FIAT LUX!
On the evening of the same day, Patrice was pacing up and down the Quai
de Passy. It was nearly six o'clock. From time to time, a tram-car
passed, or some motor-lorry. There were very few people about on foot.
Patrice had the pavement almost to himself.
He had not seen Don Luis Perenna since the morning, had merely received
a line in which Don Luis asked him to have Ya-Bon's body moved into the
Essarès' house and afterwards to meet him on the quay above Berthou's
Wharf. The time appointed for the meeting was near at hand and Patrice
was looking forward to this interview in which the truth would be
revealed to him at last. He partly guessed the truth, but no little
darkness and any number of unsolved problems remained. The tragedy was
played out. The curtain had fallen on the villain's death. All was well:
there was nothing more to fear, no more pitfalls in store for them. The
formidable enemy was laid low. But Patrice's anxiety was intense as he
waited for the moment when light would be cast freely and fully upon the
tragedy.
"A few words," he said to himself, "a few words from that incredible
person known as Arsène Lupin, will clear up the mystery. It will not
take him long. He will be gone in an hour. Will he take the secret of
the gold with him, I wonder? Will he solve the secret of the golden
triangle for me? And how will he keep the gold for himself? How will he
take it away?"
A motor-car arrived from the direction of the Trocadéro. It slowed down
and stopped beside the pavement. It must be Don Luis, thought Patrice.
But, to his great surprise, he recognized M. Masseron, who opened the
door and came towards him with outstretched hand:
"Well, captain, how are you? I'm punctual for the appointment, am I not?
But, I say, have you been wounded in the head again?"
"Yes, an accident of no importance," replied Patrice. "But what
appointment are you speaking of?"
"Why, the one you gave me, of course!"
"I gave you no appointment."
"Oh, I say!" said M. Masseron. "What does this mean? Why, here's the
note they brought me at the police-office: 'Captain Belval's compliments
to M. Masseron. The problem of the golden triangle is solved. The
eighteen hundred bags are at his disposal. Will he please come to the
Quai de Passy, at six o'clock, with full powers from the government to
accept the conditions of delivery. It would be well if he brought with
him twenty powerful detectives, of whom half should be posted a hundred
yards on one side of Essarès' property and the other half on the other.'
There you are. Is it clear?"
"Perfectly clear," said Patrice, "but I never sent you that note."
"Who sent it then?"
"An extraordinary man who deciphered all those problems like so many
children's riddles and who certainly will be here himself to bring you
the solution."
"What's his name?"
"I sha'n't say."
"Oh, I don't know about that! Secrets are hard to keep in war-time."
"Very easy, on the contrary, sir," said a voice behind M. Masseron. "All
you need do is to make up your mind to it."
M. Masseron and Patrice turned round and saw a gentleman dressed in a
long, black overcoat, cut like a frock-coat, and a tall collar which
gave him a look of an English clergyman.
"This is the friend I was speaking of," said Patrice, though he had some
difficulty in recognizing Don Luis. "He twice saved my life and also
that of the lady whom I am going to marry. I will answer for him in
every respect."
M. Masseron bowed; and Don Luis at once began, speaking with a slight
accent:
"Sir, your time is valuable and so is mine, for I am leaving Paris
to-night and France to-morrow. My explanation therefore will be brief. I
will pass over the drama itself, of which you have followed the main
vicissitudes so far. It came to an end this morning. Captain Belval will
tell you all about it. I will merely add that our poor Ya-Bon is dead
and that you will find three other bodies: that of Grégoire, whose real
name was Mme. Mosgranem, in the barge over there; that of one Vacherot,
a hall-porter, in some corner of a block of flats at 18, Rue Guimard;
and lastly the body of Siméon Diodokis, in Dr. Géradec's private
hospital on the Boulevard de Montmorency."
"Old Siméon?" asked M. Masseron in great surprise.
"Old Siméon has killed himself. Captain Belval will give you every
possible information about that person and his real identity; and I
think you will agree with me that this business will have to be hushed
up. But, as I said, we will pass over all this. There remains the
question of the gold, which, if I am not mistaken, interests you more
than anything else. Have you brought your men?"
"Yes, I have. But why? The hiding-place, even after you have told me
where it is, will be what it was before, undiscovered by those who do
not know it."
"Certainly; but, as the number of those who do know it increases, the
secret may slip out. In any case that is one of my two conditions."
"As you see, it is accepted. What is the other?"
"A more serious condition, sir, so serious indeed that, whatever powers
may have been conferred upon you, I doubt whether they will be
sufficient."
"Let me hear; then we shall see."
"Very well."
And Don Luis, speaking in a phlegmatic tone, as though he were telling
the most unimportant story, calmly set forth his incredible proposal:
"Two months ago, sir, thanks to my connection with the Near East and to
my influence in certain Ottoman circles, I persuaded the clique which
rules Turkey to-day to accept the idea of a separate peace. It was
simply a question of a few hundred millions for distribution. I had the
offer transmitted to the Allies, who rejected it, certainly not for
financial reasons, but for reasons of policy, which it is not for me to
judge. But I am not content to suffer this little diplomatic check. I
failed in my first negotiation; I do not mean to fail in the second.
