ESSARÈS BEY'S WORK
This time Captain Belval seemed to relax to some extent. He vaguely
perceived the consideration that compelled the authorities to wage the
battle prudently.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes, I was instructed to investigate this matter two years ago; and my
enquiries proved that really remarkable exports of gold were being
effected from France. But, I confess, it is only since my conversation
with Mme. Essarès that I have seen where the leakage came from and who
it was that set on foot, all over France, down to the least important
market-towns, the formidable organization through which the
indispensable metal was made to leave the country."
"Then Mme. Essarès knew?"
"No, but she suspected a great deal; and last night, before you arrived,
she overheard some words spoken between Essarès and his assailants which
she repeated to me, thus giving me the key to the riddle. I should have
been glad to work out the complete solution without your assistance--for
one thing, those were the orders of the minister of the interior; and
Mme. Essarès displayed the same wish--but your impetuosity overcomes my
hesitation; and, since I can't manage to get rid of you, Captain
Belval, I will tell you the whole story frankly . . . especially as your
cooperation is not to be despised."
"I am all ears," said Patrice, who was burning to know more.
"Well, the motive force of the plot was here, in this house. Essarès
Bey, president of the Franco-Oriental Bank, 6, Rue Lafayette, apparently
an Egyptian, in reality a Turk, enjoyed the greatest influence in the
Paris financial world. He had been naturalized an Englishman, but had
kept up secret relations with the former possessors of Egypt; and he had
received instructions from a foreign power, which I am not yet able to
name with certainty, to bleed--there is no other word for it--to bleed
France of all the gold that he could cause to flow into his coffers.
According to documents which I have seen, he succeeded in exporting in
this way some seven hundred million francs in two years. A last
consignment was preparing when war was declared. You can understand that
thenceforth such important sums could not be smuggled out of the country
so easily as in times of peace. The railway-wagons are inspected on the
frontiers; the outgoing vessels are searched in the harbors. In short,
the gold was not sent away. Those two hundred and fifty or three hundred
millions remained in France. Ten months passed; and the inevitable
happened, which was that Essarès Bey, having this fabulous treasure at
his disposal, clung to it, came gradually to look upon it as his own
and, in the end, resolved to appropriate it. Only there were
accomplices. . . ."
"The men I saw last night?"
"Yes, half-a-dozen shady Levantines, sham naturalized French citizens,
more or less well-disguised Bulgarians, secret agents of the little
German courts in the Balkans. This gang ran provincial branches of
Essarès' bank. It had in its pay, on Essarès' account, hundreds of minor
agents, who scoured the villages, visited the fairs, were
hail-fellow-well-met with the peasants, offered them bank-notes and
government securities in exchange for French gold and trousered all
their savings. When war broke out the gang shut up shop and gathered
round Essarès Bey, who also had closed his offices in the Rue
Lafayette."
"What happened then?"
"Things that we don't know. No doubt the accomplices learnt from their
governments that the last despatch of gold had never taken place; and no
doubt they also guessed that Essarès Bey was trying to keep for himself
the three hundred millions collected by the gang. One thing is certain,
that a struggle began between the former partners, a fierce, implacable
struggle, the accomplices wanting their share of the plunder, while
Essarès Bey was resolved to part with none of it and pretended that the
millions had left the country. Yesterday the struggle attained its
culminating-point. In the afternoon the accomplices tried to get hold of
Mme. Essarès so that they might have a hostage to use against her
husband. In the evening . . . in the evening you yourself witnessed the
final episode."
"But why yesterday evening rather than another?"
"Because the accomplices had every reason to think that the millions
were intended to disappear yesterday evening. Though they did not know
the methods employed by Essarès Bey when he made his last remittances,
they believed that each of the remittances, or rather each removal of
the sacks, was preceded by a signal."
"Yes, a shower of sparks, was it not?"
"Exactly. In a corner of the garden are some old conservatories, above
which stands the furnace that used to heat them. This grimy furnace,
full of soot and rubbish, sends forth, when you light it, flakes of fire
and sparks which are seen at a distance and serve as an intimation.
