The native servants of the establishment numbered three. They were a man and two women, brown creatures who spoke French after a fashion, and who had been fetched from the mainland. They were ignorant and timorous creatures, quite devoid of any graces or civilized culture; the man and his two wives had been brought here to serve, and they served—that was all. As for the polygamous aspect of the case, in these days when one can get servants at all, one does not inquire too closely into their private lives, n’est ce pas?
* * * *
Lebrun, on this fine morning, had terminated his argument anent turquoise, and was accompanying his host upon a walk about the place—a walk which was destined to terminate very unhappily for Jean Marie Auguste des Gachons.
This simple and honest-hearted fat man was supremely happy. To have his little paradise invaded by three unfortunates to whom he could give shelter and aid, was a pleasure. To find that one of these men was a fellow savant, a person of discernment and much ethnologic lore, was a delight. To find himself recognized as a master, deferred to, regarded with awe and honor, was a supreme happiness.
So Des Gachons accounted himself fortunate, and devoted his energies to showing Lebrun about the place. First came the house itself; a house built not for show, but for living in. The cellars were exhibited with some complacency—indeed, there was a stock of liquors in them which was now worth a small fortune alone!
The kitchen, under its French chef, an excellent man with a brain like that of an ox in all things save food. The collections in their cases—jewels and rare works of art from all the eastern coasts; an excellent array of gilded bronzes, champlevé and cloisonné from China, and some magnificent porcelains. If Des Gachons made his money in princely fashion, he had also spent it in the same way.
After the house, the exterior, with the old gardener proud of his work; the establishment was on display, and all recognized it. And at last, ignorant that his visitor knew the way no less than he, Des Gachons took Lebrun down the avenue of palms to the swimming pool.
This was now the same as when he had first looked upon it, except that there was no golden figure aflame in the sunlight. The two men circled that pool of cerulean blue, Des Gachons opened the gate in the wall, and they passed to the fantastic little orchard, with the cliff and the sea beyond.
Here Des Gachons paused, and sighed as he surveyed the place.
“This was planned for the hot days, my friend,” he said, waving his hand about the orchard. “You comprehend, one visits the pool, which is fed by springs; then one comes out here beneath the trees with a book, perhaps, and sits on the cliff and watches the sea. I must set about building the little summer-house which I have planned, to perch just here on the edge of the cliff.”
He indicated the spot. The two men stood there at the verge, and gazed on the sparkling waters beneath. Perhaps Lebrun was thinking of how he had come here first, naked and perishing; how he had struggled up this cliff to the place where they now stood. His eyes were somber as he regarded that cliff.
“One does not miss the city here,” said Des Gachons, pulling at his pronged beard and looking vastly complacent. “It was work, of course, building all this; vessels and laborers and architects, you understand. But now—it is a paradise!”
“It is indeed,” said Lebrun in a low voice. “But do not forget, my friend, that into the earthly Paradise came Satan!”
Des Gachons regarded him with a smile.
“What do you mean, then?”
Lebrun took a cheroot from his pocket and lighted it, leisurely.
“I have some knowledge of which you may be ignorant,” he said. “Do you remember having passed upon the sentence of a criminal who was called M. le Diable?”
Des Gachons frowned, considered, and at length uttered an exclamation.
“Ah, yes! Tron de l’air!” Like the immortal Tartarin, this fat man was also of the south. “M. le Diable! Of course; the man was a hardened criminal, a degenerate bit of humanity, who was caught by our people in Shanghai. He had committed atrocious murders in the province. He was said to be at the head of a band of desperate Apaches. I remember very well. It gave me tremendous satisfaction to be rid of such a person—he was sent to Noumea for life. One does not live long in Noumea, you comprehend.”
“Exactly,” said Lebrun in a dry tone.
“It was most unfortunate,” reflected Des Gachons, “that this man alone was taken, and not all the members of his gang. I remember recommending most urgently to my successor that no pains be spared to hunt down and root out every branch of this evil tree! But, my friend, what caused you to bring this criminal to memory?”
