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

“Wait,” said the old man. “We must hold it in position, or it will fall down again. You’ll find an iron bar at the bottom of the second step.”

There were three steps running into a small cavity, barely large enough to contain a man stooping. Patrice saw the iron bar and, propping up the stone with his shoulder, took the bar and set it up.

“Good,” said Siméon. “That will keep it steady. What you must now do is to lie down in the hollow. This was where my coffin was to have been and where I often used to come and lie beside my dear Coralie. I would remain for hours, flat on the ground, speaking to her.⁠ ⁠… We both talked.⁠ ⁠… Yes, I assure you, we used to talk.⁠ ⁠… Oh, Patrice!⁠ ⁠…”

Patrice had bent his tall figure in the narrow space where he was hardly able to move.

“What am I to do?” he asked.

“Don’t you hear your Coralie? There’s only a partition-wall between you: a few bricks hidden under a thin layer of earth. And a door. The other vault, Coralie’s, is behind it. And behind that there’s a third, with the bags of gold.”

The old man was bending over and directing the search as he knelt on the grass:

“The door’s on the left. Farther than that. Can’t you find it? That’s odd. You mustn’t be too slow about it, though. Ah, have you got it now? No? Oh, if I could only go down too! But there’s not room for more than one.”

There was a brief silence. Then he began again:

“Stretch a bit farther. Good. Can you move?”

“Yes,” said Patrice.

“Then go on moving, my lad!” cried the old man, with a yell of laughter.

And, stepping back briskly, he snatched away the iron bar. The enormous block of stone came down heavily, slowly, because of the counterweight, but with irresistible force.

Though floundering in the newly-turned earth, Patrice tried to rise, at the sight of his danger. Siméon had taken up the iron bar and now struck him a blow on the head with it. Patrice gave a cry and moved no more. The stone covered him up. The whole incident had lasted but a few seconds.

Siméon did not lose an instant. He knew that Patrice, wounded as he was bound to be and weakened by the posture to which he was condemned, was incapable of making the necessary effort to lift the lid of his tomb. On that side, therefore, there was no danger.

He went back to the lodge and, though he walked with some difficulty, he had no doubt exaggerated his injuries, for he did not stop until he reached the door. He even scorned to obliterate his footprints and went straight ahead.

On entering the hall he listened. Don Luis was tapping against the walls and the partition inside the studio and the bedroom.

“Capital!” said Siméon, with a grin. “His turn now.”

It did not take long. He walked to the kitchen on the right, opened the door of the meter and, turning the key, released the gas, thus beginning again with Don Luis what he had failed to achieve with Patrice and Coralie.

Not till then did he yield to the immense weariness with which he was overcome and allow himself to lie back in a chair for two or three minutes.

His most terrible enemy also was now out of the way. But it was still necessary for him to act and ensure his personal safety. He walked round the lodge, looked for his yellow spectacles and put them on, went through the garden, opened the door and closed it behind him. Then he turned down the lane to the quay.

Once more stopping, in front of the parapet above Berthou’s Wharf, he seemed to hesitate what to do. But the sight of people passing, carmen, market-gardeners and others, put an end to his indecision. He hailed a taxi and drove to the Rue Guimard.

His friend Vacherot was standing at the door of his lodge.

“Oh, is that you, M. Siméon?” cried the porter. “But what a state you’re in!”

“Hush, no names!” he whispered, entering the lodge. “Has anyone seen me?”

“No. It’s only half-past seven and the house is hardly awake. But, Lord forgive us, what have the scoundrels done to you? You look as if you had no breath left in your body!”

“Yes, that nigger who came after me⁠ ⁠…”

“But the others?”

“What others?”

“The two who were here? Patrice?”

“Eh? Has Patrice been?” asked Siméon, still speaking in a whisper.

“Yes, last night, after you left.”

“And you told him?”

“That he was your son.”

“Then that,” mumbled the old man, “is why he did not seem surprised at what I said.”

“Where are they now?”

“With Coralie. I was able to save her. I’ve handed her over to them. But it’s not a question of her. Quick, I must see a doctor; there’s no time to lose.”

“We have one in the house.”

“No, that’s no use. Have you a telephone-directory?”

“Here you are.”

“Turn up Dr. Géradec.”

“What? You can’t mean that?”

“Why not? He has a private hospital quite close, on the Boulevard de Montmorency, with no other house near it.”

“That’s so, but haven’t you heard? There are all sorts of rumors about him afloat: something to do with passports and forged certificates.”

“Never mind that.”

M. Vacherot hunted out the number in the directory and rang up the exchange. The line was engaged; and he wrote down the number on the margin of a newspaper. Then he telephoned again. The answer was that the doctor had gone out and would be back at ten.

“It’s just as well,” said Siméon. “I’m not feeling strong enough yet. Say that I’ll call at ten o’clock.”

“Shall I give your name as Siméon?”

“No, my real name, Armand Belval. Say it’s urgent, say it’s a surgical case.”

The porter did so and hung up the instrument, with a moan:

“Oh, my poor M. Siméon! A man like you, so good and kind to everybody! Tell me what happened?”

“Don’t worry about that. Is my place ready?”

“To be sure it is.”

“Take me there without anyone