Essarès Bey lit it last night himself. The accomplices at once took
alarm and came prepared to go any lengths."
"And Essarès' plan failed."
"Yes. But so did theirs. The colonel is dead. The others were only able
to get hold of a few bundles of notes which have probably been taken
from them by this time. But the struggle was not finished; and its dying
agony has been a most shocking tragedy. According to your statement, a
man who knew you and who was seeking to get into touch with you, was
killed at nineteen minutes past seven, most likely by Essarès Bey, who
dreaded his intervention. And, five hours later, at twenty-three past
twelve, Essarès Bey himself was murdered, presumably by one of his
accomplices. There is the whole story, Captain Belval. And, now that you
know as much of it as I do, don't you think that the investigation of
this case should remain secret and be pursued not quite in accordance
with the ordinary rules?"
After a moment's reflection Patrice said:
"Yes, I agree."
"There can be no doubt about it!" cried M. Masseron. "Not only will it
serve no purpose to publish this story of gold which has disappeared and
which can't be found, which would startle the public and excite their
imaginations, but you will readily imagine that an operation which
consisted in draining off such a quantity of gold in two years cannot
have been effected without compromising a regrettable number of people.
I feel certain that my own enquiries will reveal a series of weak
concessions and unworthy bargains on the part of certain more or less
important banks and credit-houses, transactions on which I do not wish
to insist, but which it would be the gravest of blunders to publish.
Therefore, silence."
"But is silence possible?"
"Why not?"
"Bless my soul, there are a good few corpses to be explained away!
Colonel Fakhi's, for instance?"
"Suicide."
"Mustapha's, which you will discover or which you have already
discovered in the Galliéra garden?"
"Found dead."
"Essarès Bey's?"
"An accident."
"So that all these manifestations of the same power will remain
separated?"
"There is nothing to show the link that connects them."
"Perhaps the public will think otherwise."
"The public will think what we wish it to think. This is war-time."
"The press will speak."
"The press will do nothing of the kind. We have the censorship."
"But, if some fact or, rather, a fresh crime . . . ?"
"Why should there be a fresh crime? The matter is finished, at least on
its active and dramatic side. The chief actors are dead. The curtain
falls on the murder of Essarès Bey. As for the supernumeraries, Bournef
and the others, we shall have them stowed away in an internment-camp
before a week is past. We therefore find ourselves in the presence of a
certain number of millions, with no owner, with no one who dares to
claim them, on which France is entitled to lay hands. I shall devote my
activity to securing the money for the republic."
Patrice Belval shook his head:
"Mme. Essarès remains, sir. We must not forget her husband's threats."
"He is dead."
"No matter, the threats are there. Old Siméon tells you so in a striking
fashion."
"He's half mad."
"Exactly, his brain retains the impression of great and imminent danger.
No, the struggle is not ended. Perhaps indeed it is only beginning."
"Well, captain, are we not here? Make it your business to protect and
defend Mme. Essarès by all the means in your power and by all those
which I place at your disposal. Our collaboration will be uninterrupted,
because my task lies here and because, if the battle--which you expect
and I do not--takes place, it will be within the walls of this house and
garden."
"What makes you think that?"
"Some words which Mme. Essarès overheard last night. The colonel
repeated several times, 'The gold is here, Essarès.' He added, 'For
years past, your car brought to this house all that there was at your
bank in the Rue Lafayette. Siméon, you and the chauffeur used to let the
sacks down the last grating on the left. How you used to send it away I
do not know. But of what was here on the day when the war broke out, of
the seventeen or eighteen hundred bags which they were expecting out
yonder, none has left your place. I suspected the trick; and we kept
watch night and day. The gold is here.'"
"And have you no clue?"
"Not one. Or this at most; but I attach comparatively little value to
it."
He took a crumpled paper from his pocket, unfolded it and continued:
"Besides the pendant, Essarès Bey held in his hand this bit of blotted
paper, on which you can see a few straggling, hurriedly-written words.
