CHAPTER X
THE RED CORD
Coralie, feeling her legs give way beneath her, had flung herself on theprie-dieu and there knelt praying fervently and wildly. She could nottell on whose behalf, for the repose of what unknown soul her prayerswere offered; but her whole being was afire with fever and exaltationand the very action of praying seemed able to assuage her.
"What was your mother's name, Coralie?" Patrice whispered.
"Louise," she replied.
"And my father's name was Armand. It cannot be either of them,therefore; and yet . . ."
Patrice also was displaying the greatest agitation. Stooping down, heexamined the nineteen wreaths, renewed his inspection of the tombstoneand said:
"All the same, Coralie, the coincidence is really too extraordinary. Myfather died in 1895."
"And my mother died in that year too," she said, "though I do not knowthe exact date."
"We shall find out, Coralie," he declared. "These things can all beverified. But meanwhile one truth becomes clear. The man who used tointerlace the names of Patrice and Coralie was not thinking only of usand was not considering only the future. Perhaps he thought even more ofthe past, of that Coralie and Patrice whom he knew to have suffered aviolent death and whom he had undertaken to avenge. Come away, Coralie.No one must suspect that we have been here."
They went down the path and through the two doors on the lane. They werenot seen coming in. Patrice at once brought Coralie indoors, urgedYa-Bon and his comrades to increase their vigilance and left the house.
He came back in the evening only to go out again early the next day; andit was not until the day after, at three o'clock in the afternoon, thathe asked to be shown up to Coralie.
"Have you found out?" she asked him at once.
"I have found out a great many things which do not dispel the darknessof the present. I am almost tempted to say that they increase it. Theydo, however, throw a very vivid light on the past."
"Do they explain what we saw two days ago?" she asked, anxiously.
"Listen to me, Coralie."
He sat down opposite her and said:
"I shall not tell you all the steps that I have taken. I will merely sumup the result of those which led to some result. I went, first of all,to the Mayor of Passy's office and from there to the Servian Legation."
"Then you persist in assuming that it was my mother?"
"Yes. I took a copy of her death-certificate, Coralie. Your mother diedon the fourteenth of April, 1895."
"Oh!" she said. "That is the date on the tomb!"
"The very date."
"But the name? Coralie? My father used to call her Louise."
"Your mother's name was Louise Coralie Countess Odolavitch."
"Oh, my mother!" she murmured. "My poor darling mother! Then it was shewho was murdered. It was for her that I was praying over the way?"
"For her, Coralie, and for my father. I discovered his full name at themayor's office in the Rue Drouot. My father was Armand Patrice Belval.He died on the fourteenth of April, 1895."
Patrice was right in saying that a singular light had been thrown uponthe past. He had now positively established that the inscription on thetombstone related to his father and Coralie's mother, both of whom weremurdered on the same day. But by whom and for what reason, inconsequence of what tragedies? This was what Coralie asked him to tellher.
"I cannot answer your questions yet," he replied. "But I addressedanother to myself, one more easily solved; and that I did solve. Thisalso makes us certain of an essential point. I wanted to know to whomthe lodge belonged. The outside, in the Rue Raynouard, affords no clue.You have seen the wall and the door of the yard: they show nothing inparticular. But the number of the property was sufficient for mypurpose. I went to the local receiver and learnt that the taxes werepaid by a notary in the Avenue de l'Opera. I called on this notary, whotold me . . ."
He stopped for a moment and then said:
"The lodge was bought twenty-one years ago by my father. Two yearslater my father died; and the lodge, which of course formed part of hisestate, was put up for sale by the present notary's predecessor andbought by one Simeon Diodokis, a Greek subject."
"It's he!" cried Coralie. "Simeon's name is Diodokis."
"Well, Simeon Diodokis," Patrice continued, "was a friend of myfather's, because my father appointed him the sole executor of his willand because it was Simeon Diodokis who, through the notary in questionand a London solicitor, paid my school-fees and, when I attained mymajority, made over to me the sum of two hundred thousand francs, thebalance of my inheritance."
They maintained a long silence. Many things were becoming manifest, butindistinctly, as yet, and shaded, like things seen in the evening mist.And one thing stood in sharper outline than the rest, for Patricemurmured:
"Your mother and my father loved each other, Coralie."