“Because,” said Lebrun, “I heard recently that he had escaped from Noumea.”
Des Gachons started. His ruddy countenance blanched slightly.
“Impossible! No man can escape from Noumea; one dies there, but escapes—never!”
“No man, perhaps,” said Lebrun calmly. “But Monsieur the Devil—that is another matter entirely! However, there are two versions of the story. One that he escaped; another, that he died in Noumea and came to life elsewhere. Are you interested in hearing them?”
Des Gachons stared at him. “But—but—you are saying incredible things!”
“Incredible? Nothing is incredible, when one believes in a personal devil!” returned Lebrun. His smile was, as the French say, “sourd”—a coldly disdainful, inexpressible smile. “One story goes that he escaped by sea, and that the sea brought him to this island.”
Des Gachons started again, this time more violently. From his pallid lips was wrung a low cry.
“This—this is some jest, monsieur?”
“On the contrary, unfortunately,” said Lebrun. “The story says this criminal came here, stole one of your boats, and departed.”
“The whaleboat!” cried Des Gachons. “The whaleboat that was missing!”
“Exactly. This M. le Diable took your boat and departed. He went to the mainland, found the remnants of his old gang, and planned a razzia upon your island. Probably he did not regard you with any feeling of gratitude—”
Des Gachons staggered, his face pale as the dead. “Incredible! This—this is some frightful lie—”
“Possibly.” Lebrun made a calm gesture of assent. “The other story runs that he died in Noumea. Well, he died—and he came to life again later. You understand? The devil could hardly die, my dear monsieur; at least, the life after death of M. le Diable would be most fascinating to contemplate, from the stand-point of science, is it not? Still, in either case we arrive at the same conclusions; namely, that he would come to interview you—”
“Devil fly away with me!” ejaculated the other, thickly.
“Precisely.” Lebrun bowed. “I am M. le Diable, at your service. Let us fly, by all means!”
He threw away his cheroot and approached Des Gachons, upon his lips a terrible smile.
CHAPTER VI
Queer Things Occur in the Kitchen
Smith and Le Morpion were alone in the room, shortly after noon, when Lebrun joined them. M. le Diable took a chair beside the bed and inquired with solicitude after the patient.
“I’m all right,” said Smith. “A bit weak, naturally.”
Lebrun nodded. “Very good! You are hungry?”
“Somewhat. What’s the matter with luncheon?”
“Nothing; I have just come from the kitchen, and I assure you that an excellent meal is waiting. A very excellent meal, in fact!”
The trifling detail that Lebrun had just come from the kitchen, quite escaped the attention of J. Hudson Smith at the instant. Before he could respond, the figure of one of the secretaries appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, M. Lebrun! Your pardon—the chef told me that you had returned—luncheon is served, monsieur! Can you inform us where M. des Gachons has vanished to?”
Lebrun smiled. “I can, monsieur. He is at this moment located near the cliff beyond the swimming pool, and is contemplating a serious poem upon imm
ortality, after the manner of M. Ronsard. He requests that luncheon go forward without awaiting his coming; as for myself, I shall remain here to watch the condition of my patient, if you will be good enough to send me something on a tray. Le Morpion, do you wish to be relieved?”
Lebrun turned as he asked the question. Perhaps he made an imperceptible sigh; at all events, Le Morpion shook his sullen head.
“I remain also,” he said.
“Very well, messieurs,” said the secretary respectfully, and vanished. Lebrun rose and shut the door. Then he bowed mockingly toward it, and turned, a thin smile upon his lips.
“This poem upon which our host is working,” he said, “will be a famous thing, I assure you! The only trouble is that it will never be finished.”
Le Morpion looked up suddenly, a queer gleam in his eyes.
“’Cre nom!” he ejaculated. “Then—you have struck?”
“I have struck,” said Lebrun, his voice somber. “I have struck—from top to bottom!”
A peculiar exultation appeared in his broad, powerful features; a singular look of mingled ferocity, exhilaration, and gloomy satisfaction. Smith half raised himself upon one elbow.