That is why I am taking my precautions."
He paused and then resumed, while his voice took on a rather more
serious tone:
"At this moment, in April, 1915, as you are well aware, conferences are
in progress between the Allies and the last of the great European powers
that has remained neutral. These conferences are going to succeed; and
they will succeed because the future of that power demands it and
because the whole nation is uplifted with enthusiasm. Among the
questions raised is one which forms the object of a certain divergency
of opinion. I mean the question of money. This foreign power is asking
us for a loan of three hundred million francs in gold, while making it
quite clear that a refusal on our part would in no way affect a decision
which is already irrevocably taken. Well, I have three hundred millions
in gold; I have them at my command; and I desire to place them at the
disposal of our new allies. This is my second and, in reality, my only
condition."
M. Masseron seemed utterly taken aback:
"But, my dear sir," he said, "these are matters quite outside our
province; they must be examined and decided by others, not by us."
"Every one has the right to dispose of his money as he pleases."
M. Masseron made a gesture of distress:
"Come, sir, think a moment. You yourself said that this power was only
putting forward the question as a secondary one."
"Yes, but the mere fact that it is being discussed will delay the
conclusion of the agreement for a few days."
"Well, a few days will make no difference, surely?"
"Sir, a few hours _will_ make a difference."
"But why?"
"For a reason which you do not know and which nobody knows . . . except
myself and a few people some fifteen hundred miles away."
"What reason?"
"The Russians have no munitions left."
M. Masseron shrugged his shoulders impatiently. What had all this to do
with the matter?
"The Russians have no munitions left," repeated Don Luis. "Now there is
a tremendous battle being fought over there, a battle which will be
decided not many hours hence. The Russian front will be broken and the
Russian troops will retreat and retreat . . . Heaven knows when they'll
stop retreating! Of course, this assured, this inevitable contingency
will have no influence on the wishes of the great power of which we are
talking. Nevertheless, that nation has in its midst a very considerable
party on the side of neutrality, a party which is held in check, but
none the less violent for that. Think what a weapon you will place in
its hands by postponing the agreement! Think of the difficulties which
you are making for rulers preparing to go to war! It would be an
unpardonable mistake, from which I wish to save my country. That is why
I have laid down this condition."
M. Masseron seemed quite discomforted. Waving his hands and shaking his
head, he mumbled:
"It's impossible. Such a condition as that will never be accepted. It
will take time, it will need discussion. . . ."
A hand was laid on his arm by some one who had come up a moment before
and who had listened to Don Luis' little speech. Its owner had alighted
from a car which was waiting some way off; and, to Patrice's great
astonishment, his presence had aroused no opposition on the part of
either M. Masseron or Don Luis Perenna. He was a man well-advanced in
years, with a powerful, lined face.
"My dear Masseron," he said, "it seems to me that you are not looking at
the question from the right point of view."
"That's what I think, monsieur le président," said Don Luis.
"Ah, do you know me, sir?"
"M. Valenglay, I believe? I had the honor of calling on you some years
ago, sir, when you were president of the council."
"Yes, I thought I remembered . . . though I can't say exactly . . ."
"Please don't tax your memory, sir. The past does not concern us. What
matters is that you should be of my opinion."
"I don't know that I am of your opinion. But I consider that this makes
no difference. And that is what I was telling you, my dear Masseron.
It's not a question of knowing whether you ought to discuss this
gentleman's conditions. It's a question of accepting them or refusing
them without discussion. There's no bargain to be driven in the
circumstances. A bargain presupposes that each party has something to
offer. Now we have no offer to make, whereas this gentleman comes with
his offer in his hand and says, 'Would you like three hundred million
francs in gold? In that case you must do so-and-so with it. If that
doesn't suit you, good-evening.' That's the position, isn't it,
Masseron?"
"Yes, monsieur le président."
"Well, can you dispense with our friend here? Can you, without his
assistance, find the place where the gold is hidden? Observe that he
makes things very easy for you by bringing you to the place and almost
pointing out the exact spot to you. Is that enough? Have you any hope of
discovering the secret which you have been seeking for weeks and
months?"
M. Masseron was very frank in his reply:
"No, monsieur le président," he said, plainly and without hesitation.
"Well, then. . . ."
And, turning to Don Luis:
"And you, sir," Valenglay asked, "is it your last word?"
"My last word."
"If we refuse . . . good-evening?"
"You have stated the case precisely, monsieur le président."
"And, if we accept, will the gold be handed over at once?"
"At once."
"We accept."
And, after a slight pause, he repeated:
"We accept. The ambassador shall receive his instructions this
evening."
"Do you give me your word, sir?"
"I give you my word."
"In that case, we are agreed."
"We are agreed. Now then! . . ."
All these sentences were uttered rapidly. Not five minutes had elapsed
since the former prime minister had appeared upon the scene. Nothing
remained to do but for Don Luis to keep his promise.
It was a solemn moment. The four men were standing close together, like
acquaintances who have met in the course of a walk and who stop for a
minute to exchange their news. Valenglay, leaning with one arm on the
parapet overlooking the lower quay, had his face turned to the river and
kept raising and lowering his cane above the sand-heap. Patrice and M.
