SIMÉON GIVES BATTLE
It took them some time to loosen Ya-Bon's grip. Even in death the
Senegalese did not let go his prey; and his fingers, hard as iron and
armed with nails piercing as a tiger's claws, dug into the neck of the
enemy, who lay gurgling, deprived of consciousness and strength.
Don Luis caught sight of Siméon's revolver on the cobbles of the yard:
"It was lucky for you, you old ruffian," he said, in a low voice, "that
Ya-Bon did not have time to squeeze the breath out of you before you
fired that shot. But I wouldn't chortle overmuch, if I were you. He
might perhaps have spared you, whereas, now that Ya-Bon's dead, you can
write to your family and book your seat below. _De profundis_,
Diodokis!" And, giving way to his grief, he added, "Poor Ya-Bon! He
saved me from a horrible death one day in Africa . . . and to-day he
dies by my orders, so to speak. My poor Ya-Bon!"
Assisted by Patrice, he carried the negro's corpse into the little
bedroom next to the studio.
"We'll inform the police this evening, captain, when the drama is
finished. For the moment, it's a matter of avenging him and the
others."
He thereupon applied himself to making a minute inspection of the scene
of the struggle, after which he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Siméon,
whose clothes and shoes he examined closely.
Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy, whom he had propped
against the wall of the lodge and was contemplating in silence, with a
fixed stare of hatred. Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, the execrable demon who,
two days before, had hatched the terrible plot and, bending over the
skylight, had laughed as he watched their awful agony! Siméon Diodokis,
who, like a wild beast, had hidden Coralie in some hole, so that he
might go back and torture her at his ease!
He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with great difficulty. His
wind-pipe had no doubt been injured by Ya-Bon's clutch. His yellow
spectacles had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick, grizzled
eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.
"Search him, captain," said Don Luis.
But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task, he himself felt in
Siméon's jacket and produced a pocket-book, which he handed to the
officer.
It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Siméon
Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The
photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter
and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There
was a collection of business documents, invoices and memoranda,
addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey's secretary, and, among these papers,
a letter from Amédée Vacherot, running as follows:
"_Dear M. Siméon_,
"I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has taken a
snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at the hospital,
at a moment when they were talking together. I am so
glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell
your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when
he hears it!"
At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon's hand, a sort of
personal note:
"Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal
anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my
bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie
Essarès are free to love each other and to marry."
"That's your father's writing, is it not?" asked Don Luis.
"Yes," said Patrice, in bewilderment. "And it is also the writing of the
letters which he addressed to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it's too hideous
to be true! What a man! What a scoundrel!"
Siméon moved. His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. Then, coming to
himself entirely, he looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice,
asked:
"Where's Coralie?"
And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at
him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone:
"Where's Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her?
She must be dying!"
Siméon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled:
"Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . ."
He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the
death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice's rage
increased:
"Will you attend?" he shouted. "I won't wait any longer! It'll cost you
your life if you don't answer!"
The man's eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to
his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a
visible effort, he repeated:
"Patrice! Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long!
. . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . ."
"As mortal enemies," said Patrice, with emphasis. "Death stands between
us: Ya-Bon's death, Coralie's perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must
speak, or . . ."
"Patrice, is it really you?" the man repeated, in a whisper.
The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the
lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocket-book
which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice's
roughness, whined:
"You wouldn't hurt me, Patrice. You must have found some letters; and
you now know the link that binds us together. Oh, how happy I should
have been . . . !"
Patrice had released his hold and stood staring at him in horror.
Sinking his voice in his turn, he said:
"Don't dare to speak of that: I won't, I won't believe it!"
"It's the truth, Patrice."
"You lie! You lie!" cried the officer, unable to restrain himself any
longer, while his grief distorted his face out of all recognition.
"Ah, I see you have guessed it! Then I need not explain . . ."
"You lie! You're just a common scoundrel! . . . If what you say is true,
why did you plot against Coralie and me? Why did you try to murder the
two of us?"
