Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  He had moved away and, helping himself with his hands, holding on to the branches of a tree, he climbed up the first layers of rock that formed the grotto on the right. Here he knelt down. There was a small pickaxe lying beside him. He took it and gave three blows to the nearest heap of stones. They came tumbling down in front of the grotto.

  Don Luis sprang from his hiding-place with a roar of terror. He had suddenly realized the position: The grotto, the accumulation of boulders, the piles of granite, everything was so placed that its equilibrium could be shattered at any moment, and that Florence ran the risk of being buried under the rubbish. It was not a question, therefore, of slaying the villain, but of saving Florence on the spot.

  He was halfway across in two or three seconds. But here, in one of those mental flashes which are even quicker than the maddest rush, he became aware that the tracks of trampled grass did not cross the central circus and that the scoundrel had gone round it. Why? That was one of the questions which instinct, ever suspicious, puts, but which reason has not the time to answer. Don Luis went straight ahead. And he had no sooner set foot on the place than the catastrophe occurred.

  It all happened with incredible suddenness, as though he had tried to walk on space and found himself hurled into it. The ground gave way beneath him. The clods of grass separated, and he fell.

  He fell down a hole which was none other than the mouth of a well four feet wide at most, the curb of which had been cut down level with the ground. Only this was what took place: as he was running very fast, his impetus flung him against the opposite wall in such a way that his forearms lay on the outer ledge and his hands were able to clutch at the roots of plants.

  So great was his strength that he might just have been able to drag himself up by his wrists. But responding to the attack, the scoundrel had at once hurried to meet his assailant and was now standing at ten paces from Don Luis, threatening him with his revolver:

  “Don’t move!” he cried, “or I’ll smash you!”

  Don Luis was thus reduced to helplessness, at the risk of receiving the enemy’s fire.

  Their eyes met for a few seconds. The cripple’s were burning with fever, like the eyes of a sick man.

  Crawling along, watching Don Luis’s slightest movement, he came and squatted beside the well. The revolver was levelled in his outstretched hand. And his infernal chuckle rang out again:

  “Lupin! Lupin! That’s done it! Lupin’s dive!… What a mug you must be! I warned you, you know, warned you in blood-red ink. Remember my words: ‘The place of your death is chosen. The snare is laid. Beware, Lupin!’ And here you are! So you’re not in prison? You warded off that stroke, you rogue, you! Fortunately, I foresaw events and took my precautions. What do you say to it? What do you think of my little scheme? I said to myself, ‘All the police will come rushing at my heels. But there’s only one who’s capable of catching me, and that’s Lupin. So we’ll show him the way, we’ll lead him on the leash all along a little path scraped clean by the victim’s body.’

  “And then a few landmarks, scattered here and there. First, the fair damsel’s ring, with a blade of grass twisted round it; farther on a flower without its petals; farther on the marks of five fingers in the ground; next, the sign of the cross.’ No mistaking them, was there? Once you thought me fool enough to give Florence time to play Hop-o’-my-Thumb’s game, it was bound to lead you straight to the mouth of the well, to the clods of turf which I dabbed across it, last month, in anticipation of this windfall.

  “Remember: ‘The snare is laid.’ And a snare after my own style, Lupin; one of the best! Oh, I love getting rid of people with their kind assistance. We work together like friends and partners. You’ve caught the notion, haven’t you?

  “I don’t do my own job. The others do it for me, hanging themselves or giving themselves careless injections — unless they prefer the mouth of a well, as you seem to do, Lupin. My poor old chap, what a sticky mess you’re in! I never saw such a face, never, on my word! Florence, do look at the expression on your swain’s mobile features!”

  He broke off, seized with a fit of laughter that shook his outstretched arm, imparted the most savage look to his face, and set his legs jerking under his body like the legs of a dancing doll. His enemy was growing weaker before his eyes. Don Luis’s fingers, which had first gripped the roots of the grass, were now vainly clutching the stones of the wall. And his shoulders were sinking lower and lower into the well.

