They concealed themselves in the deck-house, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for what would come next. Why had Chéri-Bibi returned so quickly? Had his suspicions been aroused? The Nut’s redoubtable friend filled them with such terror that they were afraid of his shadow like children who, passing through the forest at night, fear the were-wolf.
They were unarmed. Chéri-Bibi must have weapons, and even if it were not so, they would make very little, the four of them, in his huge paws. Moreover, they knew that certain persons who had a fancy to thwart his plans paid for it with their lives. They had abundant reasons for keeping quiet.
But what was Chéri-Bibi doing? They no longer had him in view. He had disappeared behind the engine. Soon, however, they saw him stand up and make off once more with the same degree of caution as before. When he had vanished from sight the Burglar, who had been an engine driver in his time, whispered:
“Hurry up, you fellows. Break the padlocks of the mooring chains.”
The three men were applying themselves to the work when a frightful oath uttered by the Burglar made them turn round:
“Chéri-Bibi has taken away his part of the engine,” he cried.
“Nothing more can be done. It’s all up with us,” groaned the Joker, flung into consternation, and he stopped the Caid, who with an iron grip, was continuing to pull at the padlocks.
“That’s why he came back, the traitor,” growled the Parisian. “Listen to me. We’ve got to make up our minds to it, and go to bed in the deck-house. There’s just a chance that he won’t see us when he comes back with the Nut. They’ll make tracks for the mainland. When they’ve landed we’ll hop out after them. If they twig us on the way, I don’t think they’ll waste time taking us back to the settlement. It’s a good idea — let’s lie low.”
In the meantime Chéri-Bibi continued his way to the opening of the underground passage. He glided over the ground with the suppleness of a great stag. Suddenly he pulled himself up. He heard voices. And almost at once he caught a glimpse of the silhouettes of the Inspecting Officer and the Commandant of the Penitentiary Administration. They were taking a stroll after dinner, smoking their cigars and talking strategy. The startling events of the war engrossed them to such an extent that, having stopped to discuss Joffre’s retreat, the position of Sarrail at Verdun and Castelnau at Nancy, they remained stationary for a quarter of an hour; thus preventing Chéri-Bibi from making a step. Fatalitas! His guns were spiked!
Greatly perturbed at first by the Nut’s failure to arrive, Chéri-Bibi now dreaded to see him emerge from the underground passage, for he would be bound to attract the attention of the two officers.
Time went on. And an accident might happen to destroy, in its entirety, the plan which he had so laboriously constructed.
At that moment a tremor passed through him from head to foot. It was seldom that he shuddered, but he saw before him a terrible sight.
Coming towards him was a huge dog, a veritable sleuth-hound, whose business it was, also to keep guard, and the dog was charging straight at him.
“Hullo!” said the Commandant. “Here’s Tarasque going his rounds. Here! Tarasque! Come here!”
But the huge brute instead of answering the officer’s call continued to make for Chéri-Bibi, who, with a feeling of unutterable anguish, saw him rushing up to him.
Strange to say Tarasque did not give tongue. Thus the two officers continued to discuss their ideas of strategy without paying any further attention to the dog. They entertained no suspicion that ten paces away from them a fierce drama was being enacted.
Tarasque was friends with Chéri-Bibi. How had this thing arisen between man and dog? They had taken to each other at their first meeting. Had this monster of a dog scented a brother in this monster of a man?
Their two jaws had more than a passing resemblance, and their instincts for destruction were such that they were bound to understand each other. One thing was certain — Tarasque, who had for the wastrels of the penal settlement but his canine teeth, had a tongue with which to lick Chéri-Bibi’s hands whenever he met him.
The reader who is familiar with the early adventures of Chéri-Bibi, and knows what a peculiar wealth of affection lay hidden in the heart of the great criminal — the victim of fate — will comprehend the attachment which he felt for the huge brute who was then making so much of him.
