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

four corners of the panel. These four turn to the right, by successive notches, forming a word which is the key to the lock, the word Cora.”

“The first four letters of Coralie?” asked Bournef, following Essarès’ instructions as he spoke.

“No,” said Essarès Bey, “the first four letters of the Coran. Have you done that?”

After a moment, Bournef answered:

“Yes, I’ve finished. And the key?”

“There’s no key. The fifth letter of the word, the letter N, is the letter of the central rose.”

Bournef turned this fifth rose; and presently a click was heard.

“Now pull,” said Essarès. “That’s it. The safe is not deep: it’s dug in one of the stones of the front wall. Put in your hand. You’ll find four pocketbooks.”

It must be admitted that Patrice Belval expected to see something startling interrupt Bournef’s quest and hurl him into some pit suddenly opened by Essarès’ trickery. And the three confederates seemed to share this unpleasant apprehension, for they were gray in the face, while Bournef himself appeared to be working very cautiously and suspiciously.

At last he turned round and came and sat beside Essarès. In his hands he held a bundle of four pocketbooks, short but extremely bulky and bound together with a canvas strap. He unfastened the buckle of the strap and opened one of the pocketbooks.

His knees shook under their precious burden, and, when he had taken a huge sheaf of notes from one of the compartments, his hands were like the hands of a very old man trembling with fever.

“Thousand-franc notes,” he murmured. “Ten packets of thousand-franc notes.”

Brutally, like men prepared to fight one another, each of the other three laid hold of a pocketbook, felt inside and mumbled:

“Ten packets⁠ ⁠… they’re all there.⁠ ⁠… Thousand-franc notes⁠ ⁠…”

And one of them forthwith cried, in a choking voice:

“Let’s clear out!⁠ ⁠… Let’s go!”

A sudden fear was sending them off their heads. They could not imagine that Essarès would hand over such a fortune to them unless he had some plan which would enable him to recover it before they had left the room. That was a certainty. The ceiling would come down on their heads. The walls would close up and crush them to death, while sparing their unfathomable adversary.

Nor had Patrice Belval any doubt of it. The disaster was preparing. Essarès’ revenge was inevitably at hand. A man like him, a fighter as able as he appeared to be, does not so easily surrender four million francs if he has not some scheme at the back of his head. Patrice felt himself breathing heavily. His present excitement was more violent than any with which he had thrilled since the very beginning of the tragic scenes which he had been witnessing; and he saw that Coralie’s face was as anxious as his own.

Meanwhile Bournef partially recovered his composure and, holding back his companions, said:

“Don’t be such fools! He would be capable, with old Siméon, of releasing himself and running after us.”

Using only one hand, for the other was clutching a pocketbook, all four fastened Essarès’ arm to the chair, while he protested angrily:

“You idiots! You came here to rob me of a secret of immense importance, as you well knew, and you lose your heads over a trifle of four millions. Say what you like, the colonel had more backbone than that!”

They gagged him once more and Bournef gave him a smashing blow with his fist which laid him unconscious.

“That makes our retreat safe,” said Bournef.

“What about the colonel?” asked one of the others. “Are we to leave him here?”

“Why not?”

But apparently he thought this unwise; for he added:

“On second thoughts, no. It’s not to our interest to compromise Essarès any further. What we must do, Essarès as well as ourselves, is to make ourselves scarce as fast as we can, before that damned letter of the colonel’s is delivered at headquarters, say before twelve o’clock in the day.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“We’ll take the colonel with us in the motor and drop him anywhere. The police must make what they can of it.”

“And his papers?”

“We’ll look through his pockets as we go. Lend me a hand.”

They bandaged the wound to stop the flow of blood, took up the body, each holding it by an arm or leg, and walked out without any one of them letting go his pocketbook for a second.

Patrice Belval heard them pass through another room and then tramp heavily over the echoing flags of a hall.

“This is the moment,” he said. “Essarès or Siméon will press a button and the rogues will be nabbed.”

Essarès did not budge.

Siméon did not budge.

Patrice heard all the sounds accompanying their departure: the slamming of the carriage-gate, the starting-up of the engine and the drone of the car as it moved away. And that was all. Nothing had happened. The confederates were getting off with their four millions.

A long silence followed, during which Patrice remained on tenterhooks. He did not believe that the drama had reached its last phase; and he was so much afraid of the unexpected which might still occur that he determined to make Coralie aware of his presence.

A fresh incident prevented him. Coralie had risen to her feet.

Her face no longer wore its expression of horror and affright, but Patrice was perhaps more scared at seeing her suddenly animated with a sinister energy that gave an unwonted sparkle to her eyes and set her eyebrows and her lips twitching. He realized that Coralie was preparing to act.

In what way? Was this the end of the tragedy?

She walked to the corner on her side of the gallery where one of the two spiral staircases stood and went down slowly, without, however, trying to deaden the sound of her feet. Her husband could not help hearing her. Patrice, moreover, saw in the mirror that he had lifted his head and was following her with his eyes.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs. But there was no indecision in her attitude. Her plan was obviously quite clear; and she was only