"I was mad, Patrice. Yes, I go mad at times. All these tragedies have
turned my head. My own Coralie's death . . . and then my life in
Essarès' shadow . . . and then . . . and then, above all, the gold!
. . . Did I really try to kill you both? I no longer remember. Or at
least I remember a dream I had: it happened in the lodge, didn't it, as
before? Oh, madness! What a torture! I'm like a man in the galleys. I
have to do things against my will! . . . Then it was in the lodge, was
it, as before? And in the same manner? With the same implements? . . .
Yes, in my dream, I went through all my agony over again . . . and that
of my darling. . . . But, instead of being tortured, I was the torturer
. . . What a torment!"
He spoke low, inside himself, with hesitations and intervals and an
unspeakable air of suffering. Don Luis kept his eyes fixed on him, as
though trying to discover what he was aiming at. And Siméon continued:
"My poor Patrice! . . . I was so fond of you! . . . And now you are my
worst enemy! . . . How indeed could it be otherwise? . . . How could
you forget? . . . Oh, why didn't they lock me up after Essarès' death?
It was then that I felt my brain going. . . ."
"So it was you who killed him?" asked Patrice.
"No, no, that's just it: somebody else robbed me of my revenge."
"Who?"
"I don't know. . . . The whole business is incomprehensible to me. . . .
Don't speak of it. . . . It all pains me. . . . I have suffered so since
Coralie's death!"
"Coralie!" exclaimed Patrice.
"Yes, the woman I loved. . . . As for little Coralie, I've suffered also
on her account. . . . She ought not to have married Essarès."
"Where is she?" asked Patrice, in agony.
"I can't tell you."
"Oh," cried Patrice, shaking with rage, "you mean she's dead!"
"No, she's alive, I swear it."
"Then where is she? That's the only thing that matters. All the rest
belongs to the past. But this thing, a woman's life, Coralie's life
. . ."
"Listen."
Siméon stopped and gave a glance at Don Luis;
"Tell him to go away," he said.
Don Luis laughed:
"Of course! Little Mother Coralie is hidden in the same place as the
bags of gold. To save her means surrendering the bags of gold."
"Well?" said Patrice, in an almost aggressive tone.
"Well, captain," replied Don Luis, not without a certain touch of
banter in his voice, "if this honorable gentleman suggested that you
should release him on parole so that he might go and fetch your Coralie,
I don't suppose you'd accept?"
"No."
"You haven't the least confidence in him, have you? And you're right.
The honorable gentleman, mad though he may be, gave such proofs of
mental superiority and balance, when he sent us trundling down the road
to Mantes, that it would be dangerous to attach the least credit to his
promises. The consequence is . . ."
"Well?"
"This, captain, that the honorable gentleman means to propose a bargain
to you, which may be couched thus: 'You can have Coralie, but I'll keep
the gold.'"
"And then?"
"And then? It would be a capital notion, if you were alone with the
honorable gentleman. The bargain would soon be concluded. But I'm here
. . . by Jupiter!"
Patrice had drawn himself up. He stepped towards Don Luis and said, in a
voice which became openly hostile:
"I presume that you won't raise any opposition. It's a matter of a
woman's life."
"No doubt. But, on the other hand, it's a matter of three hundred
million francs."
"Then you refuse?"
"Refuse? I should think so!"
"You refuse when that woman is at her last gasp? You would rather she
died? . . . Look here, you seem to forget that this is my affair, that
. . . that . . ."
The two men were standing close together. Don Luis retained that
chaffing calmness, that air of knowing more than he chose to say, which
irritated Patrice. At heart Patrice, while yielding to Don Luis'
mastery, resented it and felt a certain embarrassment at accepting the
services of a man with whose past he was so well acquainted.
"Then you actually refuse?" he rapped out, clenching his fists.