The thought united them more closely and affected them profoundly. Theirlove was the counterpart of another love, bruised by trials, liketheirs, but still more tragic and ending in bloodshed and death.
"Your mother and my father loved each other," he repeated. "I should saythey must have belonged to that class of rather enthusiastic loverswhose passion indulges in charming little childish ways, for they had atrick of calling each other, when alone, by names which nobody else usedto them; and they selected their second Christian names, which werealso yours and mine. One day your mother dropped her amethyst rosary.The largest of the beads broke in two pieces. My father had one of thepieces mounted as a trinket which he hung on his watch-chain. Both werewidowed. You were two years old and I was eight. In order to devotehimself altogether to the woman he loved, my father sent me to Englandand bought the lodge in which your mother, who lived in the big housenext door, used to go and see him, crossing the lane and using the samekey for both doors. It was no doubt in this lodge, or in the gardenround it, that they were murdered. We shall find that out, because theremust be visible proofs of the murder, proofs which Simeon Diodokisdiscovered, since he was not afraid to say so in the inscription on thetombstone."
"And who was the murderer?" Coralie asked, under her breath.
"You suspect it, Coralie, as I do. The hated name comes to your mind,even though we have no grounds for speaking with certainty."
"Essares!" she cried, in anguish.
"Most probably."
She hid her face in her hands:
"No, no, it is impossible. It is impossible that I should have been thewife of the man who killed my mother."
"You bore his name, but you were never his wife. You told him so theevening before his death, in my presence. Let us say nothing that we areunable to say positively; but all the same let us remember that he wasyour evil genius. Remember also that Simeon, my father's friend andexecutor, the man who bought the lovers' lodge, the man who swore upontheir tomb to avenge them: remember that Simeon, a few months after yourmother's death, persuaded Essares to engage him as caretaker of theestate, became his secretary and gradually made his way into Essares'life. His only object must have been to carry out a plan of revenge."
"There has been no revenge."
"What do we know about it? Do we know how Essares met his death?Certainly it was not Simeon who killed him, as Simeon was at thehospital. But he may have caused him to be killed. And revenge has athousand ways of manifesting itself. Lastly, Simeon was most likelyobeying instructions that came from my father. There is little doubtthat he wanted first to achieve an aim which my father and your motherhad at heart: the union of our destinies, Coralie. And it was this aimthat ruled his life. It was he evidently who placed among theknick-knacks which I collected as a child this amethyst of which theother half formed a bead in your rosary. It was he who collected ourphotographs. He lastly was our unknown friend and protector, the one whosent me the key, accompanied by a letter which I never received,unfortunately."
"Then, Patrice, you no longer believe that he is dead, this unknownfriend, or that you he
ard his dying cries?"
"I cannot say. Simeon was not necessarily acting alone. He may have hada confidant, an assistant in the work which he undertook. Perhaps it wasthis other man who died at nineteen minutes past seven. I cannot say.Everything that happened on that ill-fated morning remains involved inthe deepest mystery. The only conviction that we are able to hold isthat for twenty years Simeon Diodokis has worked unobtrusively andpatiently on our behalf, doing his utmost to defeat the murderer, andthat Simeon Diodokis is alive. Alive, but mad!" Patrice added. "So thatwe can neither thank him nor question him about the grim story which heknows or about the dangers that threaten you."
* * * * *
Patrice resolved once more to make the attempt, though he felt sure of afresh disappointment. Simeon had a bedroom, next to that occupied by twoof the wounded soldiers, in the wing which formerly contained theservants' quarters. Here Patrice found him.
He was sitting half-asleep in a chair turned towards the garden. Hispipe was in his mouth; he had allowed it to go out. The room was small,sparsely furnished, but clean and light. Hidden from view, the best partof the old man's life was spent here. M. Masseron had often visited theroom, in Simeon's absence, and so had Patrice, each from his own pointof view.
The only discovery worthy of note consisted of a crude diagram inpencil, on the white wall-paper behind a chest of drawers: three linesintersecting to form a large equilateral triangle. In the middle of thisgeometrical figure were three words clumsily inscribed in adhesivegold-leaf:
_The Golden Triangle_
There was nothing more, not another clue of any kind, to further M.Masseron's search.
