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

fingers were gripping it so hard that it needed an effort to relax them.

He stood utterly dumbfounded. His eyes had fastened on a large clock which he saw, through the window, on one of the buildings in the yard, marking nineteen minutes past seven; and he mechanically repeated these figures, attributing a documentary value to them. Then he asked himself⁠—so unreal did the scene appear to him⁠—if all this was true and if the crime had not been penetrated within himself, in the depths of his aching heart. But the shouting still echoed in his ears; and suddenly he took up the receiver again, like one clinging desperately to some undefined hope:

“Hullo!” he cried. “Exchange!⁠ ⁠… Who was it rang me up just now?⁠ ⁠… Are you there? Did you hear the cries?⁠ ⁠… Are you there?⁠ ⁠… Are you there?⁠ ⁠…”

There was no reply. He lost his temper, insulted the exchange, left the linen-closet, met Ya-Bon and pushed him about:

“Get out of this! It’s your fault. Of course you ought to have stayed and looked after Coralie. Be off there now and hold yourself at my disposal. I’m going to inform the police. If you hadn’t prevented me, it would have been done long ago and we shouldn’t be in this predicament. Off you go!”

He held him back:

“No, don’t stir. Your plan’s ridiculous. Stay here. Oh, not here in my pocket! You’re too impetuous for me, my lad!”

He drove him out and returned to the linen-closet, striding up and down and betraying his excitement in irritable gestures and angry words. Nevertheless, in the midst of his confusion, one idea gradually came to light, which was that, after all, he had no proof that the crime which he suspected had happened at the house in the Rue Raynouard. He must not allow himself to be obsessed by the facts that lingered in his memory to the point of always seeing the same vision in the same tragic setting. No doubt the drama was being continued, as he had felt that it would be, but perhaps elsewhere and far away from Coralie.

And this first thought led to another: why not investigate matters at once?

“Yes, why not?” he asked himself. “Before bothering the police, discovering the number of the person who rang me up and thus working back to the start, a process which it will be time enough to employ later, why shouldn’t I telephone to the Rue Raynouard at once, on any pretext and in anybody’s name? I shall then have a chance of knowing what to think.⁠ ⁠…”

Patrice felt that this measure did not amount to much. Suppose that no one answered, would that prove that the murder had been committed in the house, or merely that no one was yet about? Nevertheless, the need to do something decided him. He looked up Essarès Bey’s number in the telephone-directory and resolutely rang up the exchange.

The strain of waiting was almost more than he could bear. And then he was conscious of a thrill which vibrated through him from head to foot. He was connected; and someone at the other end was answering the call.

“Hullo!” he said.

“Hullo!” said a voice. “Who are you?”

It was the voice of Essarès Bey.

Although this was only natural, since at that moment Essarès must be getting his papers ready and preparing his flight, Patrice was so much taken aback that he did not know what to say and spoke the first words that came into his head:

“Is that Essarès Bey?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m one of the wounded at the hospital, now under treatment at the home.⁠ ⁠…”

“Captain Belval, perhaps?”

Patrice was absolutely amazed. So Coralie’s husband knew him by name? He stammered:

“Yes⁠ ⁠… Captain Belval.”

“What a lucky thing!” cried Essarès Bey, in a tone of delight. “I rang you up a moment ago, at the home, Captain Belval, to ask⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, it was you!” interrupted Patrice, whose astonishment knew no bounds.

“Yes, I wanted to know at what time I could speak to Captain Belval in order to thank him.”

“It was you!⁠ ⁠… It was you!⁠ ⁠…” Patrice repeated, more and more thunderstruck.

Essarès’ intonation denoted a certain surprise.

“Yes, wasn’t it a curious coincidence?” he said. “Unfortunately, I was cut off, or rather my call was interrupted by somebody else.”

“Then you heard?”

“What, Captain Belval?”

“Cries.”

“Cries?”

“At least, so it seemed to me; but the connection was very indistinct.”

“All that I heard was somebody asking for you, somebody who was in a great hurry; and, as I was not, I hung up the telephone and postponed the pleasure of thanking you.”

“Of thanking me?”

“Yes, I have heard how my wife was assaulted last night and how you came to her rescue. And I am anxious to see you and express my gratitude. Shall we make an appointment? Could we meet at the hospital, for instance, at three o’clock this afternoon?”

Patrice made no reply. The audacity of this man, threatened with arrest and preparing for flight, baffled him. At the same time, he was wondering what Essarès’ real object had been in telephoning to him without being in any way obliged to. But Belval’s silence in no way troubled the banker, who continued his civilities and ended the inscrutable conversation with a monologue in which he replied with the greatest ease to questions which he kept putting to himself.

In spite of everything, Patrice felt more comfortable. He went back to his room, lay down on his bed and slept for two hours. Then he sent for Ya-Bon.

“This time,” he said, “try to control your nerves and not to lose your head as you did just now. You were absurd. But don’t let’s talk about it. Have you had your breakfast? No? No more have I. Have you seen the doctor? No? No more have I. And the surgeon has just promised to take off this beastly bandage. You can imagine how pleased I am. A wooden leg is all very well; but a head wrapped up in lint, for a lover, never! Get on, look sharp. When we’re ready, we’ll start for the hospital.