"Yes," said Don Luis, preserving his coolness. "Yes, Captain Belval, I
refuse this bargain, which I consider absurd. Why, it's the
confidence-trick! By Jingo! Three hundred millions! Give up a windfall
like that? Never. But I haven't the least objection to leaving you alone
with the honorable gentleman. That's what he wants, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, talk it over between yourselves. Sign the compact. The honorable
gentleman, who, for his part, has every confidence in his son, will tell
you the whereabouts of the hiding-place; and you shall release your
Coralie."
"And you? What about you?" snarled Patrice, angrily.
"I? I'm going to complete my little enquiry into the present and the
past by revisiting the room where you nearly met your death. See you
later, captain. And, whatever you do, insist on guarantees."
Switching on his pocket-lamp, Don Luis entered the lodge and walked
straight to the studio. Patrice saw the electric rays playing on the
panels between the walled-up windows. He went back to where Siméon sat:
"Now then," he said, in a voice of authority. "Be quick about it."
"Are you sure he's not listening?"
"Quite sure."
"Be careful with him, Patrice. He means to take the gold and keep it."
"Don't waste time," said Patrice, impatiently. "Get to Coralie."
"I've told you Coralie was alive."
"She was alive when you left her; but since then . . ."
"Yes, since then . . ."
"Since then, what? You seem to have your doubts."
"It was last night, five or six hours ago, and I am afraid . . ."
Patrice felt a cold shudder run down his back. He would have given
anything for a decisive word; and at the same time he was almost
strangling the old man to punish him. He mastered himself, however:
"Don't let's waste time," he repeated. "Tell me where to go."
"No, we'll go together."
"You haven't the strength."
"Yes, yes, I can manage . . . it's not far. Only, only, listen to me.
. . ."
The old man seemed utterly exhausted. From time to time his breathing
was interrupted, as though Ya-Bon's hand were still clutching him by the
throat, and he sank into a heap, moaning.
Patrice stooped over him:
"I'm listening," he said. "But, for God's sake, hurry!"
"All right," said Siméon. "All right. She'll be free in a few minutes.
But on one condition, just one. . . . Patrice, you must swear to me on
Coralie's head that you will not touch the gold and that no one shall
know . . ."
"I swear it on her head."
"You swear it, yes; but the other one, your damned companion, he'll
follow us, he'll see."
"No, he won't."
"Yes, he will, unless you consent . . ."
"To what? Oh, in Heaven's name, speak!"
"I'll tell you. Listen. But remember, we must go to Coralie's assistance
. . . and that quickly . . . otherwise . . ."
Patrice hesitated, bending one leg, almost on his knees:
"Then come, do!" he said, modifying his tone. "Please come, because
Coralie . . ."
"Yes, but that man . . ."
"Oh, Coralie first!"
"What do you mean? Suppose he sees us? Suppose he takes the gold from
us?"
"What does that matter!"
"Oh, don't say that, Patrice! . . . The gold! That's the one thing!
Since that gold has been mine, my life is changed. The past no longer
counts . . . nor does hatred . . . nor love. . . . There's only the
gold, the bags of gold . . . I'd rather die . . . and let Coralie die
. . . and see the whole world disappear . . ."
"But, look here, what is it you want? What is it you demand?"
Patrice had taken the two arms of this man who was his father and whom
he had never detested with greater vehemence. He was imploring him with
all the strength of his being. He would have shed tears had he thought
that the old man would allow himself to be moved by tears.
"What is it?"
"I'll tell you. Listen. He's there, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"In the studio?"
"Yes."
"In that case . . . he mustn't come out. . . ."
"How do you mean?"
"No, he must stay there until we've done."
"But . . ."
"It's quite easy. Listen carefully. You've only to make a movement, to
shut the door on him. The lock has been forced, but there are the two
bolts; and those will do. Do you consent?"
Patrice rebelled:
"But you're mad! _I_ consent, _I_? . . . Why, the man saved my life!
. . . He saved Coralie!"
"But he's doing for her now. Think a moment: if he were not there, if he
were not interfering, Coralie would be free. Do you accept?"
