THE RUSTY KEY
When Patrice Belval was eight years old he was sent from Paris, where he
had lived till then, to a French boarding-school in London. Here he
remained for ten years. At first he used to hear from his father weekly.
Then, one day, the head-master told him that he was an orphan, that
provision had been made for the cost of his education and that, on his
majority, he would receive through an English solicitor his paternal
inheritance, amounting to some eight thousand pounds.
Two hundred thousand francs could never be enough for a young man who
soon proved himself to possess expensive tastes and who, when sent to
Algeria to perform his military service, found means to run up twenty
thousand francs of debts before coming into his money. He therefore
started by squandering his patrimony and, having done so, settled down
to work. Endowed with an active temperament and an ingenious brain,
possessing no special vocation, but capable of anything that calls for
initiative and resolution, full of ideas, with both the will and the
knowledge to carry out an enterprise, he inspired confidence in others,
found capital as he needed it and started one venture after another,
including electrical schemes, the purchase of rivers and waterfalls, the
organization of motor services in the colonies, of steamship lines and
of mining companies. In a few years he had floated a dozen of such
enterprises, all of which succeeded.
The war came to him as a wonderful adventure. He flung himself into it
with heart and soul. As a sergeant in a colonial regiment, he won his
lieutenant's stripes on the Marne. He was wounded in the calf on the
15th of September and had it amputated the same day. Two months after,
by some mysterious wirepulling, cripple though he was, he began to go up
as observer in the aeroplane of one of our best pilots. A shrapnel-shell
put an end to the exploits of both heroes on the 10th of January. This
time, Captain Belval, suffering from a serious wound in the head, was
discharged and sent to the hospital in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
About the same period, the lady whom he was to call Little Mother
Coralie also entered the hospital as a nurse.
There he was trepanned. The operation was successful, but complications
remained. He suffered a good deal of pain, though he never uttered a
complaint and, in fact, with his own good-humor kept up the spirits of
his companions in misfortune, all of whom were devoted to him. He made
them laugh, consoled them and stimulated them with his cheeriness and
his constant happy manner of facing the worst positions.
Not one of them is ever likely to forget the way in which he received a
manufacturer who called to sell him a mechanical leg:
"Aha, a mechanical leg! And what for, sir? To take in people, I suppose,
so that they may not notice that I've lost a bit of mine? Then you
consider, sir, that it's a blemish to have your leg amputated, and that
I, a French officer, ought to hide it as a disgrace?"
"Not at all, captain. Still . . ."
"And what's the price of that apparatus of yours?"
"Five hundred francs."
"Five hundred francs! And you think me capable of spending five hundred
francs on a mechanical leg, when there are a hundred thousand poor
devils who have been wounded as I have and who will have to go on
showing their wooden stumps?"
The men sitting within hearing reveled with delight. Little Mother
Coralie herself listened with a smile. And what would Patrice Belval not
have given for a smile from Little Mother Coralie?
As he told her, he had fallen in love with her from the first, touched
by her appealing beauty, her artless grace, her soft eyes, her gentle
soul, which seemed to bend over the patients and to fondle them like a
soothing caress. From the very first, the charm of her stole into his
being and at the same time compassed it about. Her voice gave him new
life. She bewitched him with the glance of her eyes and with her
fragrant presence. And yet, while yielding to the empire of this love,
he had an immense craving to devote himself to and to place his strength
at the service of this delicate little creature, whom he felt to be
surrounded with danger.
And now events were proving that he was right, the danger was taking
definite shape and he had had the happiness to snatch Coralie from the
grasp of her enemies. He rejoiced at the result of the first battle, but
could not look upon it as over. The attacks were bound to be repeated.
And even now was he not entitled to ask himself if there was not some
close connection between the plot prepared against Coralie that morning
and the sort of signal given by the shower of sparks? Did the two facts
announced by the speakers at the restaurant not form part of the same
suspicious machination?