  “We’ve done it!” spluttered the villain, in the midst of his convulsions of merriment. “Lord, how good it is to laugh! Especially when one so seldom does. Yes, I’m a wet blanket, I am; a first-rate man at a funeral! You’ve never seen me laugh, Florence, have you? But this time it’s really too amusing. Lupin in his hole and Florence in her grotto; one dancing a jig above the abyss and the other at her last gasp under her mountain. What a sight!

  “Come, Lupin, don’t tire yourself! What’s the use of those grimaces? You’re not afraid of eternity, are you? A good man like you, the Don Quixote of modern times! Come, let yourself go. There’s not even any water in the well to splash about in. No, it’s just a nice little slide into infinity. You can’t so much as hear the sound of a pebble when you drop it in; and just now I threw a piece of lighted paper down and lost sight of it in the dark. Brrrr! It sent a cold shiver down my back!

  “Come, be a man. It’ll only take a moment; and you’ve been through worse than that! … Good, you nearly did it then. You’re making up your mind to it…. I say, Lupin! … Lupin! … Aren’t you going to say good-bye? Not a smile, not a word of thanks? Au revoir, Lupin, an revoir—”

  He ceased. He watched for the appalling end which he had so cleverly prepared and of which all the incidents were following close on one another in accordance with his inflexible will.

  It did not take long. The shoulders had gone down; the chin; and then the mouth convulsed with the death-grin; and then the eyes, drunk with terror; and then the forehead and the hair: the whole head, in short, had disappeared.

  The cripple sat gazing wildly, as though in ecstasy, motionless, with an expression of fierce delight, and without a word that could trouble the silence and interrupt his hatred.

  At the edge of the abyss nothing remained but the hands, the obstinate, stubborn, desperate, heroic hands, the poor, helpless hands which alone still lived, and which, gradually, retreating toward death, yielded and fell back and let go.

  The hands had slipped. For a moment the fingers held on like claws. So natural was the effort which they made that it looked as if they did not even yet despair, unaided, of resuscitating and bringing back to the light of day the corpse already entombed in the darkness. And then they in their turn gave way. And then — and then, suddenly, there was nothing more to be seen and nothing more to be heard.

  The cripple started to his feet, as though released by a spring, and yelled with delight:

  “Oof! That’s done it! Lupin in the bottomless pit! One more adventure finished! Oof!”

  Turning in Florence’s direction, he once more danced his dance of death. He raised himself to his full height and then suddenly crouched down again, throwing about his legs like the grotesque, ragged limbs of a scarecrow. And he sang and whistled and belched forth insults and hideous blasphemies.

  Then he came back to the yawning mouth of the well and, standing some way off, as if still afraid to come nearer, he spat into it three times.

  Nor was this enough for his hatred. There were some broken pieces of statuary on the ground. He took a carved head, rolled it along the grass, and sent it crashing down the well. A little farther away was a stack of old, rusty cannon balls. These also he rolled to the edge and pushed in. Five, ten, fifteen cannon balls went scooting down, one after the other, banging against the walls with a loud and sinister noise which the echo swelled into the angry roar of distant thunder.

  “There, take that, Lupin! I’m sick of you, you dirty cad! That’s for the spokes you put in my wheel, ov
er that damned inheritance! … Here, take this, too!… And this!… And this!… Here’s a chocolate for you in case you’re hungry…. Do you want another? Here you are, old chap! catch!”

  He staggered, seized with a sort of giddiness, and had to squat on his haunches. He was utterly spent. However, obeying a last convulsion, he still found the strength to kneel down by the well, and leaning over the darkness, he stammered, breathlessly:

  “Hi! I say! Corpse! Don’t go knocking at the gate of hell at once!… The little girl’s joining you in twenty minutes…. Yes, that’s it, at four o’clock…. You know I’m a punctual man and keep my appointments to the minute…. She’ll be with you at four o’clock exactly.