"No."
"Why not? Do you know what that man is? A highway robber . . . a wretch
who has only one thought, to get hold of the millions. And you have
scruples! Come, it's absurd, isn't it? . . . Do you accept?"
"No and again no!"
"Then so much the worse for Coralie. . . . Oh, yes, I see you don't
realize the position exactly! It's time you did, Patrice. Perhaps it's
even too late."
"Oh, don't say that!"
"Yes, yes, you must learn the facts and take your share of the
responsibility. When that damned negro was chasing me, I got rid of
Coralie as best I could, intending to release her in an hour or two. And
then . . . and then you know what happened. . . . It was eleven o'clock
at night . . . nearly eight hours ago. . . . So work it out for yourself
. . ."
Patrice wrung his hands. Never had he imagined that a man could be
tortured to such a degree. And Siméon continued, unrelentingly.
"She can't breathe, on my soul she can't! . . . Perhaps just a very
little air reaches her, but that is all. . . . Then again I can't tell
that all that covers and protects her hasn't given way. If it has, she's
suffocating . . . while you stand here arguing. . . . Look here, can it
matter to you to lock up that man for ten minutes? . . . Only ten
minutes, you know. And you still hesitate! Then it's you who are killing
her, Patrice. Think . . . buried alive!"
Patrice drew himself up. His resolve was taken. At that moment he would
have shrunk from no act, however painful. And what Siméon asked was so
little.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Give your orders."
"You know what I want," said the other. "It's quite simple. Go to the
door, bolt it and come back again."
The officer entered the lodge with a firm step and walked through the
hall. The light was dancing up and down at the far end of the studio.
Without a word, without a moment's hesitation, he slammed the door, shot
both the bolts and hastened back. He felt relieved. The action was a
base one, but he never doubted that he had fulfilled an imperative duty.
"That's it," he said, "Let's hurry."
"Help me up," said the old man. "I can't manage by myself."
Patrice took him under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. But he
had to support him, for the old man's legs were swaying beneath him.
"Oh, curse it!" blurted Siméon. "That blasted nigger has done for me.
I'm suffocating too, I can't walk."
Patrice almost carried him, while Siméon, in the last stage of weakness,
stammered:
"This way. . . . Now straight ahead. . . ."
They passed the corner of the lodge and turned their steps towards the
graves.
"You're quite sure you fastened the door?" the old man continued. "Yes,
I heard it slam. Oh, he's a terrible fellow, that! You have to be on
your guard with him! But you swore not to say anything, didn't you?
Swear it again, by your mother's memory . . . no, better, swear it by
Coralie. . . . May she die on the spot if you betray your oath!"
He stopped. A spasm prevented his going any further until he had drawn a
little air into his lungs. Nevertheless he went on talking:
"I needn't worry, need I? Besides, you don't care about gold. That being
so, why should you speak? Never mind, swear that you will be silent.
Or, look here, give me your word of honor. That's best. Your word, eh?"
Patrice was still holding him round the waist. It was a terrible, long
agony for the officer, this slow crawl and this sort of embrace which he
was compelled to adopt in order to effect Coralie's release. As he felt
the contact of the detested man's body, he was more inclined to squeeze
the life out of it. And yet a vile phrase kept recurring deep down
within him:
"I am his son, I am his son. . . ."
"It's here," said the old man.
"Here? But these are the graves."
"Coralie's grave and mine. It's what we were making for."
He turned round in alarm:
"I say, the footprints! You'll get rid of them on the way back, won't
you? For he would find our tracks otherwise and he would know that this
is the place. . . ."
"Let's hurry. . . . So Coralie is here? Down there? Buried? Oh, how
horrible!"
It seemed to Patrice as if each minute that passed meant more than an
hour's delay and as if Coralie's safety might be jeopardized by a
moment's hesitation or a single false step.
He took every oath that was demanded of him. He swore upon Coralie's
head. He pledged his word of honor. At that moment there was not an
action which he would not have been ready to perform.