Patrice walked straight up to the old man and tapped him on theshoulder:
"Simeon!" he said.
The other lifted his yellow spectacles to him, and Patrice felt a suddenwish to snatch away this glass obstacle which concealed the old fellow'seyes and prevented him from looking into his soul and his distantmemories. Simeon began to laugh foolishly.
"So this," thought Patrice, "is my friend and my father's friend. Heloved my father, respected his wishes, was faithful to his memory,raised a tomb to him, prayed on it and swore to avenge him. And now hismind has gone."
Patrice felt that speech was useless. But, though the sound of his voiceroused no echo in that wandering brain, it was possible that the eyeswere susceptible to a reminder. He wrote on a clean sheet of paper thewords that Simeon had gazed upon so often:
_Patrice and Coralie_ _14 April, 1895_
The old man looked, shook his head and repeated his melancholy, foolishchuckle.
The officer added a new line:
_Armand Belval_
The old man displayed the same torpor. Patrice continued the test. Hewrote down the names of Essares Bey and Colonel Fakhi. He drew atriangle. The old man failed to understand and went on chuckling.
But suddenly his laughter lost some of its childishness. Patrice hadwritten the name of Bournef, the accomplice, and this time the oldsecretary appeared to be stirred by a recollection. He tried to get up,fell back in his chair, then rose to his feet again and took his hatfrom a peg on the wall.
He left his room and, followed by Patrice, marched out of the house andturned to the left, in the direction of Auteuil. He moved like a man ina trance who is hypnotized into walking without knowing where he isgoing. He led the way along the Rue de Boulainvilliers, crossed theSeine and turned down the Quai de Grenelle with an unhesitating step.Then, when he reached the boulevard, he stopped, putting out his arm,made a sign to Patrice to do likewise. A kiosk hid them from view. Heput his head round it. Patrice followed his example.
Opposite, at the corner of the boulevard and a side-street, was a cafe,with a portion of the pavement in front of it marked out by dwarf shrubsin tubs. Behind these tubs four men sat drinking. Three of them hadtheir backs turned to Patrice. He saw the only one that faced him, andhe at once recognized Bournef.
By this time Simeon was some distance away, like a man whose part isplayed and who leaves it to others to complete the work. Patrice lookedround, caught sight of a post-office and went in briskly. He knew thatM. Masseron was at the Rue Raynouard. He telephoned and told him whereBournef was. M. Masseron replied that he would come at once.
Since the murder of Essares Bey, M. Masseron's enquiry had made noprogress in so far as Colonel Fakhi's four accomplices were concerned.True, they discovered the man Gregoire's sanctuary and the bedrooms withthe wall-cupboards; but the whole place was empty. The accomplices haddisappeared.
"Old Simeon," said Patrice to himself, "was acquainted with theirhabits. He must have known that they were accustomed to meet at thiscafe on a certain day of the week, at a fixed hour, and he suddenlyremembered it all at the sight of Bournef's name."
A few minutes later M. Masseron alighted from his car with his men. Thebusiness did not take long. The open front of the cafe was surrounded.The accomplices offered no resistance. M. Masseron sent three of themunder a strong guard to the Depot and hustled Bournef into a privateroom.
"Come along," he said to Patrice. "We'll question him."
"Mme. Essares is alone at the house," Patrice objected.
"Alone? No. There are all your soldier-men."
"Yes, but I would rather go back, if you don't mind. It's the first timethat I've left her and I'm justified in feeling anxious."
"It's only a matter of a few minutes," M. Masseron insisted. "One shouldalways take advantage of the fluster caused by the arrest."
Patrice followed him, but they soon saw that Bournef was not one ofthose men who are easily put out. He simply shrugged his shoulders attheir threats:
"It is no use, sir," he said, "to try and frighten me. I risk nothing.Shot, do you say? Nonsense! You don't shoot people in France for theleast thing; and we are all four subjects of a neutral country. Tried?Sentenced? Imprisoned? Never! You forget that you have kept everythingdark so far; and, when you hushed up the murder of Mustapha, of Fakhiand of Essares, it was not done with the object of reviving the case forno valid reason. No, sir, I am quite easy. The internment-camp is theworst that can await me."