“You—” He paused, wetting his lips. “You mean—”
“I am avenged,” said Monsieur the Devil. “Des Gachons, standing at the verge of a cliff, became ambitious to emulate Daedalus in flight. Well, he flew! But as he had neither the wings of Daedalus, nor the faith of Saint Peter, he could neither remain in the air nor upon the sea. In fact, the devil flew away with him!”
Lebrun turned. “Le Morpion, there is one whom you must handle: the gardener. He is now at work in the garden. He does not eat in the middle of the day; hence, I assign him to you!”
Le Morpion nodded and rose. He made a curt gesture, and strode from the room.
Smith sank back upon his bed, his hands clenched beneath the covers. Des Gachons—dead! The thing was incredible, fearful beyond words! There had been no chance to give warning.
“M. American,” said Lebrun, standing beside the bed and regarding Smith attentively, “you appear overcome by this news!”
“I am,” said Smith steadily. He looked up into the glittering black eyes; they smiled down at him almost frostily.
“Well, you understand that with me everyone must earn his keep? You have done nothing; you can do nothing, at least for a day or two. Therefore, your value to me must lie only in the future. I have decided what to do with you.”
It occurred to Smith that he was to be murdered immediately. “Yes?” he drawled. “May I be pardoned a touch of curiosity, then?”
Lebrun chuckled. “I have decided to give you a wife.”
“Ah! There is an Eve in this Garden of Eden?”
“There will be,” said Lebrun, “by tonight; or so I calculate. Curel should arrive tonight beyond question. You shall have a wife; une vierge charmante, and you shall console her for the loss of her father. This will, of course, be besides the division of the spoils.”
He made a gesture, and turned away.
Smith lay with his eyes closed, not daring to speak, lest he disclose a more agile brain than Lebrun gave him credit for. He perceived clearly that he had been picked to bear the brunt of this entire adventure. Lebrun, perhaps, did not wish the death of Berangère des Gachons; he planned to bestow this human spoil upon Smith, whom he already knew to be badly wanted by the authorities. Then he would see to it that Smith was apprehended—a scapegoat.
It was an excellent plan. The only flaw in it was that Smith was not exactly the person whom Lebrun supposed him to be.
* * * *
The door opened. One of the native servants entered, bearing a tray. This tray was set upon a rolling table, and the table brought to the bedside. The servant placed a chair for Lebrun, who nodded, and then left the room.
“Go with my blessing to what awaits you!” murmured M. le Diable. Then, bending above the tray, he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. “Ah, an admirable chef! Here we have bondons au lait, beignets aromatisés—above all, excellent curried rice. Superb, this rice!”
From the tray, Lebrun picked the last-named dish, the pièce de résistance of the luncheon. Removing the large silver cover, Lebrun lifted this dish and carried it to the window. There he paused, looking out into the garden. Smith watched his actions in puzzled wonder.
“Does it occur to you,” reflected Lebrun aloud, “that M. des Gachons populated this island with birds? A charming touch of sentiment! Yet it is inevitable that when the master falls, the entire establishment falls with him.”
So saying, he hurled the dish through the open window.
For an instant it seemed to the American that this man must have gone mad. No other explanation of this astounding conduct came to him. Without comment, Lebrun returned to his place and sat down, pouring the wine.
“I believe there is enough remaining for us all,” he observed. “Come, my dear Smith! You have a very romantic name. Would it be indelicate in me to hint that it might be assumed?”
Smith grinned faintly and took the glass of wine handed him. The port brought swift color into his cheeks.
“It’s my own name, all right,” he returned, forcing himself to ignore that he sat face to face with the murderer of Des Gachons. “That’s more than you can say, eh?”
“Touché! A fair hit.” Lebrun chuckled. “Eat, and grow strong! I’ll have need of your muscles in a week or so. We shall want to have everything loaded up aboard that big motor cruiser down below, in case any unexpected thing turns up and makes us run for it. With this work done, we shall compose ourselves, unworried. So, eat!”