Siméon knelt down on the grass, under the little temple, pointing with
his finger:
"It's there," he repeated. "Underneath that."
"Under the tombstone?"
"Yes."
"Then the stone lifts?" asked Patrice, anxiously. "I can't lift it by
myself. It can't be done. It would take three men to lift that."
"No," said the old man, "the stone swings on a pivot. You'll manage
quite easily. All you have to do is to pull at one end . . . this one,
on the right."
Patrice came and caught hold of the great stone slab, with its
inscription, "Here lie Patrice and Coralie," and pulled.
The stone rose at the first endeavor, as if a counterweight had forced
the other end down.
"Wait," said the old man. "We must hold it in position, or it will fall
down again. You'll find an iron bar at the bottom of the second step."
There were three steps running into a small cavity, barely large enough
to contain a man stooping. Patrice saw the iron bar and, propping up the
stone with his shoulder, took the bar and set it up.
"Good," said Siméon. "That will keep it steady. What you must now do is
to lie down in the hollow. This was where my coffin was to have been and
where I often used to come and lie beside my dear Coralie. I would
remain for hours, flat on the ground, speaking to her. . . . We both
talked. . . . Yes, I assure you, we used to talk. . . . Oh, Patrice!
. . ."
Patrice had bent his tall figure in the narrow space where he was hardly
able to move.
"What am I to do?" he asked.
"Don't you hear your Coralie? There's only a partition-wall between
you: a few bricks hidden under a thin layer of earth. And a door. The
other vault, Coralie's, is behind it. And behind that there's a third,
with the bags of gold."
The old man was bending over and directing the search as he knelt on the
grass:
"The door's on the left. Farther than that. Can't you find it? That's
odd. You mustn't be too slow about it, though. Ah, have you got it now?
No? Oh, if I could only go down too! But there's not room for more than
one."
There was a brief silence. Then he began again:
"Stretch a bit farther. Good. Can you move?"
"Yes," said Patrice.
"Then go on moving, my lad!" cried the old man, with a yell of laughter.
And, stepping back briskly, he snatched away the iron bar. The enormous
block of stone came down heavily, slowly, because of the counterweight,
but with irresistible force.
Though floundering in the newly-turned earth, Patrice tried to rise, at
the sight of his danger. Siméon had taken up the iron bar and now struck
him a blow on the head with it. Patrice gave a cry and moved no more.
The stone covered him up. The whole incident had lasted but a few
seconds.
Siméon did not lose an instant. He knew that Patrice, wounded as he was
bound to be and weakened by the posture to which he was condemned, was
incapable of making the necessary effort to lift the lid of his tomb. On
that side, therefore, there was no danger.
He went back to the lodge and, though he walked with some difficulty, he
had no doubt exaggerated his injuries, for he did not stop until he
reached the door. He even scorned to obliterate his footprints and went
straight ahead.
On entering the hall he listened. Don Luis was tapping against the walls
and the partition inside the studio and the bedroom.
"Capital!" said Siméon, with a grin. "His turn now."
It did not take long. He walked to the kitchen on the right, opened the
door of the meter and, turning the key, released the gas, thus beginning
again with Don Luis what he had failed to achieve with Patrice and
Coralie.
Not till then did he yield to the immense weariness with which he was
overcome and allow himself to lie back in a chair for two or three
minutes.
His most terrible enemy also was now out of the way. But it was still
necessary for him to act and ensure his personal safety. He walked round
the lodge, looked for his yellow spectacles and put them on, went
through the garden, opened the door and closed it behind him. Then he
turned down the lane to the quay.
Once more stopping, in front of the parapet above Berthou's Wharf, he
seemed to hesitate what to do. But the sight of people passing, carmen,
market-gardeners and others, put an end to his indecision. He hailed a
taxi and drove to the Rue Guimard.
His friend Vacherot was standing at the door of his lodge.
"Oh, is that you, M. Siméon?" cried the porter. "But what a state you're
in!"