The sparks continued to glitter in the distance. So far as Patrice
Belval could judge, they came from the riverside, at some spot between
two extreme points which might be the Trocadéro on the left and the Gare
de Passy on the right.
"A mile or two at most, as the crow flies," he said to himself. "Why not
go there? We'll soon see."
A faint light filtered through the key-hole of a door on the second
floor. It was Ya-Bon's room; and the matron had told him that Ya-Bon was
playing cards with his sweetheart. He walked in.
Ya-Bon was no longer playing. He had fallen asleep in an armchair, in
front of the outspread cards, and on the pinned-back sleeve hanging from
his left shoulder lay the head of a woman, an appallingly common head,
with lips as thick as Ya-Bon's, revealing a set of black teeth, and with
a yellow, greasy skin that seemed soaked in oil. It was Angèle, the
kitchen-maid, Ya-Bon's sweetheart. She snored aloud.
Patrice looked at them contentedly. The sight confirmed the truth of his
theories. If Ya-Bon could find some one to care for him, might not the
most sadly mutilated heroes aspire likewise to all the joys of love?
He touched the Senegalese on the shoulder. Ya-Bon woke up and smiled,
or rather, divining the presence of his captain, smiled even before he
woke.
"I want you, Ya-Bon."
Ya-Bon uttered a grunt of pleasure and gave a push to Angèle, who fell
over on the table and went on snoring.
Coming out of the house, Patrice saw no more sparks. They were hidden
behind the trees. He walked along the boulevard and, to save time, went
by the Ceinture railway to the Avenue Henri-Martin. Here he turned down
the Rue de la Tour, which runs to Passy.
On the way he kept talking to Ya-Bon about what he had in his mind,
though he well knew that the negro did not understand much of what he
said. But this was a habit with him. Ya-Bon, first his comrade-in-arms
and then his orderly, was as devoted to him as a dog. He had lost a limb
on the same day as his officer and was wounded in the head on the same
day; he believed himself destined to undergo the same experiences
throughout; and he rejoiced at having been twice wounded just as he
would have rejoiced at dying at the same time as Captain Belval. On his
side, the captain rewarded this humble, dumb devotion by unbending
genially to his companion; he treated him with an ironical and sometimes
impatient humor which heightened the negro's love for him. Ya-Bon played
the part of the passive confidant who is consulted without being
regarded and who is made to bear the brunt of his interlocutor's hasty
temper.
"What do you think of all this, Master Ya-Bon?" asked the captain,
walking arm-in-arm with him. "I have an idea that it's all part of the
same business. Do you think so too?"
Ya-Bon had two grunts, one of which meant yes, the other no. He grunted
out:
"Yes."
"So there's no doubt about it," the officer declared, "and we must admit
that Little Mother Coralie is threatened with a fresh danger. Is that
so?"
"Yes," grunted Ya-Bon, who always approved, on principle.
"Very well. It now remains to be seen what that shower of sparks means.
I thought for a moment that, as we had our first visit from the
Zeppelins a week ago . . . are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
"I thought that it was a treacherous signal with a view to a second
Zeppelin visit . . ."
"Yes."
"No, you idiot, it's not yes. How could it be a Zeppelin signal when,
according to the conversation which I overheard, the signal had already
been given twice before the war. Besides, is it really a signal?"
"No."
"How do you mean, no? What else could it be, you silly ass? You'd do
better to hold your tongue and listen to me, all the more as you don't
even know what it's all about. . . . No more do I, for that matter, and
I confess that I'm at an utter loss. Lord, it's a complicated business,
and I'm not much of a hand at solving these problems."
Patrice Belval was even more perplexed when he came to the bottom of the
Rue de la Tour. There were several roads in front of him, and he did
not know which to take. Moreover, though he was in the middle of Passy,
not a spark shone in the dark sky.
"It's finished, I expect," he said, "and we've had our trouble for
nothing. It's your fault, Ya-Bon. If you hadn't made me lose precious
moments in snatching you from the arms of your beloved we should have
arrived in time. I admit Angèle's charms, but, after all . . ."