Masseron stood silent, with faces a little set.
Don Luis gave a laugh:
"Don't be too sure, monsieur le président," he said, "that I shall make
the gold rise from the ground with a magic wand or show you a cave in
which the bags lie stacked. I always thought those words, 'the golden
triangle,' misleading, because they suggest something mysterious and
fabulous. Now according to me it was simply a question of the space
containing the gold, which space would have the shape of a triangle. The
golden triangle, that's it: bags of gold arranged in a triangle, a
triangular site. The reality is much simpler, therefore; and you will
perhaps be disappointed."
"I sha'n't be," said Valenglay, "if you put me with my face towards the
eighteen hundred bags of gold."
"You're that now, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. Short of touching the bags of gold, it would be
difficult to be nearer to them than you are."
For all his self-control, Valenglay could not conceal his surprise:
"You are not suggesting, I suppose, that I am walking on gold and that
we have only to lift up the flags of the pavement or to break down this
parapet?"
"That would be removing obstacles, sir, whereas there is no obstacle
between you and what you are seeking."
"No obstacle!"
"None, monsieur le président, for you have only to make the least little
movement in order to touch the bags."
"The least little movement!" said Valenglay, mechanically repeating Don
Luis' words.
"I call a little movement what one can make without an effort, almost
without stirring, such as dipping one's stick into a sheet of water, for
instance, or . . ."
"Or what?"
"Well, or a heap of sand."
Valenglay remained silent and impassive, with at most a slight shiver
passing across his shoulders. He did not make the suggested movement. He
had no need to make it. He understood.
The others also did not speak a word, struck dumb by the simplicity of
the amazing truth which had suddenly flashed upon them like lightning.
And, amid this silence, unbroken by protest or sign of incredulity, Don
Luis went on quietly talking:
"If you had the least doubt, monsieur le président--and I see that you
have not--you would dig your cane, no great distance, twenty inches at
most, into the sand beneath you. You would then encounter a resistance
which would compel you to stop. That is the bags of gold. There ought to
be eighteen hundred of them; and, as you see, they do not make an
enormous heap. A kilogram of gold represents three thousand one hundred
francs. Therefore, according to my calculation, a bag containing
approximately fifty kilograms, or one hundred and fifty-five thousand
francs done up in rouleaus of a thousand francs, is not a very large
bag. Piled one against the other and one on top of the other, the bags
represent a bulk of about fifteen cubic yards, no more. If you shape the
mass roughly like a triangular pyramid you will have a base each of
whose sides would be three yards long at most, or three yards and a half
allowing for the space lost between the rouleaus of coins. The height
will be that of the wall, nearly. Cover the whole with a layer of sand
and you have the heap which lies before your eyes . . ."
Don Luis paused once more before continuing:
"And which has been there for months, monsieur le président, safe from
discovery not only by those who were looking for it, but also by
accident on the part of a casual passer-by. Just think, a heap of sand!
Who would dream of digging a hole in it to see what is going on inside?
The dogs sniff at it, the children play beside it and make mudpies, an
occasional tramp lies down against it and takes a snooze. The rain
softens it, the sun hardens it, the snow whitens it all over; but all
this happens on the surface, in the part that shows. Inside reigns
impenetrable mystery, darkness unexplored. There is not a hiding-place
in the world to equal the inside of a sand heap exposed to view in a
public place. The man who thought of using it to hide three hundred
millions of gold, monsieur le président, knew what he was about."
The late prime minister had listened to Don Luis' explanation without
interrupting him. When Don Luis had finished, Valenglay nodded his head
once or twice and said:
"He did indeed. But there is one man who is cleverer still."
"I don't believe it."
"Yes, there's the man who guessed that the heap of sand concealed the
three hundred million francs. That man is a master, before whom we must
all bow."
Flattered by the compliment, Don Luis raised his hat. Valenglay gave him
his hand:
"I can think of no reward worthy of the service which you have done the
country."
"I ask for no reward," said Don Luis.
"I daresay, sir, but I should wish you at least to be thanked by voices
that carry more weight than mine."
"Is it really necessary, monsieur le président?"
"I consider it essential. May I also confess that I am curious to learn
how you discovered the secret? I should be glad, therefore, if you would
call at my department in an hour's time."
"I am very sorry, sir, but I shall be gone in fifteen minutes."
"No, no, you can't go like this," said Valenglay, with authority.
"Why not, sir?"
"Well, because we don't know your name or anything about you."
"That makes so little difference!"
"In peace-time, perhaps. But, in war-time, it won't do at all."
"Surely, monsieur le président, you will make an exception in my case?"
"An exception, indeed? What next?"
"Suppose it's the reward which I ask, will you refuse me then?"
"It's the only one which we are obliged to refuse you. However, you
won't ask for it. A good citizen like yourself understands the
constraints to which everybody is bound to submit. My dear Masseron,
arrange it with this gentleman. At the department in an hour from now.
Good-by till then, sir. I shall expect you."
And, after a very civil bow, he walked away to his car, twirling his
stick gaily and escorted by M. Masseron.
