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

by Maurice Leblanc

  The guard of honour fell in and presented arms. Rolleston took off his diadem, as a man might take off his hat in sign of respect, and spread his diamond-studded tunic on the deck, as people might spread flowers beneath the feet of an advancing queen. The three attendants who had been ordered away returned.

  Behind them came a woman escorted by two coarse, red-faced viragoes.

  Simon shuddered with despair; he had recognized Isabel, but so much changed, so pale! She swayed as she walked, as though her limbs refused to support her and as though her poor distressful eyes could not see plainly. Yet she refused the aid of her companions. A male prisoner followed her, held on a leash like the others. He was an old, white-haired parson.

  Rolleston hurried to meet her whom he called his fiancée, offering her his hand and leading her to a chair. He resumed his tunic and took his place beside her. The clergyman remained standing behind the table, under the threat of a revolver.

  The ceremony, of which the details must have been arranged beforehand, was short. The parson stammered the customary words. Rolleston declared that he took Isabel Bakefield to be his wife. Isabel, when the question was put, bowed her head in assent, Rolleston slipped a wedding-ring upon her finger; then he unfastened from his uniform the miniature set in pearls and pinned it to the girl’s bodice:

  “My wedding-present, darling,” he said, cynically.

  And he kissed her hand. She seemed overcome with dizziness and collapsed for a moment, but recovered herself immediately.

  “Till this evening, darling,” said Rolleston, “when your loving husband will visit you and claim his rights. Till this evening, darling.”

  He made a sign to the two viragoes to lead their prisoner away.

  A few bottles of champagne were opened, the clergyman received a dagger-thrust as his fee and Rolleston, waving his glass and staggering on his legs, shouted:

  “Here’s the health of my wife! What do you say to that, M. Dubosc? She’ll be a lucky girl, eh? To-night makes her King Rolleston’s bride! You may die easy, M. Dubosc.”

  He drew near, knife in hand, when suddenly there broke out, from the arena, a succession of crackling noises, followed by a great uproar. The fireworks were beginning again, as on the night before.

  In a moment the scene was changed. Rolleston appeared to sober down at once. Leaning over the side of the wreck, he issued his commands in a voice of thunder:

  “To the barricades! Every man to his post! . . . Independent fire! No quarter!”

  The deck resounded with the feet of his adherents, who rushed to the ladders. Some, the favoured members of the guard of honour, remained with Rolleston. The remaining captives were tied together and more cords were added to the bonds that bound Simon to the foot of the mast.

  However, he was able to turn his head and to see the whole extent of the arena. It was empty. But from one of the four craters which rose in the centre a vast sheaf of water, steam, sand and pebbles spurted and fell back upon the ground. In the midst of these pebbles rolled coins of the same colour, gold coins.

  It was an inconceivable spectacle, reminding Simon of the Iceland geyser. The phenomenon was obviously capable of explanation by perfectly natural causes; but some miraculous chance must have heaped together at the exact spot where this volcanic eruption occurred the treasures of several galleons sunk in times gone by. And these treasures, now dropping like rain on the surface of the earth, must have slipped gradually to the bottom of the huge funnel in which the new forces, concentrated and released by the great upheaval, were boiling over now.

  Simon had an impression that the air was growing warmer and that the temperature of this column of water must be fairly high, which fact, even more than fear of the pebbles, explained why no one dared venture into the central zone.

  Moreover, Rolleston’s troops had taken up their position on the line of the barricades, where the firing had been, furious from the first. The mob of marauders, massed at a hundred yards beyond, had at once given way, though here and there a band of lunatics would break loose from the crowd and rush across the slope. They toppled over, ruthlessly shot down; but others came on, bellowing, maddened by those golden coins which fell like a miraculous rain and some of which rolled to their feet.

  These men in their turn spun on their heels and dropped. It was a murderous game, an absolute massacre. The more favoured, those who escaped the bullets, were taken prisoners on the line of the barricades and set aside for execution.

