And Don Luis continued, unrelentingly and without intermission:
“Come along, come along! … It’s a mere nothing and it means eternal rest! … How good it feels, already! To forget! To cease fighting! … Think of the gold which you have lost. … Three hundred millions gone forever! … And Coralie lost as well. Mother and daughter: you can’t have either. In that case, life is nothing but a snare and a delusion. You may as well leave it. Come, one little effort, one little movement. …”
That little movement the miscreant made. Hardly knowing what he did, he pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the room; and Essarès fell forward, with his knees on the floor. Don Luis had to spring to one side to escape being splashed by the blood that trickled from the man’s shattered head.
“By Jove!” he cried. “The blood of vermin like that would have brought me ill-luck. And, Lord, what crawling vermin it is! … Upon my word, I believe that this makes one more good action I’ve done in my life and that this suicide entitles me to a little seat in Paradise. What say you, captain?”
XIX
Fiat Lux!
On the evening of the same day, Patrice was pacing up and down the Quai de Passy. It was nearly six o’clock. From time to time, a tramcar passed, or some motor-lorry. There were very few people about on foot. Patrice had the pavement almost to himself.
He had not seen Don Luis Perenna since the morning, had merely received a line in which Don Luis asked him to have Ya-Bon’s body moved into the Essarès’ house and afterwards to meet him on the quay above Berthou’s Wharf. The time appointed for the meeting was near at hand and Patrice was looking forward to this interview in which the truth would be revealed to him at last. He partly guessed the truth, but no little darkness and any number of unsolved problems remained. The tragedy was played out. The curtain had fallen on the villain’s death. All was well: there was nothing more to fear, no more pitfalls in store for them. The formidable enemy was laid low. But Patrice’s anxiety was intense as he waited for the moment when light would be cast freely and fully upon the tragedy.
“A few words,” he said to himself, “a few words from that incredible person known as Arsène Lupin, will clear up the mystery. It will not take him long. He will be gone in an hour. Will he take the secret of the gold with him, I wonder? Will he solve the secret of the golden triangle for me? And how will he keep the gold for himself? How will he take it away?”
A motorcar arrived from the direction of the Trocadéro. It slowed down and stopped beside the pavement. It must be Don Luis, thought Patrice. But, to his great surprise, he recognized M. Masseron, who opened the door and came towards him with outstretched hand:
“Well, captain, how are you? I’m punctual for the appointment, am I not? But, I say, have you been wounded in the head again?”
“Yes, an accident of no importance,” replied Patrice. “But what appointment are you speaking of?”
“Why, the one you gave me, of course!”
“I gave you no appointment.”
“Oh, I say!” said M. Masseron. “What does this mean? Why, here’s the note they brought me at the police-office: ‘Captain Belval’s compliments to M. Masseron. The problem of the golden triangle is solved. The eighteen hundred bags are at his disposal. Will he please come to the Quai de Passy, at six o’clock, with full powers from the government to accept the conditions of delivery. It would be well if he brought with him twenty powerful detectives, of whom half should be posted a hundred yards on one side of Essarès’ property and the other half on the other.’ There you are. Is it clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” said Patrice, “but I never sent you that note.”
“Who sent it then?”
“An extraordinary man who deciphered all those problems like so many children’s riddles and who certainly will be here himself to bring you the solution.”
“What’s his name?”
“I shan’t say.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that! Secrets are hard to keep in wartime.”
“Very easy, on the contrary, sir,” said a voice behind M. Masseron. “All you need do is to make up your mind to it.”
M. Masseron and Patrice turned round and saw a gentleman dressed in a long, black overcoat, cut like a frock-coat, and a tall collar which gave him a look of an English clergyman.
“This is the friend I was speaking of,” said Patrice, though he had some difficulty in recognizing Don Luis. “He twice saved my life and also that of the lady whom I am going to marry. I will answer for him in every respect.”
M. Masseron bowed; and Don Luis at once began, speaking with a slight accent:
“Sir, your time is valuable and so is mine, for I am leaving Paris tonight and France tomorrow. My explanation therefore will be brief. I will pass over the drama itself, of which you have followed the main vicissitudes so far. It came to an end this morning. Captain Belval will tell you all about it. I will merely add that our poor Ya-Bon is dead and that you will find three other bodies: that of Grégoire, whose real name was Mme. Mosgranem, in the barge over there; that of one Vacherot, a hall-porter, in some corner of a block of flats at 18, Rue Guimard; and lastly the body of Siméon Diodokis, in Dr. Géradec’s private hospital on the Boulevard de Montmorency.”
“Old Siméon?” asked M. Masseron in great surprise.
“Old Siméon has killed himself. Captain Belval will give you every possible information about that person and his real identity; and I think you will agree with me that this business will have to be hushed up. But, as I said, we will pass over all this. There remains
