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

of my clearly expressed wish. You are to join me at the first summons. If you do not leave Paris then, nothing shall protect you against my lawful resentment: nothing, not even my death. I have made all my arrangements so that, even in the contingency⁠ ⁠…”

“The letter ends there,” said M. Masseron, handing it back to Coralie, “and we know by an unimpeachable sign that the last lines were written immediately before M. Essarès’ death, because, in falling, he upset a little clock which stood on his desk and which marked twenty-three minutes past twelve. I assume that he felt unwell and that, on trying to rise, he was seized with a fit of giddiness and fell to the floor. Unfortunately, the fireplace was near, with a fierce fire blazing in it; his head struck the grate; and the wound that resulted was so deep⁠—the surgeon testified to this⁠—that he fainted. Then the fire close at hand did its work⁠ ⁠… with the effects which you have seen.⁠ ⁠…”

Patrice had listened in amazement to this unexpected explanation:

“Then in your opinion,” he asked, “M. Essarès died of an accident? He was not murdered?”

“Murdered? Certainly not! We have no clue to support any such theory.”

“Still⁠ ⁠…”

“Captain Belval, you are the victim of an association of ideas which, I admit, is perfectly justifiable. Ever since yesterday you have been witnessing a series of tragic incidents; and your imagination naturally leads you to the most tragic solution, that of murder. Only⁠—reflect⁠—why should a murder have been committed? And by whom? By Bournef and his friends? With what object? They were crammed full with banknotes; and, even admitting that the man called Grégoire recovered those millions from them, they would certainly not have got them back by killing M. Essarès. Then again, how would they have entered the house? And how can they have gone out?⁠ ⁠… No, captain, you must excuse me, but M. Essarès died an accidental death. The facts are undeniable; and this is the opinion of the divisional surgeon, who will draw up his report in that sense.”

Patrice turned to Coralie:

“Is it Mme. Essarès’ opinion also?”

She reddened slightly and answered:

“Yes.”

“And old Siméon’s?”

“Oh,” replied the magistrate, “old Siméon is wandering in his mind! To listen to him, you would think that everything was about to happen all over again, that Mme. Essarès is threatened with danger and that she ought to take to flight at once. That is all that I have been able to get out of him. However, he took me to an old disused door that opens out of the garden on a lane running at right angles with the Rue Raynouard; and here he showed me first the watchdog’s dead body and next some footprints between the door and the flight of steps near the library. But you know those footprints, do you not? They belong to you and your Senegalese. As for the death of the watchdog, I can put that down to your Senegalese, can’t I?”

Patrice was beginning to understand. The magistrate’s reticence, his explanation, his agreement with Coralie: all this was gradually becoming plain. He put the question frankly:

“So there was no murder?”

“No.”

“Then there will be no magistrate’s examination?”

“No.”

“And no talk about the matter; it will all be kept quiet, in short, and forgotten?”

“Just so.”

Captain Belval began to walk up and down, as was his habit. He now remembered Essarès’ prophecy:

“I shan’t be arrested.⁠ ⁠… If I am, I shall be let go.⁠ ⁠… The matter will be hushed up.⁠ ⁠…”

Essarès was right. The hand of justice was arrested; and there was no way for Coralie to escape silent complicity.

Patrice was intensely annoyed by the manner in which the case was being handled. It was certain that a compact had been concluded between Coralie and M. Masseron. He suspected the magistrate of circumventing Coralie and inducing her to sacrifice her own interests to other considerations. To effect this, the first thing was to get rid of him, Patrice.

“Ugh!” said Patrice to himself. “I’m fairly sick of this sportsman, with his cool ironical ways. It looks as if he were doing a considerable piece of thimblerigging at my expense.”

He restrained himself, however, and, with a pretense of wanting to keep on good terms with the magistrate, came and sat down beside him:

“You must forgive me, sir,” he said, “for insisting in what may appear to you an indiscreet fashion. But my conduct is explained not only by such sympathy or feeling as I entertain for Mme. Essarès at a moment in her life when she is more lonely than ever, a sympathy and feeling which she seems to repulse even more firmly than she did before. It is also explained by certain mysterious links which unite us to each other and which go back to a period too remote for our eyes to focus. Has Mme. Essarès told you those details? In my opinion, they are most important; and I cannot help associating them with the events that interest us.”

M. Masseron glanced at Coralie, who nodded. He answered:

“Yes, Mme. Essarès has informed me and even⁠ ⁠…”

He hesitated once more and again consulted Coralie, who flushed and seemed put out of countenance. M. Masseron, however, waited for a reply which would enable him to proceed. She ended by saying, in a low voice:

“Captain Belval is entitled to know what we have discovered. The truth belongs as much to him as to me; and I have no right to keep it from him. Pray speak, monsieur.”

“I doubt if it is even necessary to speak,” said the magistrate. “It will be enough, I think, to show the captain this photograph-album which I have found. Here you are, Captain Belval.”

And he handed Patrice a very slender album, covered in gray canvas and fastened with an india-rubber band.

Patrice took it with a certain anxiety. But what he saw on opening it was so utterly unexpected that he gave an exclamation:

“It’s incredible!”

On the first page, held in place by their four corners, were two photographs: one, on the right, representing a small boy in an