"Well, on my soul!" chuckled Don Luis. "There's a character for you! In
the twinkling of an eye, he accepts three hundred millions in gold,
signs an epoch-making treaty and orders the arrest of Arsène Lupin!"
"What do you mean?" cried Patrice, startled out of his life. "Your
arrest?"
"Well, he orders me to appear before him, to produce my papers and the
devil knows what."
"But that's monstrous!"
"It's the law of the land, my dear captain. We must bow to it."
"But . . ."
"Captain, believe me when I say that a few little worries of this sort
deprive me of none of the whole-hearted satisfaction which I feel at
rendering this great service to my country. I wanted, during the war, to
do something for France and to make the most of the time which I was
able to devote to her during my stay. I've done it. And then I have
another reward: the four millions. For I think highly enough of your
Coralie to believe her incapable of wishing to touch this money . . .
which is really her property."
"I'll go bail for her over that."
"Thank you. And you may be sure that the gift will be well employed. So
everything is settled. I have still a few minutes to give you. Let us
turn them to good account. M. Masseron is collecting his men by now. To
simplify their task and avoid a scandal, we'll go down to the lower
quay, by the sand-heap. It'll be easier for him to collar me there."
"I accept your few minutes," said Patrice, as they went down the steps.
"But first of all I want to apologize . . ."
"For what? For behaving a little treacherously and locking me into the
studio of the lodge? You couldn't help yourself: you were trying to
assist your Coralie. For thinking me capable of keeping the treasure on
the day when I discovered it? You couldn't help that either: how could
you imagine that Arsène Lupin would despise three hundred million
francs?"
"Very well, no apologies," said Patrice, laughing. "But all my thanks."
"For what? For saving your life and saving Coralie's? Don't thank me.
It's a hobby of mine, saving people."
Patrice took Don Luis' hand and pressed it firmly. Then, in a chaffing
tone which hid his emotion, he said:
"Then I won't thank you. I won't tell you that you rid me of a hideous
nightmare by letting me know that I was not that monster's son and by
unveiling his real identity. I will not tell you either that I am a
happy man now that life is opening radiantly before me, with Coralie
free to love me. No, we won't talk of it. But shall I confess to you
that my happiness is still a little--what shall I say?--a little dim, a
little timid? I no longer feel any doubt; but in spite of all, I don't
quite understand the truth, and, until I do understand it, the truth
will cause me some anxiety. So tell me . . . explain to me . . . I want
to know . . ."
"And yet the truth is so obvious!" cried Don Luis. "The most complex
truths are always so simple! Look here, don't you understand anything?
Just think of the way in which the problem is set. For sixteen or
eighteen years, Siméon Diodokis behaves like a perfect friend, devoted
to the pitch of self-denial, in short, like a father. He has not a
thought, outside that of his revenge, but to secure your happiness and
Coralie's. He wants to bring you together. He collects your photographs.
He follows the whole course of your life. He almost gets into touch with
you. He sends you the key of the garden and prepares a meeting.
Then, suddenly, a complete change takes place. He becomes your
inveterate enemy and thinks of nothing but killing the pair of you. What
is there that separates those two states of mind? One fact, that's all,
or rather one date, the night of the third of April and the tragedy that
takes place that night and the following day at Essarès' house. Until
that date, you were Siméon Diodokis' son. After that date, you were
Siméon Diodokis' greatest enemy. Does that suggest nothing to you? It's
really curious. As for me, all my discoveries are due to this general
view of the case which I took from the beginning."
Patrice shook his head without replying. He did not understand. The
riddle retained a part of its unfathomable secret.
"Sit down there," said Don Luis, "on our famous sand-heap, and listen to
me. It won't take me ten minutes."
They were on Berthou's Wharf. The light was beginning to wane and the
outlines on the opposite bank of the river were becoming indistinct. The
barge rocked lazily at the edge of the quay.
Don Luis expressed himself in the following terms:
"On the evening when, from the inner gallery of the library, you
witnessed the tragedy at Essarès' house, you saw before your eyes two
men bound by their accomplices: Essarès Bey and Siméon Diodokis. They
are both dead. One of them was your father. Let us speak first of the
other. Essarès Bey's position was a critical one that evening. After
draining our gold currency on behalf of an eastern power, he was trying
to filch the remainder of the millions of francs collected. The _Belle
Hélène_, summoned by the rain of sparks, was lying moored alongside
Berthou's Wharf. The gold was to be shifted at night from the sand-bags
to the motor-barge. All was going well, when the accomplices, warned by
Siméon, broke in. Thereupon we have the blackmailing-scene, Colonel
Fakhi's death and so on, with Essarès learning at one and the same time
that his accomplices knew of his schemes and his plan to pilfer the gold
and also that Colonel Fakhi had informed the police about him. He was
cornered. What could he do? Run away? But, in war-time, running away is
almost impossible. Besides, running away meant giving up the gold and
likewise giving up Coralie, which would never have done. So there was
only one thing, to disappear from sight. To disappear from sight and yet
to remain there, on the battlefield, near the gold and near Coralie.
Night came; and he employed it in carrying out his plan. So much for
Essarès. We now come to Siméon Diodokis."
Don Luis stopped to take breath. Patrice had been listening eagerly, as
though each word had brought its share of light into the oppressive
darkness.