  “By the way, I was almost forgetting: the inheritance — you know, Mornington’s hundred millions — well, that’s mine. Why, of course! You can’t doubt that I took all my precautions! Florence will explain everything presently…. It’s very well thought out — you’ll see — you’ll see—”

  He could not get out another word. The last syllables sounded more like hiccoughs. The sweat poured from his hair and his forehead, and he sank to the ground, moaning like a dying man tortured by the last throes of death.

  He remained like that for some minutes, with his head in his hands, shivering all over his body. He appeared to be suffering everywhere, in each anguished muscle, in each sick nerve. Then, under the influence of a thought that seemed to make him act unconsciously, one of his hands crept spasmodically down his side, and, groping, uttering hoarse cries of pain, he managed to take from his pocket and put to his lips a phial out of which he greedily drank two or three mouthfuls.

  He at once revived, as though he had swallowed warmth and strength. His eyes grew calmer, his mouth shaped itself into a horrible smile. He turned to Florence and said:

  “Don’t flatter yourself, pretty one; I’m not gone yet, and I’ve plenty of time to attend to you. And then, after that, there’ll be no more worries, no more of that scheming and fighting that wears one out. A nice, quiet, uneventful life for me! … With a hundred millions one can afford to take life easy, eh, little girl? … Come on, I’m feeling much better!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FLORENCE’S SECRET

  IT WAS TIME for the second act of the tragedy. Don Luis Perenna’s death was to be followed by that of Florence. Like some monstrous butcher, the cripple passed from one to the other with no more compassion than if he were dealing with the oxen in a slaughter-house.

  Still weak in his limbs, he dragged himself to where the girl lay, took a cigarette from a gun-metal case, and, with a final touch of cruelty, said:

  “When this cigarette is quite burnt out, Florence, it will be your turn. Keep your eyes on it. It represents the last minutes of your life reduced to ashes. Keep your eyes on it, Florence, and think.

  “I want you to understand this: all the owners of the estate, and old Langernault in particular, have always considered that the heap of rocks and stones overhanging your head was bound to fall to pieces sooner or later. And I myself, for years, with untiring patience, believing in a favourable opportunity, have amused myself by making it crumble away still more, by undermining it with the rain water, in short, by working at it in such a way that, upon my word, I can’t make out how the thing keeps standing at all. Or, rather, I do understand.

  “The few strokes with the pickaxe which I gave it just now were merely intended for a warning. But I have only to give one more stroke in the right place, and knock out a little brick wedged in between two lumps of stone, for the whole thing to tumble to the ground like a house of cards.

  “A little brick, Florence,” he chuckled, “a tiny little brick which chance placed there, between two blocks of stone, and has kept in position until now. Out comes the brick, down come the blocks, and there’s your catastrophe!”

  He took breath and continued:

  “After that? After that, Florence, this: either the smash will take place in such a way that your body will not even be in sight, if any one should dream of coming here to look for you, or else it will be partly visible, in which case I shall at once cut and destroy the cords with which you are tied.

  “What will the law think then? Simply that Florence Levasseur, a fugitive from justice, hid herself in a grotto which fell upon her and crushed her. That’s all. A few prayers for the rash creature’s soul, and not another word.

  “As for me — as for me, when my work is done and my sweetheart dead — I shall pack my traps, carefully remove all the traces of my coming, smooth every inch of the trampled grass, jump into my motor car, sham death for a little while, and then put in a sensational claim for the hundred millions.”

  He gave a little chuckle, took two or three puffs at his cigarette, and added, calmly:

  “I shall claim the hundred millions and I shall get them. That’s the prettiest part of it. I shall claim them because I’m entitled to them; and I explained to you just now before Master Lupin came interfering, how, from the moment that you were dead, I had the most undeniable legal right to them. And I shall get them, because it is physically impossible to bring up the least sort of proof against me.”

  He moved closer.

  “There’s not a charge that can hurt me. Suspicions, yes, moral presumptions, clues, anything you like, but not a scrap of material evidence. Nobody knows me. One person has seen me as a tall man, another as a short man. My very name is unknown. All my murders have been committed anonymously. All my murders are more like suicides, or can be explained as suicides.

