The Golden Triangle by Maurice Leblanc (top rated books of all time TXT) 📕

Patrice Belval grasped his revolver.

“Oh, I’m going on too!” he said to himself. “I won’t let that wretch be⁠ ⁠…”

But, at this very moment, when he was on the point of drawing himself up and acting, a chance movement made him behold the most extraordinary and unexpected sight. Opposite him, on the other side of the room, in a part of the balcony corresponding with that where he was, he saw a woman’s head, a head glued to the rails, livid and terror-stricken, with eyes wide-open in horror gazing frenziedly at the awful scene that was being enacted below by the glowing fire.

Patrice had recognized Little Mother Coralie.

Little Mother Coralie! Coralie concealed in this house into which her assailants had forced their way and in which she herself was hiding, through force of circumstances which were incapable of explanation.

His first idea, which would at least have solved one of the riddles, was that she also had entered from the lane, gone into the house by the steps and in this way opened a passage for him. But, in that case, how had she procured the means of carrying out this enterprise? And, above all, what brought her here?

All these questions occurred to Captain Belval’s mind without his trying to reply to them. He was far too much impressed by the absorbed expression on Coralie’s face. Moreover, a second cry, even wilder than the first, came from below; and he saw the victim’s face writhing before the red curtain of fire from the hearth.

But, this time, Patrice, held back by Coralie’s presence, had no inclination to go to the sufferer’s assistance. He decided to model himself entirely upon her and not to move or do anything to attract her attention.

“Easy!” the leader commanded. “Pull him back. I expect he’s had enough.”

He went up to the victim:

“Well, my dear Essarès,” he asked, “what do you think of it? Are you happy? And, you know, we’re only beginning. If you don’t speak, we shall go on to the end, as the real chauffeurs used to do in the days of the Revolution. So it’s settled, I presume: you’re going to speak?”

There was no answer. The leader rapped out an oath and went on:

“What do you mean? Do you refuse? But, you obstinate brute, don’t you understand the situation? Or have you a glimmer of hope? Hope, indeed! You’re mad. Who would rescue you? Your servants? The porter, the footman and the butler are in my pay. I gave them a week’s notice. They’re gone by now. The housemaid? The cook? They sleep at the other end of the house; and you yourself have told me, time after time, that one can’t hear anything over there. Who else? Your wife? Her room also is far away; and she hasn’t heard anything either? Siméon, your old secretary? We made him fast when he opened the front door to us just now. Besides, we may as well finish the job here. Bournef!”

The man with the big mustache, who was still holding the chair, drew himself up.

“Bournef, where did you lock up the secretary?”

“In the porter’s lodge.”

“You know where to find Mme. Essarès’ bedroom?”

“Yes, you told me the way.”

“Go, all four of you, and bring the lady and the secretary here!”

The four men went out by a door below the spot where Coralie was standing. They were hardly out of sight when the leader stooped eagerly over his victim and said:

“We’re alone, Essarès. It’s what I intended. Let’s make the most of it.”

He bent still lower and whispered so that Patrice found it difficult to hear what he said:

“Those men are fools. I twist them round my finger and tell them no more of my plans than I can help. You and I, on the other hand, Essarès, are the men to come to terms. That is what you refused to admit; and you see where it has landed you. Come, Essarès, don’t be obstinate and don’t shuffle. You are caught in a trap, you are helpless, you are absolutely in my power. Well, rather than allow yourself to be broken down by tortures which would certainly end by overcoming your resistance, strike a bargain with me. We’ll go halves, shall we? Let’s make peace and treat upon that basis. I’ll give you a hand in my game and you’ll give me one in yours. As allies, we are bound to win. As enemies, who knows whether the victor will surmount all the obstacles that will still stand in his path? That’s why I say again, halves! Answer me. Yes or no.”

He loosened the gag and listened. This time, Patrice did not hear the few words which the victim uttered. But the other, the leader, almost immediately burst into a rage:

“Eh? What’s that you’re proposing? Upon my word, but you’re a cool hand! An offer of this kind to me! That’s all very well for Bournef or his fellows. They’ll understand, they will. But it won’t do for me, it won’t do for Colonel Fakhi. No, no, my friend, I open my mouth wider! I’ll consent to go halves, but accept an alms, never!”

Patrice listened eagerly and, at the same time, kept his eyes on Coralie, whose face still contorted with anguish, wore an expression of the same rapt attention. And he looked back at the victim, part of whose body was reflected in the glass above the mantelpiece. The man was dressed in a braided brown-velvet smoking-suit and appeared to be about fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fleshy face, a large hooked nose, eyes deep set under a pair of thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks covered with a thick grizzled beard. Patrice was also able to examine his features more closely in a portrait of him which hung to the left of the fireplace, between the first and second windows, and which represented a strong, powerful countenance with an almost fierce expression.

“It’s an