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

“You had found out?”

“I had found out. I can’t say which of the factors at my disposal kindled the spark. No doubt it was all of them together. It’s a rather complicated psychological operation, you know, like a chemical experiment. The correct idea is formed suddenly by mysterious reactions and combinations among the elements in which it existed in a potential stage. And then I was carrying within myself an intuitive principle, a very special incentive which obliged me, which inevitably compelled me, to discover the hiding-place: Little Mother Coralie was there! I knew for certain that failure on my part, prolonged weakness or hesitation would mean her destruction. There was a woman there, within a radius of a dozen yards or so. I had to find out and I found out. The spark was kindled. The elements combined. And I made straight for the sand-heap. I at once saw the marks of footsteps and, almost at the top, the signs of a slight stamping. I started digging. You can imagine my excitement when I first touched one of the bags. But I had no time for excitement. I shifted a few bags. Coralie was there, unconscious, hardly protected from the sand which was slowly stifling her, trickling through, stopping up her eyes, suffocating her. I needn’t tell you more, need I? The wharf was deserted, as usual. I got her out. I hailed a taxi. I first took her home. Then I turned my attention to Essarès, to Vacherot the porter; and, when I had discovered our enemy’s plans, I went and made my arrangements with Dr. Géradec. Lastly, I had you moved to the private hospital on the Boulevard de Montmorency and gave orders for Coralie to be taken there too. And there you are, captain! All done in three hours. When the doctor’s car brought me back to the hospital, Essarès arrived at the same time, to have his injuries seen to. I had him safe.”

Don Luis ceased speaking. There were no words necessary between the two men. One had done the other the greatest services which a man has it in his power to render; and the other knew that these were services for which no thanks are adequate. And he also knew that he would never have an opportunity to prove his gratitude. Don Luis was in a manner above those proofs, owing to the mere fact that they were impossible. There was no service to be rendered to a man like him, disposing of his resources and performing miracles with the same ease with which we perform the trivial actions of everyday life.

Patrice once again pressed his hand warmly, without a word. Don Luis accepted the homage of this silent emotion and said:

“If ever people talk of Arsène Lupin before you, captain, say a good word for him, won’t you? He deserves it.” And he added, with a laugh, “It’s funny, but, as I get on in life, I find myself caring about my reputation. The devil was old, the devil a monk would be!”

He pricked up his ears and, after a moment, said:

“Captain, it is time for us to part. Present my respects to Little Mother Coralie. I shall not have known her, so to speak, and she will not know me. It is better so. Goodbye, captain.”

“Then we are taking leave of each other?”

“Yes, I hear M. Masseron. Go to him, will you, and have the kindness to bring him here?”

Patrice hesitated. Why was Don Luis sending him to meet M. Masseron? Was it so that he, Patrice, might intervene in his favor?

The idea appealed to him; and he ran up the companionway.

Then a thing happened which Patrice was destined never to understand, something very quick and quite inexplicable. It was as though a long and gloomy adventure were to finish suddenly with melodramatic unexpectedness.

Patrice met M. Masseron on the deck of the barge.

“Is your friend here?” asked the magistrate.

“Yes. But one word first: you don’t mean to⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Have no fear. We shall do him no harm, on the contrary.”

The answer was so definite that the officer could find nothing more to say. M. Masseron went down first, with Patrice following him.

“Hullo!” said Patrice. “I left the cabin-door open!”

He pushed the door. It opened. But Don Luis was no longer in the cabin.

Immediate enquiries showed that no one had seen him go, neither the men remaining on the wharf nor those who had already crossed the gangway.

“When you have time to examine this barge thoroughly,” said Patrice, “I’ve no doubt you will find it pretty nicely faked.”

“So your friend has probably escaped through some trap-door and swum away?” asked M. Masseron, who seemed greatly annoyed.

“I expect so,” said Patrice, laughing. “Unless he’s gone off on a submarine!”

“A submarine in the Seine?”

“Why not? I don’t believe that there’s any limit to my friend’s resourcefulness and determination.”

But what completely dumbfounded M. Masseron was the discovery, on the table, of a letter directed to himself, the letter which Don Luis had placed there at the beginning of his interview with Patrice.

“Then he knew that I should come here? He foresaw, even before we met, that I should ask him to fulfil certain formalities?”

The letter ran as follows:

“Sir,

“Forgive my departure and believe that I, on my side, quite understand the reason that brings you here. My position is not in fact regular; and you are entitled to ask me for an explanation. I will give you that explanation some day or other. You will then see that, if I serve France in a manner of my own, that manner is not a bad one and that my country will owe me some gratitude for the immense services, if I may venture to use the word, which I have done her during this war. On the day of our interview, I should like you to thank me, sir. You will then⁠—for I know your secret ambition⁠—be prefect of police. Perhaps I shall even