The only ones that are more or less legible are these: 'golden
triangle.' What this golden triangle means, what it has to do with the
case in hand, I can't for the present tell. The most that I am able to
presume is that, like the pendant, the scrap of paper was snatched by
Essarès Bey from the man who died at nineteen minutes past seven this
morning and that, when he himself was killed at twenty-three minutes
past twelve, he was occupied in examining it."
"And then there is the album," said Patrice, making his last point. "You
see how all the details are linked together. You may safely believe that
it is all one case."
"Very well," said M. Masseron. "One case in two parts. You, captain, had
better follow up the second. I grant you that nothing could be stranger
than this discovery of photographs of Mme. Essarès and yourself in the
same album and in the same pendant. It sets a problem the solution of
which will no doubt bring us very near to the truth. We shall meet again
soon, Captain Belval, I hope. And, once more, make use of me and of my
men."
He shook Patrice by the hand. Patrice held him back:
"I shall make use of you, sir, as you suggest. But is this not the time
to take the necessary precautions?"
"They are taken, captain. We are in occupation of the house."
"Yes . . . yes . . . I know; but, all the same . . . I have a sort of
presentiment that the day will not end without. . . . Remember old
Siméon's strange words. . . ."
M. Masseron began to laugh:
"Come, Captain Belval, we mustn't exaggerate things. If any enemies
remain for us to fight, they must stand in great need, for the moment,
of taking council with themselves. We'll talk about this to-morrow,
shall we, captain?"
He shook hands with Patrice again, bowed to Mme. Essarès and left the
room.
Belval had at first made a discreet movement to go out with him. He
stopped at the door and walked back again. Mme. Essarès, who seemed not
to hear him, sat motionless, bent in two, with her head turned away from
him.
"Coralie," he said.
She did not reply; and he uttered her name a second time, hoping that
again she might not answer, for her silence suddenly appeared to him to
be the one thing in the world for him to desire. That silence no longer
implied either constraint or rebellion. Coralie accepted the fact that
he was there, by her side, as a helpful friend. And Patrice no longer
thought of all the problems that harassed him, nor of the murders that
had mounted up, one after another, around them, nor of the dangers that
might still encompass them. He thought only of Coralie's yielding
gentleness.
"Don't answer, Coralie, don't say a word. It is for me to speak. I must
tell you what you do not know, the reasons that made you wish to keep me
out of this house . . . out of this house and out of your very life."
He put his hand on the back of the chair in which she was sitting; and
his hand just touched Coralie's hair.
"Coralie, you imagine that it is the shame of your life here that keeps
you away from me. You blush at having been that man's wife; and this
makes you feel troubled and anxious, as though you yourself had been
guilty. But why should you? It was not your fault. Surely you know that
I can guess the misery and hatred that must have passed between you and
him and the constraint that was brought to bear upon you, by some
machination, in order to force your consent to the marriage! No,
Coralie, there is something else; and I will tell you what it is. There
is something else. . . ."
He was bending over her still more. He saw her beautiful profile lit up
by the blazing logs and, speaking with increasing fervor and adopting
the familiar _tu_ and _toi_ which, in his mouth, retained a note of
affectionate respect, he cried:
"Am I to speak, Little Mother Coralie? I needn't, need I? You have
understood; and you read yourself clearly. Ah, I feel you trembling
from head to foot! Yes, yes, I tell you, I knew your secret from the
very first day. From the very first day you loved your great beggar of a
wounded man, all scarred and maimed though he was. Hush! Don't deny it!
. . . Yes, I understand: you are rather shocked to hear such words as
these spoken to-day. I ought perhaps to have waited. And yet why should
I? I am asking you nothing. I know; and that is enough for me. I sha'n't
speak of it again for a long time to come, until the inevitable hour
arrives when you are forced to tell it to me yourself. Till then I shall
keep silence. But our love will always be between us; and it will be
exquisite, Little Mother Coralie, it will be exquisite for me to know
that you love me. Coralie. . . . There, now you're crying! And you would
still deny the truth? Why, when you cry--I know you, Little Mother--it
means that your dear heart is overflowing with tenderness and love! You
are crying? Ah, Little Mother, I never thought you loved me to that
extent!"
