape of a triangle. The golden triangle, that’s it: bags of gold arranged in a triangle, a triangular site. The reality is much simpler, therefore; and you will perhaps be disappointed.”
“I sha’n’t be,” said Valenglay, “if you put me with my face towards the eighteen hundred bags of gold.”
“You’re that now, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. Short of touching the bags of gold, it would be difficult to be nearer to them than you are.”
For all his self-control, Valenglay could not conceal his surprise:
“You are not suggesting, I suppose, that I am walking on gold and that we have only to lift up the flags of the pavement or to break down this parapet?”
“That would be removing obstacles, sir, whereas there is no obstacle between you and what you are seeking.”
“No obstacle!”
“None, monsieur le président, for you have only to make the least little movement in order to touch the bags.”
“The least little movement!” said Valenglay, mechanically repeating Don Luis’ words.
“I call a little movement what one can make without an effort, almost without stirring, such as dipping one’s stick into a sheet of water, for instance, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Well, or a heap of sand.”
Valenglay remained silent and impassive, with at most a slight shiver passing across his shoulders. He did not make the suggested movement. He had no need to make it. He understood.
The others also did not speak a word, struck dumb by the simplicity of the amazing truth which had suddenly flashed upon them like lightning. And, amid this silence, unbroken by protest or sign of incredulity, Don Luis went on quietly talking:
“If you had the least doubt, monsieur le président — and I see that you have not — you would dig your cane, no great distance, twenty inches at most, into the sand beneath you. You would then encounter a resistance which would compel you to stop. That is the bags of gold. There ought to be eighteen hundred of them; and, as you see, they do not make an enormous heap. A kilogram of gold represents three thousand one hundred francs. Therefo
re, according to my calculation, a bag containing approximately fifty kilograms, or one hundred and fifty-five thousand francs done up in rouleaus of a thousand francs, is not a very large bag. Piled one against the other and one on top of the other, the bags represent a bulk of about fifteen cubic yards, no more. If you shape the mass roughly like a triangular pyramid you will have a base each of whose sides would be three yards long at most, or three yards and a half allowing for the space lost between the rouleaus of coins. The height will be that of the wall, nearly. Cover the whole with a layer of sand and you have the heap which lies before your eyes . . .”
Don Luis paused once more before continuing:
“And which has been there for months, monsieur le président, safe from discovery not only by those who were looking for it, but also by accident on the part of a casual passer-by. Just think, a heap of sand! Who would dream of digging a hole in it to see what is going on inside? The dogs sniff at it, the children play beside it and make mudpies, an occasional tramp lies down against it and takes a snooze. The rain softens it, the sun hardens it, the snow whitens it all over; but all this happens on the surface, in the part that shows. Inside reigns impenetrable mystery, darkness unexplored. There is not a hiding-place in the world to equal the inside of a sand heap exposed to view in a public place. The man who thought of using it to hide three hundred millions of gold, monsieur le président, knew what he was about.”
The late prime minister had listened to Don Luis’ explanation without interrupting him. When Don Luis had finished, Valenglay nodded his head once or twice and said:
“He did indeed. But there is one man who is cleverer still.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Yes, there’s the man who guessed that the heap of sand concealed the three hundred million francs. That man is a master, before whom we must all bow.”
Flattered by the compliment, Don Luis raised his hat. Valenglay gave him his hand:
“I can think of no reward worthy of the service which you have done the country.”
“I ask for no reward,” said Don Luis.
“I daresay, sir, but I should wish you at least to be thanked by voices that carry more weight than mine.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 213