  And suddenly all grew quiet again. Like a fountain when the water is turned off, the precious sheaf wavered, grew smaller and smaller and disappeared from sight. The troops remaining at the barricades completed the rout of the assailants, while the satellites who made up the guard of honour gathered the gold in rush baskets collected at the fore of the wreck on which Rolleston was performing his antics. The harvest did not take long. The baskets were brought up briskly and the sharing began, a revolting and grotesque spectacle. Eyes burned with greed, hands trembled. The sight, the touch, the sound of the gold drove all these men mad. No famishing beasts of prey, disputing a bleeding quarry, could display greater ferocity and spite. Each man hid his booty in his pockets or in a handkerchief knotted at the corners. Rolleston put his into a canvas bag which he held clasped in his arms:

  “Kill the prisoners, the new ones as well as the others!” he shouted, relapsing into drunkenness. “Have them executed! After that, we’ll string them all up, so that they can be seen from everywhere and nobody will dare attack us. Kill them comrades! And M. Dubosc to begin with! Who’ll attend to M. Dubosc? I haven’t the energy myself.”

  The comrades rushed forward. One of them, more agile than the rest, seized Simon by the throat, jammed his head against the broken mast and, pressing the barrel of his revolver against his temple, fired four times.

  “Well done!” cried Rolleston! “Well done!”

  “Well done!” cried the others, stamping with rage around the executioner.

  The man had covered Simon’s head with a strip of cloth already spotted with blood, which he knotted round the mast, so that its ends, brought level with the forehead and turned upwards, looked like a donkey’s ear, which provoked an explosion of merriment.

  Simon did not feel the least surprise on discovering that he was still alive, that he had not even been wounded by those four shots fired point-blank. This was the way of the incredible nightmare, a succession of illogical acts and disconnected events which he could neither foresee nor understand. In the very article of death, he was saved by circumstances as absurd as those which had led him to death’s threshold. An unloaded weapon, an impulse of pity in his executioners: no explanation gave a satisfactory reply.

  In any case, he did not make a movement which might attract attention and he remained like a corpse within the bonds which held him fixed in a perpendicular position and behind the veil which hid his face, the face of a living man.

  The hideous tribunal resumed its functions and hurried over its verdicts, while washing them down with copious libations. As each victim was condemned, a glass of spirits was served, the tossing off of which was meant to synchronize with a death-struggle. Foul jests, blasphemies, laughter, songs, all mingled in an abominable din which was dominated by Rolleston’s piercing voice:

  “Now have them hanged. Tell them to string up the corpses! Fire away, comrades! I want to see them dancing at the end of their ropes when I come back from my wife. The queen awaits me! Here’s her health, comrades!”

  They touched glasses noisily, singing until they had escorted him to the ladder; then they returned and immediately set to work upon the loathsome business which Rolleston had judged necessary to terrorize the distant crowd of marauders. Their jeers and exclamations enabled Simon to follow the sickening incidents of their labours. The dead were hanged, with head or feet downwards alternately, from everything that projected from the ship’s deck or its surroundings; and flagstaffs were stuck between their arms, with a blood-soaked rag floa
ting from each.

  Simon’s turn was approaching. A few dead bodies at most divided him from the executioners, whose hoarse breathing he could hear. This time nothing could save him. Whether he was hanged, or stabbed the moment they saw that he was still alive, the issue was inevitable.

  He would have made no attempt to escape, if the thought of Isabel and Rolleston’s threats had not exasperated him. He reflected that at that moment Rolleston, the drunkard and maniac, was with the girl who for years had been the object of his desire. What could she do against him? Captive and bound, she was a prey vanquished beforehand.

  Simon growled with rage. He contracted his muscles in the impossible hope of bursting his bonds. The period of waiting suddenly became intolerable; and he preferred to draw upon himself the anger of all those brutes and to risk a fight which might at least give him a chance of safety. And would not his safety mean Isabel’s release?