"The man who was known as old Siméon," continued Don Luis, "that is to
say, your father, Armand Belval, a former victim, together with
Coralie's mother, of Essarès Bey, had also reached a turning-point of
his career. He was nearly achieving his object. He had betrayed and
delivered his enemy, Essarès, into the hands of Colonel Fakhi and the
accomplices. He had succeeded in bringing you and Coralie together. He
had sent you the key of the lodge. He was justified in hoping that, in
a few days more, everything would end according to his wishes. But, next
morning, on waking, certain indications unknown to me revealed to him a
threatening danger; and he no doubt foresaw the plan which Essarès was
engaged in elaborating. And he too put himself the same question: What
was he to do? What was there for him to do? He must warn you, warn you
without delay, telephone to you at once. For time was pressing, the
danger was becoming definite. Essarès was watching and hunting down the
man whom he had chosen as his victim for the second time. You can
picture Siméon possibly feeling himself pursued and locking himself into
the library. You can picture him wondering whether he would ever be able
to telephone to you and whether you would be there. He asks for you. He
calls out to you. Essarès hammers away at the door. And your father,
gasping for breath, shouts, 'Is that you, Patrice? Have you the key?
. . . And the letter? . . . No? . . . But this is terrible! Then you
don't know' . . . And then a hoarse cry, which you hear at your end of
the wire, and incoherent noises, the sound of an altercation. And then
the lips gluing themselves to the instrument and stammering words at
random: 'Patrice, the amethyst pendant . . . Patrice, I should so much
have liked . . . Patrice, Coralie!' Then a loud scream . . . cries that
grow weaker and weaker . . . silence, and that is all. Your father is
dead, murdered. This time, Essarès Bey, who had failed before, in the
lodge, took his revenge on his old rival."
"Oh, my unhappy father!" murmured Patrice, in great distress.
"Yes, it was he. That was at nineteen minutes past seven in the morning,
as you noted. A few minutes later, eager to know and understand, you
yourself rang up; and it was Essarès who replied, with your father's
dead body at his feet."
"Oh, the scoundrel! So that this body, which we did not find and were
not able to find . . ."
"Was simply made up by Essarès, made up, disfigured, transformed into
his own likeness. That, captain, is how--and the whole mystery lies in
this--Siméon Diodokis, dead, became Essarès Bey, while Essarès Bey,
transformed into Siméon Diodokis, played the part of Siméon Diodokis."
"Yes," said Patrice, "I see, I understand."
"As to the relations existing between the two men," continued Don Luis,
"I am not certain. Essarès may or may not have known before that old
Siméon was none other than his former rival, the lover of Coralie's
mother, the man in short who had escaped death. He may or may not have
known that Siméon was your father. These are points which will never be
decided and which, moreover, do not matter. What I do take for granted
is that this new murder was not improvised on the spot. I firmly believe
that Essarès, having noticed certain similarities in height and figure,
had made every preparation to take Siméon's place if circumstances
obliged him to disappear. And it was easily done. Siméon Diodokis wore a
wig and no beard. Essarès, on the contrary, was bald-headed and had a
beard. He shaved himself, smashed Siméon's face against the grate,
mingled the hairs of his own beard with the bleeding mass, dressed the
body in his clothes, took his victim's clothes for himself, put on the
wig, the spectacles and the comforter. The transformation was complete."
Patrice thought for a moment. Then he raised an objection:
"Yes, that's what happened at nineteen minutes past seven. But something
else happened at twenty-three minutes past twelve."
"No, nothing at all."
"But that clock, which stopped at twenty-three minutes past twelve?"
"I tell you, nothing happened at all. Only, he had to put people off the
scent. He had above all to avoid the inevitable accusation that would
have been brought against the new Siméon."
"What accusation?"
"What accusation? Why, that he had killed Essarès Bey, of course! A dead
body is discovered in the morning. Who has committed the murder?
Suspicion would at once have fallen on Siméon. He would have been
questioned and arrested. And Essarès would have been found under
Siméon's mask. No, he needed liberty and facilities to move about as he
pleased. To achieve this, he kept the murder concealed all the morning
and arranged so that no one set foot in the library. He went three times
and knocked at his wife's door, so that she should say that Essarès Bey
was still alive during the morning. Then, when she went out, he raised
his voice and ordered Siméon, in other words himself, to see her to the
hospital in the Champs-Élysées. And in this way Mme. Essarès thought
that she was leaving her husband behind her alive and that she was
escorted by old Siméon, whereas actually she was leaving old Siméon's
corpse in an empty part of the house and was escorted by her husband.
Then what happened? What the rascal had planned. At one o'clock, the
police, acting on the information laid by Colonel Fakhi, arrived and
found themselves in the presence of a corpse. Whose corpse? There was
not a shadow of hesitation on that point. The maids recognized their
master; and, when Mme. Essarès returned, it was her husband whom she saw
lying in front of the fireplace at which he had been tortured the night
before. Old Siméon, that is to say, Essarès himself, helped to establish
the identification. You yourself were taken in. The trick was played."
"Yes," said Patrice, nodding his head, "that is how things must have
gone. They all fit in."
