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

“That’ll do, that’ll do,” said the captain. “There’s no getting a word in, once you start talking. Here, take a chair, read this report and give me your reasoned opinion. What? You don’t know how to read? Well, upon my word! What was the good, then, of wearing out the seat of your trousers on the benches of the Senegal schools and colleges? A queer education, I must say!”

He heaved a sigh, and, snatching the manuscript, said:

“Listen, reflect, argue, deduct and conclude. This is how the matter briefly stands. First, we have one Essarès Bey, a banker, rich as Croesus, and the lowest of rapscallions, who betrays at one and the same time France, Egypt, England, Turkey, Bulgaria and Greece⁠ ⁠… as is proved by the fact that his accomplices roast his feet for him. Thereupon he kills one of them and gets rid of four with the aid of as many millions, which millions he orders another accomplice to get back for him before five minutes are passed. And all these bright spirits will duck underground at eleven o’clock this morning, for at twelve o’clock the police propose to enter on the scene. Good.”

Patrice Belval paused to take breath and continued:

“Secondly, Little Mother Coralie⁠—upon my word, I can’t say why⁠—is married to Rapscallion Bey. She hates him and wants to kill him. He loves her and wants to kill her. There is also a colonel who loves her and for that reason loses his life and a certain Mustapha, who tries to kidnap her on the colonel’s account and also loses his life for that reason, strangled by a Senegalese. Lastly, there is a French captain, a dot-and-carry-one, who likewise loves her, but whom she avoids because she is married to a man whom she abhors. And with this captain, in a previous incarnation, she has halved an amethyst bead. Add to all this, by way of accessories, a rusty key, a red silk bowstring, a dog choked to death and a grate filled with red coals. And, if you dare to understand a single word of my explanation, I’ll catch you a whack with my wooden leg, for I don’t understand it a little bit and I’m your captain.”

Ya-Bon laughed all over his mouth and all over the gaping scar that cut one of his cheeks in two. As ordered by his captain, he understood nothing of the business and very little of what Patrice had said; but he always quivered with delight when Patrice addressed him in that gruff tone.

“That’s enough,” said the captain. “It’s my turn now to argue, deduct and conclude.”

He leant against the mantelpiece, with his two elbows on the marble shelf and his head tight-pressed between his hands. His merriment, which sprang from temperamental lightness of heart, was this time only a surface merriment. Deep down within himself he did nothing but think of Coralie with sorrowful apprehension. What could he do to protect her? A number of plans occurred to him: which was he to choose? Should he hunt through the numbers in the telephone-book till he hit upon the whereabouts of that Grégoire, with whom Bournef and his companions had taken refuge? Should he inform the police? Should he return to the Rue Raynouard? He did not know. Yes, he was capable of acting, if the act to be performed consisted in flinging himself into the conflict with furious ardor. But to prepare the action, to divine the obstacles, to rend the darkness, and, as he said, to see the invisible and grasp the intangible, that was beyond his powers.

He turned suddenly to Ya-Bon, who was standing depressed by his silence:

“What’s the matter with you, putting on that lugubrious air? Of course it’s you that throw a gloom over me! You always look at the black side of things⁠ ⁠… like a nigger!⁠ ⁠… Be off.”

Ya-Bon was going away discomfited, when someone tapped at the door and a voice said:

“Captain Belval, you’re wanted on the telephone.”

Patrice hurried out. Who on earth could be telephoning to him so early in the morning?

“Who is it?” he asked the nurse.

“I don’t know, captain.⁠ ⁠… It’s a man’s voice; he seemed to want you urgently. The bell had been ringing some time. I was downstairs, in the kitchen.⁠ ⁠…”

Before Patrice’s eyes there rose a vision of the telephone in the Rue Raynouard, in the big room at the Essarès’ house. He could not help wondering if there was anything to connect the two incidents.

He went down one flight of stairs and along a passage. The telephone was through a small waiting-room, in a room that had been turned into a linen-closet. He closed the door behind him.

“Hullo! Captain Belval speaking. What is it?”

A voice, a man’s voice which he did not know, replied in breathless, panting tones:

“Ah!⁠ ⁠… Captain Belval!⁠ ⁠… It’s you!⁠ ⁠… Look here⁠ ⁠… but I’m almost afraid that it’s too late.⁠ ⁠… I don’t know if I shall have time to finish.⁠ ⁠… Did you get the key and the letter?⁠ ⁠…”

“Who are you?” asked Patrice.

“Did you get the key and the letter?” the voice insisted.

“The key, yes,” Patrice replied, “but not the letter.”

“Not the letter? But this is terrible! Then you don’t know⁠ ⁠…”

A hoarse cry struck Patrice’s ear and the next thing he caught was incoherent sounds at the other end of the wire, the noise of an altercation. Then the voice seemed to glue itself to the instrument and he distinctly heard it gasping:

“Too late!⁠ ⁠… Patrice⁠ ⁠… is that you?⁠ ⁠… Listen, the amethyst pendant⁠ ⁠… yes, I have it on me.⁠ ⁠… The pendant.⁠ ⁠… Ah, it’s too late!⁠ ⁠… I should so much have liked to⁠ ⁠… Patrice.⁠ ⁠… Coralie.⁠ ⁠…”

Then again a loud cry, a heartrending cry, and confused sounds growing more distant, in which he seemed to distinguish:

“Help!⁠ ⁠… Help!⁠ ⁠…”

These grew fainter and fainter. Silence followed. And suddenly there was a little click. The murderer had hung up the receiver.

All this had not taken twenty seconds. But, when Patrice wanted to replace the telephone, his