  Something unexpected, the sensation of a touch that was not brutal but, on the contrary, furtive and cautious, gently persuaded him to silence. A hand behind his back was untying his hands and removing the ropes which held him bound against the mast, while an almost inaudible voice whispered in his ear:

  “Not a movement! . . . Not a word! . . .”

  The cloth around his head was slowly withdrawn. The voice continued:

  “Behave as if you were one of the gang. . . . No one is thinking about you. . . . Do as they do. . . . And, above all, no hesitation!”

  Simon obeyed without turning round. Two executioners, not far away, were picking up a corpse. Sustained by the thought that nothing must disgust him if he meant to rescue Isabel, he joined them and helped them to carry their burden and hang it from one of the iron davits.

  But the effort exhausted him: he was tortured by hunger and thirst. He turned giddy and was seeking for a support when some one gently seized his arm and drew him toward Rolleston’s platform.

  It was a sailor, with bare feet and dressed in a blue serge pea-jacket and trousers; he carried a rifle across his back and wore a bandage which hid part of his face.

  Simon whispered:

  “Antonio!”

  “Drink!” said the Indian, taking one of the bottles of champagne; “and look here . . . here’s a tin of biscuits. You’ll need all your strength. . . .”

  After the shocks of the frightful nightmare in which he had been living for thirty-six hours, Simon was hardly capable of surprise. That Antonio should have succeeded in slipping among the gang of criminals accorded, after all, with the logic of events, since the Indian’s object was just to be revenged on Rolleston.

  “Did you fire at me with a blank cartridge?” asked Simon, “and saved my life?”

  “Yes,” replied the Indian. “I got here yesterday, when Rolleston was already beginning to drive back the mob of three or four thousand ruffians crowding round the fountains. As he was recruiting all who possessed fire-arms and as I had a rifle, I was enlisted. Since then, I’ve been prowling right and left, in the trenches which they’ve dug, in the wrecks, more or less everywhere. I happened to be near his platform when they brought him the papers found on the airman; and I learnt, as he did, that the airman was no other than yourself. Then I watched my opportunity and offered myself as an executioner when it came to a matter of killing you. But I didn’t dare warn you in his presence.”

  “He’s with Miss Bakefield, isn’t he?” asked Simon anxiously.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to communicate with her?”

  “No, but I know where she is.”

  “Let’s hurry,” said Simon.

  Antonio held him back:

  “One word. What has become of Dolores?”

  He looked Simon straight in the eyes.

  “Dolores left me,” Simon replied.

  “Why?” asked Antonio, in a harsh voice. “Yes, why? A woman alone, in this country: it’s certain death! And you deserted her?”

  Simon did not lower his eyes. He replied:

  “I did my duty by Dolores . . . more than my duty. It was she who left me.”

  Antonio reflected. Then he said:

  “Very good. I understand.”

  They moved away, unobserved by the rabble of henchmen and executioners. The boat — a Channel packet whose name Simon read on a faded pennant: the Ville de Dunkerque; and he remembered that the Ville de Dunkerque had been sunk at the beginning of the upheaval — the boat had not suffered much damage and her hull was barely heeling over to starboard. The deck was empty between the funnels and the poop. They were passing the hatch of a companion-way when Antonio said:

  “That’s Rolleston’s lair.”

  “If so, let’s go down,” said Simon, who was quivering with impatience.

  “Not yet; there are five or six accomplices in the gangway, besides the two women guarding Lord Bakefield and his daughter. Come on.”

  A little farther, they stopped in front of a large tarpaulin, still soaked with water, which covered one of those frames on which the passengers’ bags and trunks are stacked. He lifted the tarpaulin and slipped under it, beckoning to Simon to lie down beside him.

  “Look,” he said.