He took his bearings, feeling more and more undecided. The expedition
undertaken on chance and with insufficient information was certainly
yielding no results; and he was thinking of abandoning it when a closed
private car came out of the Rue Franklin, from the direction of the
Trocadéro, and some one inside shouted through the speaking-tube:
"Bear to the left . . . and then straight on, till I stop you."
Now it appeared to Captain Belval that this voice had the same foreign
inflection as one of those which he had heard that morning at the
restaurant.
"Can it be the beggar in the gray hat," he muttered, "one of those who
tried to carry off Little Mother Coralie?"
"Yes," grunted Ya-Bon.
"Yes. The signal of the sparks explains his presence in these parts. We
mustn't lose sight of this track. Off with you, Ya-Bon."
But there was no need for Ya-Bon to hurry. The car had gone down the Rue
Raynouard, and Belval himself arrived just as it was stopping three or
four hundred yards from the turning, in front of a large
carriage-entrance on the left-hand side.
Five men alighted. One of them rang. Thirty or forty seconds passed.
Then Patrice heard the bell tinkle a second time. The five men waited,
standing packed close together on the pavement. At last, after a third
ring, a small wicket contrived in one of the folding-doors was opened.
There was a pause and some argument. Whoever had opened the wicket
appeared to be asking for explanations. But suddenly two of the men bore
heavily on the folding-door, which gave way before their thrust and let
the whole gang through.
There was a loud noise as the door slammed to. Captain Belval at once
studied his surroundings.
The Rue Raynouard is an old country-road which at one time used to wind
among the houses and gardens of the village of Passy, on the side of the
hills bathed by the Seine. In certain places, which unfortunately are
becoming more and more rare, it has retained a provincial aspect. It is
skirted by old properties. Old houses stand hidden amidst the trees:
that in which Balzac lived has been piously preserved. It was in this
street that the mysterious garden lay where Arsène Lupin discovered a
farmer-general's diamonds hidden in a crack of an old sundial.[1]
[Footnote 1: _The Confessions of Arsène Lupin._ By Maurice Leblanc.
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. III. _The Sign of the
Shadow._]
The car was still standing outside the house into which the five men had
forced their way; and this prevented Patrice Belval from coming nearer.
It was built in continuation of a wall and seemed to be one of the
private mansions dating back to the First Empire. It had a very long
front with two rows of round windows, protected by gratings on the
ground-floor and solid shutters on the story above. There was another
building farther down, forming a separate wing.
"There's nothing to be done on this side," said the captain. "It's as
impregnable as a feudal stronghold. Let's look elsewhere."
From the Rue Raynouard, narrow lanes, which used to divide the old
properties, make their way down to the river. One of them skirted the
wall that preceded the house. Belval turned down it with Ya-Bon. It was
constructed of ugly pointed pebbles, was broken into steps and faintly
lighted by the gleam of a street-lamp.
"Lend me a hand, Ya-Bon. The wall is too high. But perhaps with the aid
of the lamp-post . . ."
Assisted by the negro, he hoisted himself to the lamp and was stretching
out one of his hands when he noticed that all this part of the wall
bristled with broken glass, which made it absolutely impossible to
grasp. He slid down again.
"Upon my word, Ya-Bon," he said, angrily, "you might have warned me!
Another second and you would have made me cut my hands to pieces. What
are you thinking of? In fact, I can't imagine what made you so anxious
to come with me at all costs."
There was a turn in the lane, hiding the light, so that they were now in
utter darkness, and Captain Belval had to grope his way along. He felt
the negro's hand come down upon his shoulder.
"What do you want, Ya-Bon?"
The hand pushed him against the wall. At this spot there was a door in
an embrasure.
"Well, yes," he said, "that's a door. Do you think I didn't see it? Oh,
no one has eyes but Master Ya-Bon, I suppose."