Smith obeyed the order, in silence. The frightful sang-froid of this man was threatening to unnerve him, and he knew that he must struggle against such an event. He himself was helpless to act in any capacity; whatever befell, he could do nothing—yet.
It had been his intention to warn Des Gachons at all costs; he had never imagined that Lebrun would strike so swiftly and terribly. The knife of L’Etoile had been a far better friend to him than Lebrun dreamed!
The thought of Berangère des Gachons appalled the American with its possibilities. He had picked up enough by this time to know why Curel had stayed behind; yet, strangely enough, the thought of Curel gave him hope. This man, at least, was not the devil Lebrun had proved!
* * * *
In the midst of these reflections he heard a staggering step outside the door. The door opened, and Le Morpion came into the room—came into the room and halted, swaying a little as he stood, one hand pressed against his thigh.
“Well, master,” he said gruffly, “it is done.”
Lebrun sprang to his feet. “What? You are hurt?”
Le Morpion, smiling grimly, removed the hand from his thigh, to betray a rush of crimson.
“Not hurt,” he responded, “but a trifle nicked. The fool tried to prune me with his shears, and got a fair start before I wrung his neck. Work for you, master!”
He half fell into the chair that Lebrun shoved at him, and began to bare his thigh.
So, the gardener murdered! How far did Lebrun mean to carry this infernal work? A cold horror gripped upon the American as he watched the scene.
M. le Diable fell to work upon the wound—a rather bad gash across the hip. It would have to be sutured; bidding the imperturbable Le Morpion hold the wound and await his return, Lebrun rose and vanished hastily from the room.
He had been gone only a short while, when from somewhere within the house cracked the burst of a pistol-shot, followed by silence. Le Morpion quivered slightly, tried to rise, then fell back with a groan. Suddenly in the doorway appeared M. le Diable. In one hand he bore a violin, in the other a gaily embroidered workbag.
“The shot!” growled Le Morpion, staring at him. “What was it?”
“Nothing,” said Lebrun calmly. “One of the secretaries, poor fellow, realized that he was at the point of death, and tried to kill me. He was dying as he fired; t
he bullet missed. Come, we shall take a needle from the bag, a string from the violin—and tomorrow you will be limping briskly around.”
He suited his actions to the words, and having selected a needle, cut a gut string from the violin. From Le Morpion broke an astonished oath.
“Dead! Then what have you done?”
Lebrun looked up from his task and smiled.
“I? Nothing. I visited the kitchen, that is all. If you will go to the window, you will see a little circle of dead birds. Well, I threw out this window our dish of curried rice, and the birds ate it. As for that downstairs, the entire household declared it excellent, I have no doubt. But when arsenic works, it works swiftly.”
“What?” cried Le Morpion admiringly. “You managed them all?”
“All but the gardener,” said Lebrun with a gesture of deprecation. “We shall have no need of the gardener. Neither shall we have need of secretaries. As for the chef, I am sure that the Veuve Bonnard is a superb cook. As for the servants—well, we must make shift to serve ourselves! After all, it will not be a hardship; this house is excellently stocked with all we shall require.”
“Then,” said Le Morpion, “we are alone on the premises?”
“We are alone,” and Lebrun smiled. “Come, your leg!”
* * * *
J. Hudson Smith lay with his eyes closed, his face white as death, a light sweat beading his brow. Swift and ruthless as lightning, M. le Diable had struck.
How long he lay, thus, Smith did not know. When at length he opened his eyes, he was alone in the room, and the door was closed. Once certain of this, he managed to sit up in bed, at the cost of a little pain. The fever was gone.
Beside the bed still stood the table bearing the luncheon tray. There was some wine left in the bottle; Smith drank it, and felt strength flood into his veins—fictitious strength, but none the less strength! He put aside the covers, swung his feet to the floor, and rose.
He swayed for a moment, until the drawn muscles about his hurt side reacted. As he waited, thus, it came to him that he had need of caution. What was done, was done; Lebrun had made a clean sweep of everyone on the island, it appeared. No use thinking of the past! Better to dismiss it and plan for the future.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 56
