“Thank goodness! The battle is becoming serious! Really, it was too easy before; and that was why I was sulking, I, Lupin! Do you imagine things go like that in real life? Does everything fit in so accurately? Benjamin Franklin, the uninterrupted conduit for the gold, the series of clues that reveal themselves of their own accord, the man and the bags meeting at Mantes, the Belle Hélène: no, it all worried me. The cat was being choked with cream! And then the gold escaping in a barge! All very well in times of peace, but not in wartime, in the face of the regulations: passes, patrol-boats, inspections and I don’t know what. … How could a fellow like Siméon risk a trip of that kind? No, I had my suspicions; and that was why, captain, I made Ya-Bon mount guard, on the off chance, outside Berthou’s Wharf. It was just an idea that occurred to me. The whole of this adventure seemed to center round the wharf. Well, was I right or not? Is M. Lupin no longer able to follow a scent? Captain, I repeat, I shall go back tomorrow evening. Besides, as I told you, I’ve got to. Whether I win or lose, I’m going. But we shall win. Everything will be cleared up. There will be no more mysteries, not even the mystery of the golden triangle. … Oh, I don’t say that I shall bring you a beautiful triangle of eighteen-carat gold! We mustn’t allow ourselves to be fascinated by words. It may be a geometrical arrangement of the bags of gold, a triangular pile … or else a hole in the ground dug in that shape. No matter, we shall have it! And the bags of gold shall be ours! And Patrice and Coralie shall appear before monsieur le maire and receive my blessing and live happily ever after!”
They reached the gates of Paris. Patrice was becoming more and more anxious:
“Then you think the danger’s over?”
“Oh, I don’t say that! The play isn’t finished. After the great scene of the third act, which we will call the scene of the oxide of carbon, there will certainly be a fourth act and perhaps a fifth. The enemy has not laid down his arms, by any means.”
They were skirting the quays.
“Let’s get down,” said Don Luis.
He gave a faint whistle and repeated it three times.
“No answer,” he said. “Ya-Bon’s not there. The battle has begun.”
“But Coralie …”
“What are you afraid of for her? Siméon doesn’t know her address.”
There was nobody on Berthou’s Wharf and nobody on the quay below. But by the light of the moon they saw the other barge, the Nonchalante.
“Let’s go on board,” said Don Luis. “I wonder if the lady known as Grégoire makes a practise of living here? Has she come back, believing us on our way to Le Hâvre? I hope so. In any case, Ya-Bon must have been there and no doubt left something behind to act as a signal. Will you come, captain?”
“Right you are. It’s a queer thing, though: I feel frightened!”
“What of?” asked Don Luis, who was plucky enough himself to understand this presentiment.
“Of what we shall see.”
“My dear sir, there may be nothing there!”
Each of them switched on his pocket-lamp and felt the handle of his revolver. They crossed the plank between the shore and the boat. A few steps downwards brought them to the cabin. The door was locked.
“Hi, mate! Open this, will you?”
There was no reply. They now set about breaking it down, which was no easy matter, for it was massive and quite unlike an ordinary cabin-door.
At last it gave way.
“By Jingo!” said Don Luis, who was the first to go in. “I didn’t expect this!”
“What?”
“Look. The woman whom they called Grégoire. She seems to be dead.”
She was lying back on a little iron bedstead, with her man’s blouse open at the top and her chest uncovered. Her face still bore an expression of extreme terror. The disordered appearance of the cabin suggested that a furious struggle had taken place.
“I was right. Here, by her side, are the clothes she wore at Mantes. But what’s the matter, captain?”
Patrice had stifled a cry:
“There … opposite … under the window …”
It was a little window overlooking the river. The panes were broken.
“Well?” asked Don Luis. “What? Yes, I believe someone’s been thrown out that way.”
“The veil … that blue veil,” stammered Patrice, “is her nurse’s veil … Coralie’s. …”
Don Luis grew vexed:
“Nonsense! Impossible! Nobody knew her address.”
“Still …”
“Still what? You haven’t written to her? You haven’t telegraphed to her?”
“Yes … I telegraphed to her … from Mantes.”
“What’s that? Oh, but look here. This is madness! You don’t mean that you really telegraphed?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You telegraphed from the post-office at Mantes?”
“Yes.”
“And was there anyone in the post-office?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“What woman? The one who lies here, murdered?”
“Yes.”
“But she didn’t read what you wrote?”
“No, but I wrote the telegram twice over.”
“And you threw the first draft anywhere, on the floor, so that anyone who came along. … Oh, really, captain, you must confess … !”
But Patrice was running towards the car and was already out of earshot.
Half an hour after, he returned with two telegrams which he had found on Coralie’s table. The first, the one which he had sent, said:
“All well. Be easy and stay indoors. Fondest love.
The second, which had evidently been despatched by Siméon, ran as follows:
“Events taking serious turn. Plans changed. Coming back. Expect you nine o’clock this evening at the small door of your garden.
This second telegram was delivered to Coralie at eight o’clock; and she had left the home immediately afterwards.
XVI
The Fourth Act
“Captain,” said Don Luis, “you’ve scored two fine blunders. The first was your not telling me that Grégoire was a woman. The second …”
But Don Luis saw that the officer was too much dejected for him to care about completing his charge. He put his
