The Golden Triangle Maurice Leblanc (smart books to read .txt) 📖

said, “you shall come to no harm. I know that you are devoted to your master, but I also know that he tells you none of his private affairs. On the other hand, I am certain that you will keep silent as to all this, because a single word of betrayal would involve your master’s ruin even more than ours. That’s understood between us, isn’t it? Well, why don’t you answer? Have they squeezed your throat a bit too tight with their cords? Wait, I’ll give you some air.⁠ ⁠…”

Meanwhile the ugly work at the fireplace pursued its course. The two feet were reddened by the heat until it seemed almost as though the bright flames of the fire were glowing through them. The sufferer exerted all his strength in trying to bend his legs and to draw back; and a dull, continuous moan came through his gag.

“Oh, hang it all!” thought Patrice. “Are we going to let him roast like this, like a chicken on a spit?”

He looked at Coralie. She did not stir. Her face was distorted beyond recognition, and her eyes seemed fascinated by the terrifying sight.

“Couple of inches nearer!” cried the leader, from the other end of the room, as he unfastened Siméon’s bonds.

The order was executed. The victim gave such a yell that Patrice’s blood froze in his veins. But, at the same moment, he became aware of something that had not struck him so far, or at least he had attached no significance to it. The prisoner’s hand, as the result of a sequence of little movements apparently due to nervous twitches, had seized the opposite edge of the table, while his arm rested on the marble top. And gradually, unseen by the torturers, all whose efforts were directed to keeping his legs in position, or by the leader, who was still engaged with Siméon, this hand opened a drawer which swung on a hinge, dipped into the drawer, took out a revolver and, resuming its original position with a jerk, hid the weapon in the chair.

The act, or rather the intention which it indicated, was foolhardy in the extreme, for, when all was said, reduced to his present state of helplessness, the man could not hope for victory against five adversaries, all free and all armed. Nevertheless, as Patrice looked at the glass in which he beheld him, he saw a fierce determination pictured in the man’s face.

“Another two inches,” said Colonel Fakhi, as he walked back to the fireplace.

He examined the condition of the flesh and said, with a laugh:

“The skin is blistering in places; the veins are ready to burst. Essarès Bey, you can’t be enjoying yourself, and it strikes me that you mean to do the right thing at last. Have you started scribbling yet? No? And don’t you mean to? Are you still hoping? Counting on your wife, perhaps? Come, come, you must see that, even if she has succeeded in escaping, she won’t say anything! Well, then, are you humbugging me, or what?⁠ ⁠…”

He was seized with a sudden burst of rage and shouted:

“Shove his feet into the fire! And let’s have a good smell of burning for once! Ah, you would defy me, would you? Well, wait a bit, old chap, and let me have a go at you! I’ll cut you off an ear or two: you know, the way we have in our country!”

He drew from his waistcoat a dagger that gleamed in the firelight. His face was hideous with animal cruelty. He gave a fierce cry, raised his arm and stood over the other relentlessly.

But, swift as his movement was, Essarès was before him. The revolver, quickly aimed, was discharged with a loud report. The dagger dropped from the colonel’s hand. For two or three seconds he maintained his threatening attitude, with one arm lifted on high and a haggard look in his eyes, as though he did not quite understand what had happened to him. And then, suddenly, he fell upon his victim in a huddled heap, paralyzing his arm with the full weight of his body, at the moment when Essarès was taking aim at one of the other confederates.

He was still breathing:

“Oh, the brute, the brute!” he panted. “He’s killed me!⁠ ⁠… But you’ll lose by it, Essarès.⁠ ⁠… I was prepared for this. If I don’t come home tonight, the prefect of police will receive a letter.⁠ ⁠… They’ll know about your treason, Essarès⁠ ⁠… all your story⁠ ⁠… your plans.⁠ ⁠… Oh, you devil!⁠ ⁠… And what a fool!⁠ ⁠… We could so easily have come to terms.⁠ ⁠…”

He muttered a few inaudible words and rolled down to the floor. It was all over.

A moment of stupefaction was produced not so much by this unexpected tragedy as by the revelation which the leader had made before dying and by the thought of that letter, which no doubt implicated the aggressors as well as their victim. Bournef had disarmed Essarès. The latter, now that the chair was no longer held in position, had succeeded in bending his legs. No one moved.

Meanwhile, the sense of terror which the whole scene had produced seemed rather to increase with the silence. On the ground was the corpse, with the blood flowing on the carpet. Not far away lay Siméon’s motionless form. Then there was the prisoner, still bound in front of the flames waiting to devour his flesh. And standing near him were the four butchers, hesitating perhaps what to do next, but showing in every feature an implacable resolution to defeat the enemy by all and every means.

His companions glanced at Bournef, who seemed the kind of man to go any length. He was a short, stout, powerfully-built man; his upper lip bristled with the mustache which had attracted Patrice Belval’s attention. He was less cruel in appearance than his chief, less elegant in his manner and less masterful, but displayed far greater coolness and self-command. As for the colonel, his accomplices seemed not to trouble about him. The part which they were