Ya-Bon handed him a box of matches. He struck several, one after the
other, and examined the door.
"What did I tell you?" he said between his teeth. "There's nothing to be
done. Massive wood, barred and studded with iron. . . . Look, there's no
handle on this side, merely a key-hole. . . . Ah, what we want is a key,
made to measure and cut for the purpose! . . . For instance, a key like
the one which the commissionaire left for me at the home just now.
. . ."
He stopped. An absurd idea flitted through his brain; and yet, absurd as
it was, he felt that he was bound to perform the trifling action which
it suggested to him. He therefore retraced his steps. He had the key on
him. He took it from his pocket.
He struck a fresh light. The key-hole appeared. Belval inserted the key
at the first attempt. He bore on it to the left: the key turned in the
lock. He pushed the door: it opened.
"Come along in," he said.
The negro did not stir a foot. Patrice could understand his amazement.
All said, he himself was equally amazed. By what unprecedented miracle
was the key just the key of this very door? By what miracle was the
unknown person who had sent it him able to guess that he would be in a
position to use it without further instructions? A miracle indeed!
But Patrice had resolved to act without trying to solve the riddle
which a mischievous chance seemed bent upon setting him.
"Come along in," he repeated, triumphantly.
Branches struck him in the face and he perceived that he was walking on
grass and that there must be a garden lying in front of him. It was so
dark that he could not see the paths against the blackness of the turf;
and, after walking for a minute or two, he hit his foot against some
rocks with a sheet of water on them.
"Oh, confound it!" he cursed. "I'm all wet. Damn you, Ya-Bon!"
He had not finished speaking when a furious barking was heard at the far
end of the garden; and the sound at once came nearer, with extreme
rapidity. Patrice realized that a watchdog, perceiving their presence,
was rushing upon them, and, brave as he was, he shuddered, because of
the impressiveness of this attack in complete darkness. How was he to
defend himself? A shot would betray them; and yet he carried no weapon
but his revolver.
The dog came dashing on, a powerful animal, to judge by the noise it
made, suggesting the rush of a wild boar through the copsewood. It must
have broken its chain, for it was accompanied by the clatter of iron.
Patrice braced himself to meet it. But through the darkness he saw
Ya-Bon pass before him to protect him, and the impact took place almost
at once.
"Here, I say, Ya-Bon! Why did you get in front of me? It's all right, my
lad, I'm coming!"
The two adversaries had rolled over on the grass. Patrice stooped down,
seeking to rescue the negro. He touched the hair of an animal and then
Ya-Bon's clothes. But the two were wriggling on the ground in so compact
a mass and fighting so frantically that his interference was useless.
Moreover, the contest did not last long. In a few minutes the
adversaries had ceased to move. A strangled death-rattle issued from the
group.
"Is it all right, Ya-Bon?" whispered the captain, anxiously.
The negro stood up with a grunt. By the light of a match Patrice saw
that he was holding at the end of his outstretched arm, of the one arm
with which he had had to defend himself, a huge dog, which was gurgling,
clutched round the throat by Ya-Bon's implacable fingers. A broken chain
hung from its neck.
"Thank you, Ya-Bon. I've had a narrow escape. You can let him go now. He
can't do us any harm, I think."
Ya-Bon obeyed. But he had no doubt squeezed too tight. The dog writhed
for a moment on the grass, gave a few moans and then lay without moving.
"Poor brute!" said Patrice. "After all, he only did his duty in going
for the burglars that we are. Let us do ours, Ya-Bon, which is nothing
like as plain."
Something that shone like a window-pane guided his steps and led him, by
a series of stairs cut in the rocks and of successive terraces, to the
level ground on which the house was built. On this side also, all the
windows were round and high up, like those in the streets, and
barricaded with shutters. But one of them allowed the light which he
had seen from below to filter through.