"Then you refuse to answer?" said M. Masseron.
"Not a bit of it! I accept internment. But there are twenty differentways of treating a man in these camps, and I should like to earn yourfavor and, in so doing, make sure of reasonable comfort till the end ofthe war. But first of all, what do you know?"
"Pretty well everything."
"That's a pity: it decreases my value. Do you know about Essares' lastnight?"
"Yes, with the bargain of the four millions. What's become of themoney?"
Bournef made a furious gesture:
"Taken from us! Stolen! It was a trap!"
"Who took it?"
"One Gregoire."
"Who was he?"
"His familiar, as we have since learnt. We discovered that this Gregoirewas no other than a fellow who used to serve as his chauffeur onoccasion."
"And who therefore helped him to convey the bags of gold from the bankto his house."
"Yes. And we also think, we know . . . Look here, you may as well callit a certainty. Gregoire . . . is a woman."
"A woman!"
"Exactly. His mistress. We have several proofs of it. But she's atrustworthy, capable woman, strong as a man and afraid of nothing."
"Do you know her address?"
"No."
"As to the gold: have you no clue to its whereabouts, no suspicion?"
"No. The gold is in the garden or in the house in the Rue Raynouard. Wesaw it being taken in every day for a week. It has not been taken outsince. We kept watch every night. The bags are there."
"No clue either to Essares' murderer?"
"No, none."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Why should I tell a lie?"
"Suppose it was yourself? Or one of your friends?"
"We thought that you would suspect us. Fortunately, we happe
n to have analibi."
"Easy to prove?"
"Impossible to upset."
"We'll look into it. So you have nothing more to reveal?"
"No. But I have an idea . . . or rather a question which you will answeror not, as you please. Who betrayed us? Your reply may throw some usefullight, for one person only knew of our weekly meetings here from fourto five o'clock, one person only, Essares Bey; and he himself often camehere to confer with us. Essares is dead. Then who gave us away?"
"Old Simeon."
Bournef started with astonishment:
"What! Simeon? Simeon Diodokis?"
"Yes. Simeon Diodokis, Essares Bey's secretary."
"He? Oh, I'll make him pay for this, the blackguard! But no, it'simpossible."
"What makes you say that it's impossible?'"
"Why, because . . ."
He stopped and thought for some time, no doubt to convince himself thatthere was no harm in speaking. Then he finished his sentence:
"Because old Simeon was on our side."
"What's that you say?" exclaimed Patrice, whose turn it was to besurprised.
"I say and I swear that Simeon Diodokis was on our side. He was our man.It was he who kept us informed of Essares Bey's shady tricks. It was hewho rang us up at nine o'clock in the evening to tell us that Essareshad lit the furnace of the old hothouses and that the signal of thesparks was going to work. It was he who opened the door to us,pretending to resist, of course, and allowed us to tie him up in theporter's lodge. It was he, lastly, who paid and dismissed themen-servants."
"But why? Why this treachery? For the sake of money?"
"No, from hatred. He bore Essares Bey a hatred that often gave us theshudders."
"What prompted it?"
"I don't know. Simeon keeps his own counsel. But it dated a long wayback."
"Did he know where the gold was hidden?" asked M. Masseron.
"No. And it was not for want of hunting to find out. He never knew howthe bags got out the cellar, which was only a temporary hiding-place."
"And yet they used to leave the grounds. If so, how are we to know thatthe same thing didn't happen this time?"
"This time we were keeping watch the whole way round outside, a thingwhich Simeon could not do by himself."
Patrice now put the question:
"Can you tell us nothing more about him?"
"No, I can't. Wait, though; there was one rather curious thing. On theafternoon of the great day, I received a letter in which Simeon gave mecertain particulars. In the same envelope was another letter, which hadevidently got there by some incredible mistake, for it appeared to behighly important."
"What did it say?" asked Patrice, anxiously.
"It was all about a key."
"Don't you remember the details?"
"Here is the letter. I kept it in order to give it back to him and warnhim what he had done. Here, it's certainly his writing. . . ."