  “I tell you the law is powerless. With Lupin dead, and Florence Levasseur dead, there’s no one to bear witness against me. Even if they arrested me, they would have to discharge me in the end for lack of evidence. I shall be branded, execrated, hated, and cursed; my name will stink in people’s nostrils, as if I were the greatest of malefactors. But I shall possess the hundred millions; and with that, pretty one, I shall possess the friendship of all decent men!

  “I tell you again, with Lupin and you gone, it’s all over. There’s nothing left, nothing but some papers and a few little things which I have been weak enough to keep until now, in this pocket-book here, and which would be enough and more than enough to cost me my head, if I did not intend to burn them in a few minutes and send the ashes to the bottom of the well.

  “So you see, Florence, all my measures are taken. You need not hope for compassion from me, nor for help from anywhere else, since no one knows where I have brought you, and Arsène Lupin is no longer alive. Under these conditions, Florence, make your choice. The ending is in your own hands: either you die, absolutely and irrevocably, or you accept my love.”

  There was a moment of silence, then:

  “Answer me yes or no. A movement of your head will decide your fate. If it’s no, you die. If it’s yes, I shall release you. We will go from here and, later, when your innocence is proved — and I’ll see to that — you shall become my wife. Is the answer yes, Florence?”

  He put the question to her with real anxiety and with a restrained passion that set his voice trembling. His knees dragged over the flagstones. He begged and threatened, hungering to be entreated and, at the same time, almost eager for a refusal, so great was his natural murderous impulse.

  “Is it yes, Florence? A nod, the least little nod, and I shall believe you implicitly, for you never lie and your promise is sacred. Is it yes, Florence? Oh, Florence, answer me! It is madness to hesitate. Your life depends on a fresh outburst of my anger. Answer me! Here, look, my cigarette is out. I’m throwing it away, Florence. A sign of your head: is the answer yes or no?”

  He bent over her and shook her by the shoulders, as if to force her to make the sign which he asked for. But suddenly seized with a sort of frenzy, he rose to his feet and exclaimed:

  “She’s crying! She’s crying! She dares to weep! But, wretched girl, do you think that I don’t know what you’re crying for? I know your secret, pretty one, and I know that your tears do not come from any f
ear of dying. You? Why, you fear nothing! No, it’s something else! Shall I tell you your secret? Oh, I can’t, I can’t — though the words scorch my lips. Oh, cursed woman, you’ve brought it on yourself! You yourself want to die, Florence, as you’re crying — you yourself want to die—”

  While he was speaking he hastened to get to work and prepare the horrible tragedy. The leather pocket-book which he had mentioned as containing the papers was lying on the ground; he put it in his pocket. Then, still trembling, he pulled off his jacket and threw it on the nearest bush. Next, he took up the pickaxe and climbed the lower stones, stamping with rage and shouting:

  “It’s you who have asked to die, Florence! Nothing can prevent it now.

  I can’t even see your head, if you make a sign. It’s too late! You

  asked for it and you’ve got it! Ah, you’re crying! You dare to cry!

  What madness!”

  He was standing almost above the grotto, on the right. His anger made him draw himself to his full height. He looked horrible, hideous, atrocious. His eyes filled with blood as he inserted the bar of the pickaxe between the two blocks of granite, at the spot where the brick was wedged in. Then, standing on one side, in a place of safety, he struck the brick, struck it again. At the third stroke the brick flew out.

  What happened was so sudden, the pyramid of stones and rubbish came crashing with such violence into the hollow of the grotto and in front of the grotto, that the cripple himself, in spite of his precautions, was dragged down by the avalanche and thrown upon the grass. It was not a serious fall, however, and he picked himself up at once, stammering:

  “Florence! Florence!”

  Though he had so carefully prepared the catastrophe, and brought it about with such determination, its results seemed suddenly to stagger him. He hunted for the girl with terrified eyes. He stooped down and crawled round the chaos shrouded in clouds of dust. He looked through the interstices. He saw nothing.