Telling Ya-Bon to hide in the shrubberies, he went up to the house,
listened, caught an indistinct sound of voices, discovered that the
shutters were too firmly closed to enable him either to see or to hear
and, in this way, after the fourth window, reached a flight of steps. At
the top of the steps was a door.
"Since they sent me the key of the garden," he said to himself, "there's
no reason why this door, which leads from the house into the garden,
should not be open."
It was open.
The voices indoors were now more clearly perceptible, and Belval
observed that they reached him by the well of the staircase and that
this staircase, which seemed to lead to an unoccupied part of the house,
showed with an uncertain light above him.
He went up. A door stood ajar on the first floor. He slipped his head
through the opening and went in. He found that he was on a narrow
balcony which ran at mid-height around three sides of a large room,
along book-shelves rising to the ceiling. Against the wall at either end
of the room was an iron spiral staircase. Stacks of books were also
piled against the bars of the railing which protected the gallery, thus
hiding Patrice from the view of the people on the ground-floor, ten or
twelve feet below.
He gently separated two of these stacks. At that moment the sound of
voices suddenly increased to a great uproar and he saw five men,
shouting like lunatics, hurl themselves upon a sixth and fling him to
the ground before he had time to lift a finger in self-defense.
Belval's first impulse was to rush to the victim's rescue. With the aid
of Ya-Bon, who would have hastened to his call, he would certainly have
intimidated the five men. The reason why he did not act was that, at any
rate, they were using no weapons and appeared to have no murderous
intentions. After depriving their victim of all power of movement, they
were content to hold him by the throat, shoulders and ankles. Belval
wondered what would happen next.
One of the five drew himself up briskly and, in a tone of command, said:
"Bind him. . . . Put a gag in his mouth. . . . Or let him call out, if
he wants to: there's no one to hear him."
Patrice at once recognized one of the voices which he had heard that
morning in the restaurant. Its owner was a short, slim-built,
well-dressed man, with an olive complexion and a cruel face.
"At last we've got him," he said, "the rascal! And I think we shall get
him to speak this time. Are you prepared to go all lengths, friends?"
One of the other four growled, spitefully:
"Yes. And at once, whatever happens!"
The last speaker had a big black mustache; and Patrice recognized the
other man whose conversation at the restaurant he had overheard, that is
to say, one of Coralie's assailants, the one who had taken to flight.
His gray-felt hat lay on a chair.
"All lengths, Bournef, whatever happens, eh?" grinned the leader. "Well,
let's get on with the work. So you refuse to give up your secret,
Essarès, old man? We shall have some fun."
All their movements must have been prepared beforehand and the parts
carefully arranged, for the actions which they carried out were
performed in an incredibly prompt and methodical fashion.
After the man was tied up, they lifted him into an easy-chair with a
very low back, to which they fastened him round the chest and waist with
a rope. His legs, which were bound together, were placed on the seat of
a heavy chair of the same height as the arm-chair, with the two feet
projecting. Then the victim's shoes and socks were removed.
"Roll him along!" said the leader.
Between two of the four windows that overlooked the chimney was a large
fire-place, in which burnt a red coal-fire, white in places with the
intense heat of the hearth. The men pushed the two chairs bearing the
victim until his bare feet were within twenty inches of the blazing
coals.
In spite of his gag, the man uttered a hideous yell of pain, while his
legs, in spite of their bonds, succeeded in contracting and curling upon
themselves.
"Go on!" shouted the leader, passionately. "Go on! Nearer!"
Patrice Belval grasped his revolver.
"Oh, I'm going on too!" he said to himself. "I won't let that wretch be
. . ."
But, at this very moment, when he was on the point of drawing himself up
and acting, a chance movement made him behold the most extraordinary and
unexpected sight. Opposite him, on the other side of the room, in a part
of the balcony corresponding with that where he was, he saw a woman's
head, a head glued to the rails, livid and terror-stricken, with eyes
wide-open in horror gazing frenziedly at the awful scene that was being
enacted below by the glowing fire.
Patrice had recognized Little Mother Coralie.