But coming at that moment, that exhibition of friendship would destroy him no less utterly than the most infuriated attack, and at the same time, be the undoing of the Nut.
Chéri-Bibi loved the dog, but he had promised the Nut his liberty. If those friendly demonstrations continued for a few seconds longer, the two officers, put on their guard, would come upon the dog and Chéri-Bibi.
He held the dog’s head under his arm, and feeling in his pocket with his other hand, took out a knife, the blade of which was open. It was a question of killing the brute in such a way that it would drop dead at his feet.
Chéri-Bibi felt a clutch at his heart. He had killed many persons in the course of his life, as the result, as it seemed to him, of inexorable circumstances, and he had suffered for it, but never before had he been filled with such horror.
He patted the dog and the dog licked his face. And during this dire caress the sharp and unerring point of his knife penetrated Tarasque’s throat and cut it at a single blow, “without working back in the cut,” as butchers say in their particular jargon.
Chéri-Bibi had been a journeyman butcher in the days of his youth. He knew his business. Alas, he had proved it many a time since. He knew how to kill effectively. The dog gave a prolonged and terrible gasp and fell dead, deluging Chéri-Bibi with blood.
“Fatalitas!” he groaned under his breath. And that ghastly moment was set down in his memory as among the most frightful in his frightful career.
“It’s very strange,” said the Commandant. “What’s the matter with Tarasque, gasping like that? Tarasque, here! Come here!”
As Tarasque did not answer the call, the two officers started up greatly perplexed. They went to the rock behind which they had seen him disappear and found him lying on the ground.
“What’s the matter with him? Is he ill? Tarasque!... Tarasque!”
They leaned forward. The dog was still warm. Suddenly the Lieutenant rose from his stooping posture with an oath and shook his hand, which was covered with blood. He had thrust it into the dog’s throat.
Someone had cut the dog’s throat!
The Commandant uttered an oath in his turn.
The thing was past all belief. They had seen nothing, heard nothing. It must have been the work of a “lifer” who had escaped. He at once raised the alarm by firing his revolver in the air; and a patrol which was passing along the beach came hurrying up.
In order that the reader may understand what is about to happen, it may be as well to give an approximate idea of the general formation and aspect of this part of the world.
The îles du Salut are divided one from the other by channels of some hundreds of yards in width. There is a sheltered roadstead in which the largest ships may ride at anchor. The mail boat belonging to the Compagnie Transatlantique which sails in the ordinary way between Martinique and Guiana, touches the islands both on her inward and outward journeys. The full strength of the Penitentiary is very considerable. The islands, in fact, are used as a depot, and convicts condemned to transportation remain there some time before they are classified, registered, and distributed.
The Commandant and the various administrative services are lodged on the Île Royale, as also are the victualling departments and a large hospital to which sick convicts from the Penitentiaries and Wood-cutting establishments at Cayenne and St.
Laurent are removed. In this island also are workshops for the manufacture of clothing, boots, and caps required for the use of the convicts.
The difficulty of escape, together with the possibility of maintaining a most rigorous discipline, caused île Royale to be selected as the Penitentiary for ha
rdened criminals and notorious outlaws.
There is a brick manufactory, and near the hospital, at the western end, stands a lighthouse with a fixed light which is visible at a distance of nearly twenty miles.
The islands can be observed and recognized from afar, for they are of some height île Royale is the highest, and rises to about two hundred feet above the sea level. From the mainland it has the appearance, in shape, of an irregular sugar-loaf.
But to return to Chéri-Bibi, whose position was extremely precarious. He had been able to retreat without being observed, but in order to reach his tunnel he would have to cross an open space in which it would be impossible for him to conceal himself. On the other hand, he could not remain where he was, twenty paces from the dog’s body, hiding behind a great overhanging rock where the convict guards were bound to discover him.
He heard one of the men who answered the Commandant’s call for assistance say:
“There’s been a great stir among the convicts since yesterday. The rumor goes that the Parisian intends to skedaddle.”