Patrice took the sheet of notepaper; and the first thing that he saw washis own name. The letter was addressed to him, as he anticipated:
"_Patrice_,
"You will this evening receive a key. The key opens two doors midway down a lane leading to the river: one, on the right, is that of the garden of the woman you love; the other, on the left, that of a garden where I want you to meet me at nine o'clock in the morning on the 14th of April. She will be there also. You shall learn who I am and the object which I intend to attain. You shall both hear things about the past that will bring you still closer together.
"From now until the 14th the struggle which begins to-night will be a terrible one. If anything happens to me, it is certain that the woman you love will run the greatest dangers. Watch over her, Patrice; do not leave her for an instant unprotected. But I do not intend to let anything happen to me; and you shall both know the happiness which I have been preparing for you so long.
"My best love to you."
"It's not signed," said Bournef, "but, I repeat, it's in Simeon'shandwriting. As for the lady, she is obviously Mme. Essares."
"But what danger can she be running?" exclaimed Patrice, uneasily."Essares is dead, so there is nothing to fear."
"I wouldn't say that. He would take some killing."
"Whom can he have instructed to avenge him? Who would continue hiswork?"
"I can't say, but I should take no risks."
Patrice waited to hear no more. He thrust the letter into M. Masseron'shand and made his escape.
"Rue Raynouard, fast as you can," he said, springing into a taxi.
He was eager to reach his destination. The dangers of which old Simeonspoke seemed suddenly to hang over Coralie's head. Already the enemy,taking advantage of Patrice's absence, might be attacking his beloved.And who could defend her?
"If anything happens to me," Simeon had said.
And the supposition was partly realized, since he had lost his wits.
"Come, come," muttered Patrice, "this is sheer idiocy. . . . I amfancying things. . . . There is no reason . . ."
But his mental anguish increased every minute. He reminded himself thatold Simeon was still in full possession of his faculties at the timewhen he wrote that letter and gave the advice which it contained. Hereminded himself that old Simeon had purposely informed him that the keyopened the door of Coralie's garden, so that he, Patrice, might keep aneffective watch by coming to her in case of need.
He saw Simeon some way ahead of him. It was growing late, and the oldfellow was going home. Patrice passed him just outside the porter'slodge and heard him humming to himself.
"Any news?" Patrice asked the soldier on duty.
"No, sir."
"Where's Little Mother Coralie?"
"She had a walk in the garden and went upstairs half an hour ago."
"Ya-Bon?"
"Ya-Bon went up with Little Mother Coralie. He should be at her door."
Patrice climbed the stairs, feeling a good deal calmer. But, when hecame to the first floor, he was astonished to find that the electriclight was not on. He turned on the switch. Then he saw, at the end ofthe passage, Ya-Bon on his knees outside Coralie's room, with his headleaning against the wall. The door was open.
"What are you doing there?" he shouted, running up.
Ya-Bon made no reply. Patrice saw that there was blood on the shoulderof his jacket. At that moment the Senegalese sank to the floor.
"Damn it! He's wounded! Dead perhaps."
He leapt over the body and rushed into the room, switching on the lightat once.
Coralie was lying at full length on a sofa. Round her neck was theterrible little red-silk cord. And yet Patrice did not experience thatawful, numbing despair which we feel in the presence of irretrievablemisfortunes. It seemed to him that Coralie's face had not the pallor ofdeath.
He found that she was in fact breathing:
"She's not dead. She's not dead," said Patrice to himself. "And she'snot going to die, I'm sure of it . . . nor Ya-Bon either. . . . They'vefailed this time."
He loosened the cords. In a few seconds Coralie heaved a deep breath andrecovered consciousness. A smile lit up her eyes at the sight of him.But, suddenly remembering, she threw her arms, still so weak, aroundhim:
"Oh, Patrice," she said, in a trembling voice, "I'm frightened . . .frightened for you!"
"What are you frightened of, Coralie? Who is the scoundrel?"
"I didn't see him. . . . He put out the light, caught me by the throatand whispered, 'You first. . . . To-night it will be your lover's turn!'. . . Oh, Patrice, I'm frightened for you! . . ."