"The trick was played," Don Luis repeated, "and nobody could make out
how it was done. Was there not this further proof, the letter written in
Essarès' own hand and found on his desk? The letter was dated at twelve
o'clock on the fourth of April, addressed to his wife, and told her that
he was going away. Better still, the trick was so successfully played
that the very clues which ought to have revealed the truth merely
concealed it. For instance, your father used to carry a tiny album of
photographs in a pocket stitched inside his under-vest. Essarès did not
notice it and did not remove the vest from the body. Well, when they
found the album, they at once accepted that most unlikely hypothesis:
Essarès Bey carrying on his person an album filled with photographs of
his wife and Captain Belval! In the same way, when they found in the
dead man's hand an amethyst pendant containing your two latest
photographs and when they also found a crumpled paper with something on
it about the golden triangle, they at once admitted that Essarès Bey had
stolen the pendant and the document and was holding them in his hand
when he died! So absolutely certain were they all that it was Essarès
Bey who had been murdered, that his dead body lay before their eyes and
that they must not trouble about the question any longer. And in this
way the new Siméon was master of the situation. Essarès Bey is dead,
long live Siméon!"
Don Luis indulged in a hearty laugh. The adventure struck him as really
amusing.
"Then and there," he went on, "Essarès, behind his impenetrable mask,
set to work. That very day he listened to your conversation with Coralie
and, overcome with fury at seeing you bend over her, fired a shot from
his revolver. But, when this new attempt failed, he ran away and played
an elaborate comedy near the little door in the garden, crying murder,
tossing the key over the wall to lay a false scent and falling to the
ground half dead, as though he had been strangled by the enemy who was
supposed to have fired the shot. The comedy ended with a skilful
assumption of madness."
"But what was the object of this madness?"
"What was the object? Why, to make people leave him alone and keep them
from questioning him or suspecting him. Once he was looked upon as mad,
he could remain silent and unobserved. Otherwise, Mme. Essarès would
have recognized his voice at the first words he spoke, however cleverly
he might have altered his tone. From this time onward, he is mad. He is
an irresponsible being. He goes about as he pleases. He is a madman! And
his madness is so thoroughly admitted that he leads you, so to speak, by
the hand to his former accomplices and causes you to have them arrested,
without asking yourself for an instant if this madman is not acting with
the clearest possible sense of his own interest. He's a madman, a poor,
harmless madman, one of those unfortunates with whom nobody dreams of
interfering. Henceforth, he has only his last two adversaries to fight:
Coralie and you. And this is an easy matter for him. I presume that he
got hold of a diary kept by your father. At any rate, he knows every day
of the one which you keep. From this he learns the whole story of the
graves; and he knows that, on the fourteenth of April, Coralie and you
are both going on a pilgrimage to those graves. Besides, he plans to
make you go there, for his plot is laid. He prepares against the son and
the daughter, against the Patrice and Coralie of to-day, the attempt
which he once prepared against the father and the mother. The attempt
succeeds at the start. It would have succeeded to the end, but for an
idea that occurred to our poor Ya-Bon, thanks to which a new adversary,
in the person of myself, entered the lists. . . . But I need hardly go
on. You know the rest as well as I do; and, like myself, you can judge
in all his glory the inhuman villain who, in the space of those
twenty-four hours, allowed his accomplice Grégoire to be strangled,
buried your Coralie under the sand-heap, killed Ya-Bon, locked me in the
lodge, or thought he did, buried you alive in the grave dug by your
father and made away with Vacherot, the porter. And now, Captain
Belval, do you think that I ought to have prevented him from committing
suicide, this pretty gentleman who, in the last resort, was trying to
pass himself off as your father?"
"You were right," said Patrice. "You have been right all through, from
start to finish. I see it all now, as a whole and in every detail. Only
one point remains: the golden triangle. How did you find out the truth?
What was it that brought you to this sand-heap and enabled you to save
Coralie from the most awful death?"
"Oh, that part was even simpler," replied Don Luis, "and the light came
almost without my knowing it! I'll tell it you in a few words. But let
us move away first. M. Masseron and his men are becoming a little
troublesome."
The detectives were distributed at the two entrances to Berthou's Wharf.
M. Masseron was giving them his instructions. He was obviously speaking
to them of Don Luis and preparing to accost him.
"Let's get on the barge," said Don Luis. "I've left some important
papers there."
Patrice followed him. Opposite the cabin containing Grégoire's body was
another cabin, reached by the same companion-way. It was furnished with
a table and a chair.
"Here, captain," said Don Luis, taking a letter from the drawer of the
table and settling it, "is a letter which I will ask you to . . . but
don't let us waste words. I shall hardly have time to satisfy your
curiosity. Our friends are coming nearer. Well, we were saying, the
golden triangle . . ."
He listened to what was happening outside with an attention whose real
meaning Patrice was soon to understand. And, continuing to give ear, he
resumed:
"The golden triangle? There are problems which we solve more or less by
accident, without trying. We are guided to a right solution by external
events, among which we choose unconsciously, feeling our way in the
dark, examining this one, thrusting aside that one and suddenly
beholding the object aimed at. . . . Well, this morning, after taking
you to the tombs and burying you under the stone, Essarès Bey came back
to me. Believing me to be locked into the studio, he had the pretty
thought to turn on the gas-meter and then went off to the quay above
Berthou's Wharf. Here he hesitated; and his hesitation provided me with
a precious clue. He was certainly then thinking of releasing Coralie.
