The Secret of Sarek Maurice Leblanc (best detective novels of all time .TXT) 📖

of the subterranean dwellings, master of the heaths and woods, master of the sea around them, master of the dolmens and the coffins. He linked together the monstrous ages of the past and the no less monstrous hours of the present. He was continuing history according to the ancient rites and striking blows which had been foretold a thousand times.

“But why? With what object? What does it all mean?” asked Véronique, in a disheartened tone. “What connection can there be between the people of today and those of long ago? What is the explanation of the work resumed by such barbarous methods?”

And, after a further pause, she said, for in her heart of hearts, behind every question and reply and every insoluble problem, the obsession never ceased to torment her:

“Ah, if François were here! If we were all three fighting together! What has happened to him? What keeps him in his cell? Some obstacle which he did not foresee?”

It was Stéphane’s turn to comfort her:

“An obstacle? Why should you suppose so? There is no obstacle. But it’s a long job.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes, you are right; a long, difficult job. Oh, I’m sure that he won’t lose heart! He has such high spirits! And such confidence! ‘A mother and son who have been brought together cannot be parted again,’ he said. ‘They may still persecute us, but separate us, never! We shall win in the end.’ He was speaking truly, wasn’t he, Stéphane? I’ve not found my son again, have I, only to lose him? No, no, it would be too unjust and it would be impossible⁠ ⁠…”

Stéphane looked at her, surprised to hear her interrupt herself. Véronique was listening to something.

“What is it?” asked Stéphane.

“I hear sounds,” she said.

He also listened:

“Yes, yes, you’re right.”

“Perhaps it’s François,” she said. “Perhaps it’s up there.”

She moved to rise. He held her back:

“No, it’s the sound of footsteps in the passage.”

“In that case⁠ ⁠… in that case⁠ ⁠… ?” said Véronique.

They exchanged distraught glances, forming no decision, not knowing what to do.

The sound came nearer. The enemy could not be suspecting anything, for the steps were those of one who is not afraid of being heard.

Stéphane said, slowly:

“They must not see me standing up. I will go back to my place. You must fasten me again as best you can.”

They remained hesitating, as though cherishing the absurd hope that the danger would pass of its own accord. Then, suddenly, releasing herself from the sort of stupor that seemed to paralyse her, Véronique made up her mind:

“Quick!⁠ ⁠… Here they come!⁠ ⁠… Lie down!”

He obeyed. In a few seconds, she had replaced the cords on and around him as she had found them, but without tying them.

“Turn your face to the rock,” she said. “Hide your hands. Your hands might betray you.”

“And you?”

“I shall be all right.”

She stooped and stretched herself at full length against the door, in which the spyhole, barred with strips of iron, projected inwardly in such a way as to hide her from sight.

At the same moment, the enemy stopped outside. Notwithstanding the thickness of the door, Véronique heard the rustle of a dress.

And, above her, someone looked in.

It was a terrible moment. The least indication would give the alarm.

“Oh, why does she stay?” thought Véronique. “Is there anything to betray my presence? My clothes?⁠ ⁠…”

She thought that it was more likely Stéphane, whose attitude did not appear natural and whose bonds did not wear their usual aspect.

Suddenly there was a movement outside, followed by a whistle and a second whistle.

Then from the far end of the passage came another sound of steps, which increased in the solemn silence and stopped, like the first, behind the door. Words were spoken. Those outside seemed to be concerting measures.

Véronique managed to reach her pocket. She took out her revolver and put her finger on the trigger. If anyone entered, she would stand up and fire shot after shot, without hesitating. Would not the least hesitation have meant François’ death?

IX The Death-Chamber

Véronique’s estimate was correct, provided that the door opened outwards and that her enemies were at once revealed to view. She therefore examined the door and suddenly observed that, against all logical expectation, it had a large strong bolt at the bottom. Should she make use of it?

She had no time to weigh the advantages or drawbacks of this plan. She had heard a jingle of keys and, almost at the same time, the sound of a key grating in the lock.

Véronique received a very clear vision of what was likely to happen. When the assailants burst in, she would be thrust aside, she would be hampered in her movements, her aim would be inaccurate and her shots would miss, whereupon they would shut the door again and promptly hurry off to François’ cell. The thought of it made her lose her head; and her action was instinctive and immediate. First, she pushed the bolt at the foot of the door. Next, half rising, she slammed the iron shutter over the wicket. A latch clicked. It was no longer possible either to enter or to look in.

Then at once she realized the absurdity of her action, which had not opposed any obstacle to the menace of the enemy. Stéphane, leaping to her side, said:

“Good heavens, what have you done? Why, they saw that I was not moving and they now know that I am not alone!”

“Exactly,” she answered, striving to defend herself. “They will try to break down the door, which will give us the time we want.”

“The time we want for what?”

“To make our escape.”

“Which way?”

“François will call out to us. François will⁠ ⁠…”

She did not complete her sentence. They now heard the sound of footsteps moving swiftly down the passage. There was no doubt about it; the enemy, without troubling about Stéphane, whose flight appeared impossible, was making for the upper floor of cells. Moreover, might he not suppose that the two friends were acting in agreement and that it was the boy who