Now a “deputy-warder” filled the night with his resounding imprecations.... Someone had killed his dog, his Tarasque.... It must have been Chéri-Bibi who did the deed. Tarasque never allowed anyone to come near him but Chéri-Bibi....
When they heard that he had escaped, or at any rate was attempting to escape, and was at large in the island, the warders began to lose their heads. His escapes were so sensational, and were accompanied by such amazing incidents, that the very thought of it was enough to rob them of their self-control.
They must warn the guard; put the whole garrison on the alert.
The Commandant and the Lieutenant pulled them up. Chéri-Bibi could not be far away.
He had killed the dog a few spaces from the spot where they were standing. That spot was open ground. The scoundrel could not cross it without being detected. And as a logical consequence the Commandant took a step towards the rock which hid Chéri-Bibi from view.
The latter was thinking things out.
“Shall I let them lay hold of me, give myself up now, content to begin the whole thing over again?”
He was in a quandary because of the formidable and unforeseen difficulties which loomed up before him.... And then the very agglomeration of difficulties was a temptation to that demoniacal mind. He thought, too, that he would never be able to renew a scheme which had once miscarried. He would have to devise something else; start another plan, which would take him endless time. He would be sent to solitary confinement for months; his tunnel would be discovered; and perhaps his “fake” for the motor launch would no longer be possible. Finally, he had given his word of honor to the Nut.
When Chéri-Bibi had given his word of honor there was no instance in which he had not kept it to the uttermost, whether for good or evil, though he had wandered so long between the two, knife in hand, that he had not always very clearly distinguished the difference between them. Well, once again he would conquer or lose his reputation together with his life.
The Commandant was approaching the rock.
He was about to discover him. It was a crucial moment for the convict. He could only save the situation by a surprise and some marvelous effort.
The rock projected over a sort of sloping bank, and a number of guards had just reached the foot of it. Chéri-Bibi, during the last minute, had Dropped himself up against the rock, and was justly exercising his tremendous strength.
Suddenly the rock, forced from its bed of clay, swung over and fell on to the warders. They set up a terrible outcry. Some of them were seriously injured.
The Commandant and his brother officer barely bad time to fling themselves on one side. Availing himself of the confusion which ensued, Chéri-Bibi rushed into the darkness. He fled in the direction of the forest. The guards who were unhurt followed closely upon his heels.
At the moment when he was about to elude them by jumping over a bank lined with tall bamboo-canes, his eyes encountered above him a warder who was leveling his rifle at him. He had no time even to duck his head. The shot rang out, and Chéri-Bibi fell in a mass, crushing the branches with his enormous weight like a giant utterly overwhelmed.
An immense shout of joy greeted the well-directed shot: “Chéri-Bibi is dead!”
CHAPTER V
HOW CHÉRI-BIBI DIED
THE NUT IN the dormitory attempted by a supreme effort to shake off his bonds. He could not believe in Chéri-Bibi’s death. For that matter his opinion was shared by the convicts in general: “Do you think that Chéri-Bibi would allow himself to peg out like that?”
The commotion outside the building drew still nearer. The convicts paid no farther heed to the Nut. They were absorbed in the drama which was being played in the darkness of the night, endeavoring to understand or imagine its successive phases.
The horror of the position inspired the Nut with renewed energy. The longing to have done with it either by escape or by some violent measure which would involve the end of all, increased tenfold his energy which for a moment had been flagging. Yes, death even at the hands of Pernambouc or “Monsieur Désiré” would be better than to continue to live like this.
His persistent and vigorous efforts at length loosened his bonds. Slowly, with infinite precaution, and without anyone being able to notice the least movement, he succeeded in ridding himself of the rope.
He lay in wait for the moment when he could spring from his hammock and slip into the cavity, at the other end of which he hoped to meet Chéri-Bibi.
He quickly dropped on to his feet. But just then the report of more firing burst upon them from the outside, accompanied by a great hubbub.