People passed and he went away. Knowing where he was going, I returned
to your assistance, told your friends at Essarès' house and asked them
to look after you. Then I came back here. Indeed, the whole course of
events obliged me to come back. It was unlikely that the bags of gold
were inside the conduit; and, as the _Belle Hélène_ had not taken them
off, they must be beyond the garden, outside the conduit and therefore
somewhere near here. I explored the barge we are now on, not so much
with the object of looking for the bags as with the hope of finding some
unexpected piece of information and also, I confess, the four millions
in Grégoire's possession. Well, when I start exploring a place where I
fail to find what I want, I always remember that capital story of Edgar
Allan Poe's, _The Purloined Letter_. Do you recollect? The stolen
diplomatic document which was known to be hidden in a certain room. The
police investigate every nook and corner of the room and take up all the
boards of the floor, without results. But Dupin arrives and almost
immediately goes to a card-rack dangling from a little brass knob on the
wall and containing a solitary soiled and crumpled letter. This is the
document of which he was in search. Well, I instinctively adopted the
same process. I looked where no one would dream of looking, in places
which do not constitute a hiding-place because it would really be too
easy to discover. This gave me the idea of turning the pages of four old
directories standing in a row on that shelf. The four millions were
there. And I knew all that I wanted to know."
"About what?"
"About Essarès' temperament, his habits, the extent of his attainments,
his notion of a good hiding-place. We had plunged on the expectation of
meeting with difficulties; we ought to have looked at the outside, to
have looked at the surface of things. I was assisted by two further
clues. I had noticed that the uprights of the ladder which Ya-Bon must
have taken from here had a few grains of sand on them. Lastly, I
remembered that Ya-Bon had drawn a triangle on the pavement with a piece
of chalk and that this triangle had only two sides, the third side being
formed by the foot of the wall. Why this detail? Why not a third line in
chalk? . . . To make a long story short, I lit a cigarette, sat down
upstairs, on the deck of the barge, and, looking round me, said to
myself, 'Lupin, my son, five minutes and no more.' When I say, 'Lupin,
my son,' I simply can't resist myself. By the time I had smoked a
quarter of the cigarette, I was there."
"You had found out?"
"I had found out. I can't say which of the factors at my disposal
kindled the spark. No doubt it was all of them together. It's a rather
complicated psychological operation, you know, like a chemical
experiment. The correct idea is formed suddenly by mysterious reactions
and combinations among the elements in which it existed in a potential
stage. And then I was carrying within myself an intuitive principle, a
very special incentive which obliged me, which inevitably compelled me,
to discover the hiding-place: Little Mother Coralie was there! I knew
for certain that failure on my part, prolonged weakness or hesitation
would mean her destruction. There was a woman there, within a radius of
a dozen yards or so. I had to find out and I found out. The spark was
kindled. The elements combined. And I made straight for the sand-heap. I
at once saw the marks of footsteps and, almost at the top, the signs of
a slight stamping. I started digging. You can imagine my excitement when
I first touched one of the bags. But I had no time for excitement. I
shifted a few bags. Coralie was there, unconscious, hardly protected
from the sand which was slowly stifling her, trickling through, stopping
up her eyes, suffocating her. I needn't tell you more, need I? The wharf
was deserted, as usual. I got her out. I hailed a taxi. I first took her
home. Then I turned my attention to Essarès, to Vacherot the porter;
and, when I had discovered our enemy's plans, I went and made my
arrangements with Dr. Géradec. Lastly, I had you moved to the private
hospital on the Boulevard de Montmorency and gave orders for Coralie to
be taken there too. And there you are, captain! All done in three hours.
When the doctor's car brought me back to the hospital, Essarès arrived
at the same time, to have his injuries seen to. I had him safe."
Don Luis ceased speaking. There were no words necessary between the two
men. One had done the other the greatest services which a man has it in
his power to render; and the other knew that these were services for
which no thanks are adequate. And he also knew that he would never have
an opportunity to prove his gratitude. Don Luis was in a manner above
those proofs, owing to the mere fact that they were impossible. There
was no service to be rendered to a man like him, disposing of his
resources and performing miracles with the same ease with which we
perform the trivial actions of everyday life.
Patrice once again pressed his hand warmly, without a word. Don Luis
accepted the homage of this silent emotion and said:
"If ever people talk of Arsène Lupin before you, captain, say a good
word for him, won't you? He deserves it." And he added, with a laugh,
"It's funny, but, as I get on in life, I find myself caring about my
reputation. The devil was old, the devil a monk would be!"
He pricked up his ears and, after a moment, said:
"Captain, it is time for us to part. Present my respects to Little
Mother Coralie. I shall not have known her, so to speak, and she will
not know me. It is better so. Good-by, captain."
"Then we are taking leave of each other?"
"Yes, I hear M. Masseron. Go to him, will you, and have the kindness to
bring him here?"