Patrice also had tears in his eyes. Coralie's were coursing down her
pale cheeks; and he would have given much to kiss that wet face. But the
least outward sign of affection appeared to him an offense at such a
moment. He was content to gaze at her passionately.
And, as he did so, he received an impression that her thoughts were
becoming detached from his own, that her eyes were being attracted by an
unexpected sight and that, amid the great silence of their love, she was
listening to something that he himself had not heard.
And suddenly he too heard that thing, though it was almost
imperceptible. It was not so much a sound as the sensation of a presence
mingling with the distant rumble of the town. What could be happening?
The light had begun to fade, without his noticing it. Also unperceived
by Patrice, Mme. Essarès had opened the window a little way, for the
boudoir was small and the heat of the fire was becoming oppressive.
Nevertheless, the two casements were almost touching. It was at this
that she was staring; and it was from there that the danger threatened.
Patrice's first impulse was to run to the window, but he restrained
himself. The danger was becoming defined. Outside, in the twilight, he
distinguished through the slanting panes a human form. Next, he saw
between the two casements something which gleamed in the light of the
fire and which looked like the barrel of a revolver.
"Coralie is done for," he thought, "if I allow it to be suspected for an
instant that I am on my guard."
She was in fact opposite the window, with no obstacle intervening. He
therefore said aloud, in a careless tone:
"Coralie, you must be a little tired. We will say good-by."
At the same time, he went round her chair to protect her.
But he had not the time to complete his movement. She also no doubt had
seen the glint of the revolver, for she drew back abruptly, stammering:
"Oh, Patrice! . . . Patrice! . . ."
Two shots rang out, followed by a moan.
"You're wounded!" cried Patrice, springing to her side.
"No, no," she said, "but the fright . . ."
"Oh, if he's touched you, the scoundrel!"
"No, he hasn't."
"Are you quite sure?"
He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the electric light,
looking at Coralie for signs of a wound and waiting in an agony of
suspense for her to regain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to
the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony. The room was on the
first floor. There was plenty of lattice-work on the wall. But, because
of his leg, Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down.
Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the rungs of an overturned
ladder. Next, he knocked against some policemen who were coming from the
ground-floor. One of them shouted:
"I saw the figure of a man making off that way."
"Which way?" asked Patrice.
The man was running in the direction of the lane. Patrice followed him.
But, at that moment, from close beside the little door, there came
shrill cries and the whimper of a choking voice:
"Help! . . . Help! . . ."
When Patrice came up, the policeman was already flashing his electric
lantern over the ground; and they both saw a human form writhing in the
shrubbery.
"The door's open!" shouted Patrice. "The assassin has escaped! Go after
him!"
The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-Bon appearing on the
scene, Patrice gave him his orders:
"Quick as you can, Ya-Bon! . . . If the policeman is going up the lane,
you go down. Run! I'll look after the victim."
All this time, Patrice was stooping low, flinging the light of the
policeman's lantern on the man who lay struggling on the ground. He
recognized old Siméon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round his
neck.
"How do you feel?" he asked. "Can you understand what I'm saying?"
He unfastened the cord and repeated his question. Siméon stuttered out a
series of incoherent syllables and then suddenly began to sing and
laugh, a very low, jerky laugh, alternating with hiccoughs. He had gone
mad.
When M. Masseron arrived, Patrice told him what had happened:
"Do you really believe it's all over?" he asked.
"No. You were right and I was wrong," said M. Masseron. "We must take
every precaution to ensure Mme. Essarès' safety. The house shall be
guarded all night."
A few minutes later the policeman and Ya-Bon returned, after a vain
search. The key that had served to open the door was found in the lane.