"Hush, no names!" he whispered, entering the lodge. "Has any one seen
me?"
"No. It's only half-past seven and the house is hardly awake. But, Lord
forgive us, what have the scoundrels done to you? You look as if you had
no breath left in your body!"
"Yes, that nigger who came after me . . ."
"But the others?"
"What others?"
"The two who were here? Patrice?"
"Eh? Has Patrice been?" asked Siméon, still speaking in a whisper.
"Yes, last night, after you left."
"And you told him?"
"That he was your son."
"Then that," mumbled the old man, "is why he did not seem surprised at
what I said."
"Where are they now?"
"With Coralie. I was able to save her. I've handed her over to them. But
it's not a question of her. Quick, I must see a doctor; there's no time
to lose."
"We have one in the house."
"No, that's no use. Have you a telephone-directory?"
"Here you are."
"Turn up Dr. Géradec."
"What? You can't mean that?"
"Why not? He has a private hospital quite close, on the Boulevard de
Montmorency, with no other house near it."
"That's so, but haven't you heard? There are all sorts of rumors about
him afloat: something to do with passports and forged certificates."
"Never mind that."
M. Vacherot hunted out the number in the directory and rang up the
exchange. The line was engaged; and he wrote down the number on the
margin of a newspaper. Then he telephoned again. The answer was that the
doctor had gone out and would be back at ten.
"It's just as well," said Siméon. "I'm not feeling strong enough yet.
Say that I'll call at ten o'clock."
"Shall I give your name as Siméon?"
"No, my real name, Armand Belval. Say it's urgent, say it's a surgical
case."
The porter did so and hung up the instrument, with a moan:
"Oh, my poor M. Siméon! A man like you, so good and kind to everybody!
Tell me what happened?"
"Don't worry about that. Is my place ready?"
"To be sure it is."
"Take me there without any one seeing us."
"As usual."
"Be quick. Put your revolver in your pocket. What about your lodge? Can
you leave it?"
"Five minutes won't hurt."
The lodge opened at the back on a small courtyard, which communicated
with a long corridor. At the end of this passage was another yard, in
which stood a little house consisting of a ground-floor and an attic.
They went in. There was an entrance-hall followed by three rooms,
leading one into the other. Only the second room was furnished. The
third had a door opening straight on a street that ran parallel with the
Rue Guimard.
They stopped in the second room.
"Did you shut the hall-door after you?"
"Yes, M. Siméon."
"No one saw us come in, I suppose?"
"Not a soul."
"No one suspects that you're here?"
"No."
"Give me your revolver."
"Here it is."
"Do you think, if I fired it off, any one would hear?"
"No, certainly not. Who is there to hear? But . . ."
"But what?"
"You're surely not going to fire?"
"Yes, I am."
"At yourself, M. Siméon, at yourself? Are you going to kill yourself?"
"Don't be an ass."
"Well, who then?"
"You, of course!" chuckled Siméon.
Pressing the trigger, he blew out the luckless man's brains. His victim
fell in a heap, stone dead. Siméon flung aside the revolver and remained
impassive, a little undecided as to his next step. He opened out his
fingers, one by one, up to six, apparently counting the six persons of
whom he had got rid in a few hours: Grégoire, Coralie, Ya-Bon, Patrice,
Don Luis, old Vacherot!
His mouth gave a grin of satisfaction. One more endeavor; and his flight
and safety were assured.
For the moment he was incapable of making the endeavor. His head
whirled. His arms struck out at space. He fell into a faint, with a
gurgle in his throat, his chest crushed under an unbearable weight.
But, at a quarter to ten, with an effort of will, he picked himself up
and, mastering himself and disregarding the pain, he went out by the
other door of the house.
At ten o'clock, after twice changing his taxi, he arrived at the
Boulevard Montmorency, just at the moment when Dr. Géradec was alighting
from his car and mounting the steps of the handsome villa in which his
private hospital had been installed since the beginning of the war.