Patrice hesitated. Why was Don Luis sending him to meet M. Masseron? Was
it so that he, Patrice, might intervene in his favor?
The idea appealed to him; and he ran up the companion-way.
Then a thing happened which Patrice was destined never to understand,
something very quick and quite inexplicable. It was as though a long and
gloomy adventure were to finish suddenly with melodramatic
unexpectedness.
Patrice met M. Masseron on the deck of the barge.
"Is your friend here?" asked the magistrate.
"Yes. But one word first: you don't mean to . . . ?"
"Have no fear. We shall do him no harm, on the contrary."
The answer was so definite that the officer could find nothing more to
say. M. Masseron went down first, with Patrice following him.
"Hullo!" said Patrice. "I left the cabin-door open!"
He pushed the door. It opened. But Don Luis was no longer in the cabin.
Immediate enquiries showed that no one had seen him go, neither the men
remaining on the wharf nor those who had already crossed the gangway.
"When you have time to examine this barge thoroughly," said Patrice,
"I've no doubt you will find it pretty nicely faked."
"So your friend has probably escaped through some trap-door and swum
away?" asked M. Masseron, who seemed greatly annoyed.
"I expect so," said Patrice, laughing. "Unless he's gone off on a
submarine!"
"A submarine in the Seine?"
"Why not? I don't believe that there's any limit to my friend's
resourcefulness and determination."
But what completely dumbfounded M. Masseron was the discovery, on the
table, of a letter directed to himself, the letter which Don Luis had
placed there at the beginning of his interview with Patrice.
"Then he knew that I should come here? He foresaw, even before we met,
that I should ask him to fulfil certain formalities?"
The letter ran as follows:
"_Sir_,
"Forgive my departure and believe that I, on my side,
quite understand the reason that brings you here. My
position is not in fact regular; and you are entitled
to ask me for an explanation. I will give you that
explanation some day or other. You will then see that,
if I serve France in a manner of my own, that manner
is not a bad one and that my country will owe me some
gratitude for the immense services, if I may venture
to use the word, which I have done her during this
war. On the day of our interview, I should like you to
thank me, sir. You will then--for I know your secret
ambition--be prefect of police. Perhaps I shall even
be able personally to forward a nomination which I
consider well-deserved. I will exert myself in that
direction without delay.
"I have the honor to be, etc."
M. Masseron remained silent for a time.
"A strange character!" he said, at last. "Had he been willing, we should
have given him great things to do. That was what I was instructed to
tell him."
"You may be sure, sir," said Patrice, "that the things which he is
actually doing are greater still." And he added, "A strange character,
as you say. And stranger still, more powerful and more extraordinary
than you can imagine. If each of the allied nations had had three or
four men of his stamp at its disposal, the war would have been over in
six months."
"I quite agree," said M. Masseron. "Only those men are usually solitary,
intractable people, who act solely upon their own judgment and refuse to
accept any authority. I'll tell you what: they're something like that
famous adventurer who, a few years ago, compelled the Kaiser to visit
him in prison and obtain his release . . . and afterwards, owing to a
disappointment in love, threw himself into the sea from the cliffs at
Capri."
"Who was that?"
"Oh, you know the fellow's name as well as I do! . . . Lupin, that's it:
Arsène Lupin."
THE END
Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the
original edition have been corrected.
In Chapter II, a missing quotation mark was added before "Why, what's
the matter?"
In Chapter III, "never uttered a compaint" was changed to "never uttered
a complaint".
In Chapter V, "Bourney turned this fifth rose" was changed to "Bournef
turned this fifth rose", and "bending over her huband" was changed to
"bending over her husband".
In Chapter VI, "Is Mmme. Essarès ill" was changed to "Is Mme. Essarès
ill".
In Chapter VIII, missing quotation marks were added after "Oh, Patrice!
. . . Patrice! . . ." and "Help! . . . Help! . . .".
In Chapter X, "They do, howover, throw" was changed to "They do,
however, throw", "Siméon keeps his own council" was changed to "Siméon
keeps his own counsel", and a quotation mark was removed after "And who
could defend her?".
In Chapter XIII, a quotation mark was removed after "what could they do
to ward it off?", and "he shook his first at the invisible enemy" was
changed to "he shook his fist at the invisible enemy".
In Chapter XV, a quotation mark was removed before "There was a brief
silence".
In Chapter XVI, "your're trembling" was changed to "you're trembling".
In Chapter XVII, "and then, above all, the gold! . ." was changed to
"and then, above all, the gold! . . .", "How indeed could it be
otherwise? . ." was changed to "How indeed could it be otherwise?
. . .", and a missing quotation mark was added before "But what a state
you're in!"
In Chapter XVIII, "Gray hair . . ." was changed to "Gray hair. . . .",
"Grégoire had the money in his keeping" was changed to "Grégoire had the
money in her keeping", and "suddenly leapt backwords" was changed to
"suddenly leapt backwards".
In Chapter XIX, "Rue Guimart" was changed to "Rue Guimard", "which
stoppd at twenty-three minutes past twelve" was changed to "which
stopped at twenty-three minutes past twelve", and "to discovered the
hiding-place" was changed to "to discover the hiding-place".