  The frame contained a skylight protected by stout bars, through which they saw down into the long gangway skirting the cabins immediately below the deck. In this gangway a man was seated with two women beside him. When Simon’s eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness which showed objects somewhat vaguely, he distinguished the man’s features and recognized Lord Bakefield, bound to a chair and guarded by the two viragoes whom Rolleston had placed in charge of Isabel. One of these women held in her heavy hand, which pressed on Lord Bakefield’s throat, the two ends of a cord passed round his neck. It was clear that a sudden twist of this hand would be enough to strangle the unfortunate nobleman in the space of a few seconds.

  CHAPTER VII. THE FIGHT FOR THE GOLD

  “SILENCE!” WHISPERED ANTONIO, who divined Simon’s feeling of revolt.

  “Why?” asked Simon. “They can’t hear.”

  “They can. Most of the panes are missing.”

  Simon continued, in the same low tone:

  “But where’s Miss Bakefield?”

  “This morning I saw her, from here, on that other chair, bound like her father.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know. But I suppose Rolleston has taken her into his cabin.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “He’s occupying three or four, those over there.”

  “Oh,” gasped Simon, “it’s horrible! And there’s no other way out?”

  “None.”

  “Still, we can’t. . . .”

  “The least sound would be Miss Bakefield’s undoing,” Antonio declared.

  “But why?”

  “I am sure of it. . . . All this is thought out. . . . That threat of death to her father; it’s blackmail. Besides. . . .”

  One of the women moved to a cabin door, listened and returned, sniggering:

  “The chit’s defending herself. The chief will have to employ strong measures. You’re resolved to go through with it, are you?”

  “Of course!” said the other, nodding in the direction of her hand. “Twenty quid extra for each of us: it’s worth it! On the word of command, pop! And there you are!”

  The old man’s face remained impassive. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be asleep. Simon was distracted:

  “Did you hear? Isabel and Rolleston: she’s struggling with him. . . .”

  “Miss Bakefield will hold out. The sentence of death has not been issued,” said Antonio.

  One of the men keeping watch at the entrance to the gangway now came along on his rounds, walking slowly and listening. Antonio recognized him:

  “He’s one of the original accomplices. Rolleston had all his Hastings stalwarts with him.”

  The man shook his head:

  “Rolleston is wrong. A leader doesn’t concern himself like that with trifles.”


  “He’s in love with the girl.”

  “A funny way of being in love! . . . He has been persecuting her now for four days.”

  “Why does she refuse him? To begin with she’s his wife. She said yes just now.”

  “She said yes because, ever since this morning, some one has been squeezing dear papa’s throat.”

  “Well, she’ll say yes presently so that it shan’t be squeezed a little tighter.”

  The man bent down:

  “How’s the old chap doing?”

  “Impossible to say!” growled the woman, who held the cord. “He told his daughter not to give in, said that he’d rather die. Since then, you’d think he’s sleeping. It’s two days since he had anything to eat.”

  “All this sort of thing,” retorted the sentry, moving off, “isn’t business. Rolleston ought to be on deck. Suppose something happened, suppose we were to be attacked, suppose the enclosure was invaded!”

  “In that case, I’ve got orders to finish the old man off.”

  “That wouldn’t make us come out on top.”

  A short time elapsed. The two women talked in very low tones. At moments Simon seemed to hear raised voices from the cabin:

  “Listen,” he said. “That’s Rolleston, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said the Indian.

  “We must do something, we must do something,” said Simon.

  The door of the cabin was flung open violently. Rolleston appeared. He shouted angrily to the women:

  “Are you ready? Count three minutes. In three minutes strangle him,” and, turning round, “You understand, Isabel? Three minutes. Make up your mind, my girl.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  Quick as thought, Simon had seized Antonio’s rifle, but, hampered by the bars, he was unable to take aim before the villain had closed the door.

  “You will spoil everything!” said Antonio, crawling from under the tarpaulin and wresting the rifle from him.

  Simon, in turn, stood up, with distorted features:

  “Three minutes! Oh, poor girl, poor girl!”