The Nut hesitated for a second, which was long enough to bring all the “lifers” round him.
“The deputy warders are firing on Chéri-Bibi. He’s nabbed. Look out! They’re calling up the guard. Before five minutes are over we shall have them here blaming the whole lot of us,” exclaimed one of them.
They put away the rope and carefully adjusted the flagstone, the seams of which they cemented with moistened bread-crumbs coated with dust. Outside, the galloping of patrols, shouts, curses, calls for help and the blowing of whistles could still be heard. Finally the commotion approached the building and the door of the dormitory was opened.
A dozen warders, armed to the teeth, crowded in among the convicts, and the Lieutenant’s voice could be heard ordering the “fall-in.” The convicts lined up beside their hammocks.
The Lieutenant saw for himself that five men were missing: Chéri-Bibi, the Burglar, the Parisian, the Caid and the Joker, for these men failed to respond when their numbers were called. The Nut answered when his turn came: Number 3213.
The Lieutenant left the dormitory in a towering rage. He gave orders for two men to remain on guard inside, and the others to be stationed round the building.
“This time I’m really cornered,” said the Nut to himself.
Worn out by his struggles and the anxiety through which he had passed, and overcome by the ruin of his last hope, he dropped on to his convict’s kitbag; and meantime the two warders left on guard in the dormitory endeavored to discover the means by which the five men had managed to get away.
The convicts laughed in their sleeves at the fruitlessness of these investigations. One of them said loud enough to be heard:
“They won’t catch Chéri-Bibi in a hurry. He’ll make short work of anyone standing in his way, you bet.”
“Well, I tell you that he’s lost the number of his mess,” roared one of the warders told off to keep watch on them. “I know what I’m talking about, I suppose? I’ve seen his corpse.”
“Did you hear what that warder said?” whispered “Monsieur Désiré” to the Nut. “He said it’s true that Chéri-Bibi has been done in. He’s seen his corpse.”
A shudder passed through the Nut. He had a great liking for Chéri-Bibi. This affection of a young man like the Nut for a convict built on the lines of Chéri-Bibi — a
man who seemed the embodiment of crime in this world — was extraordinary. And yet it was not entirely incomprehensible. The monster had shown him a compassion for his misfortunes which he had sought in vain from anyone else in jail or out of jail. Beneath his frightful exterior Chéri-Bibi proved that he was possessed of feelings of an unsuspected degree of refinement. He treated and protected the Nut like a younger brother.
The Nut had often thought that there was something beyond mere defiance of fate in the use of the word Fatalitas that the convict so frequently hurled at the heavens. Chéri-Bibi’s life was a secret whose depths no one had ever plumbed but himself. What did anyone know of him?... An arm that was upraised and struck home. But between the two gleams of the knife which left behind it two pools of blood all was darkness; as mysterious as the abyss of his soul.... Why was his path stained with blood?
He explained to the Nut in a few words, with what terrible irony fate had compelled him to strike down the man whose life he was trying to save. That was the beginning of it all.
The beginning of it all? The Nut sometimes felt an inclination to fathom the mystery of that word all.
“Don’t look into it,” Chéri-Bibi answered. “It would be hell let loose.”
And then he stood up and with a fierce cynicism said:
“You can’t want me to account for all my murders. There are too many of them.” And he added with a boisterous laugh: “Take it from me that I am past all forgiveness.”
* * * * *
“Spot the Nut blubbing because he thinks Chéri-Bibi is dead,” went on “Monsieur Désiré” bent on making mischief.
The Nut wished only to remember Chéri-Bibi as the man who liked him and often saved him from an act of desperation; as the man who by a memorable action had saved himself from the guillotine. It seems that after certain adventures of which one of the most sensational was the capture of the vessel which was commissioned to take convicts to the penal settlement in Guiana, he was rearrested in France, brought to trial, and this time sentenced to death.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 188