It was exactly similar to the one in Patrice Belval's possession,
equally old and equally rusty. The would-be murderer had thrown it away
in the course of his flight.
* * * * *
It was seven o'clock when Patrice, accompanied by Ya-Bon, left the house
in the Rue Raynouard and turned towards Neuilly. As usual, Patrice took
Ya-Bon's arm and, leaning upon him for support as he walked, he said:
"I can guess what you're thinking, Ya-Bon."
Ya-Bon grunted.
"That's it," said Captain Belval, in a tone of approval. "We are
entirely in agreement all along the line. What strikes you first and
foremost is the utter incapacity displayed by the police. A pack of
addle-pates, you say? When you speak like that, Master Ya-Bon, you are
talking impertinent nonsense, which, coming from you, does not astonish
me and which might easily make me give you the punishment you deserve.
But we will overlook it this time. Whatever you may say, the police do
what they can, not to mention that, in war-time, they have other things
to do than to occupy themselves with the mysterious relations between
Captain Belval and Mme. Essarès. It is I therefore who will have to act;
and I have hardly any one to reckon on but myself. Well, I wonder if I
am a match for such adversaries. To think that here's one who has the
cheek to come back to the house while it is being watched by the police,
to put up a ladder, to listen no doubt to my conversation with M.
Masseron and afterwards to what I said to Little Mother Coralie and,
lastly, to send a couple of bullets whizzing past our ears! What do you
say? Am I the man for the job? And could all the French police,
overworked as they are, give me the indispensable assistance? No, the
man I need for clearing up a thing like this is an exceptional sort of
chap, one who unites every quality in himself, in short the type of man
one never sees."
Patrice leant more heavily on his companion's arm:
"You, who know so many good people, haven't you the fellow I want
concealed about your person? A genius of sorts? A demigod?"
Ya-Bon grunted again, merrily this time, and withdrew his arm. He always
carried a little electric lamp. Switching on the light, he put the
handle between his teeth. Then he took a bit of chalk out of his
jacket-pocket.
A grimy, weather-beaten plaster wall ran along the street. Ya-Bon took
his stand in front of the wall and, turning the light upon it, began to
write with an unskilful hand, as though each letter cost him a
measureless effort and as though the sum total of those letters were the
only one that he had ever succeeded in composing and remembering. In
this way he wrote two words which Patrice read out:
_Arsène Lupin._
"Arsène Lupin," said Patrice, under his breath. And, looking at Ya-Bon
in amazement, "Are you in your right mind? What do you mean by Arsène
Lupin? Are you suggesting Arsène Lupin to me?"
Ya-Bon nodded his head.
"Arsène Lupin? Do you know him?"
"Yes," Ya-Bon signified.
Patrice then remembered that the Senegalese used to spend his days at
the hospital getting his good-natured comrades to read all the
adventures of Arsène Lupin aloud to him; and he grinned:
"Yes, you know him as one knows somebody whose history one has read."
"No," protested Ya-Bon.
"Do you know him personally?"
"Yes."
"Get out, you silly fool! Arsène Lupin is dead. He threw himself into
the sea from a rock;[2] and you pretend that you know him?"
[Footnote 2: _813_. By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira
de Mattos.]
"Yes."
"Do you mean to say that you have met him since he died?"
"Yes."
"By Jove! And Master Ya-Bon's influence with Arsène Lupin is enough to
make him come to life again and put himself out at a sign from Master
Ya-Bon?"
"Yes."
"I say! I had a high opinion of you as it was, but now there is nothing
for me but to make you my bow. A friend of the late Arsène Lupin! We're
going it! . . . And how long will it take you to place his ghost at our
disposal? Six months? Three months? One month? A fortnight?"
Ya-Bon made a gesture.
"About a fortnight," Captain Belval translated. "Very well, evoke your
friend's spirit; I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance. Only,
upon my word, you must have a very poor idea of me to imagine that I
need a collaborator! What next! Do you take me for a helpless
dunderhead?"