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

was his 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 tonight 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 Siméon’s handwriting. As for the lady, she is obviously Mme. Essarès.”

“But what danger can she be running?” exclaimed Patrice, uneasily. “Essarès 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 his work?”

“I can’t say, but I should take no risks.”

Patrice waited to hear no more. He thrust the letter into M. Masseron’s hand 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 Siméon spoke 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,” Siméon had said.

And the supposition was partly realized, since he had lost his wits.

“Come, come,” muttered Patrice, “this is sheer idiocy.⁠ ⁠… I am fancying things.⁠ ⁠… There is no reason⁠ ⁠…”

But his mental anguish increased every minute. He reminded himself that old Siméon was still in full possession of his faculties at the time when he wrote that letter and gave the advice which it contained. He reminded himself that old Siméon had purposely informed him that the key opened the door of Coralie’s garden, so that he, Patrice, might keep an effective watch by coming to her in case of need.

He saw Siméon some way ahead of him. It was growing late, and the old fellow was going home. Patrice passed him just outside the porter’s lodge 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 he came to the first floor, he was astonished to find that the electric light was not on. He turned on the switch. Then he saw, at the end of the passage, Ya-Bon on his knees outside Coralie’s room, with his head leaning 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 shoulder of 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 light at once.

Coralie was lying at full length on a sofa. Round her neck was the terrible little red-silk cord. And yet Patrice did not experience that awful, numbing despair which we feel in the presence of irretrievable misfortunes. It seemed to him that Coralie’s face had not the pallor of death.

He found that she was in fact breathing:

“She’s not dead. She’s not dead,” said Patrice to himself. “And she’s not going to die, I’m sure of it⁠ ⁠… nor Ya-Bon either.⁠ ⁠… They’ve failed this time.”

He loosened the cords. In a few seconds Coralie heaved a deep breath and recovered consciousness. A smile lit up her eyes at the sight of him. But, suddenly remembering, she threw her arms, still so weak, around him:

“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 throat and whispered, ‘You first.⁠ ⁠… Tonight it will be your lover’s turn!’⁠ ⁠… Oh, Patrice, I’m frightened for you!⁠ ⁠…”

XI On the Brink

Patrice at once made up his mind what to do. He lifted Coralie to her bed and asked her not to move or call out. Then he made sure that Ya-Bon was not seriously wounded. Lastly, he rang violently, sounding all the bells that communicated with the posts which he had placed in different parts of the house.

The men came hurrying up.

“You’re a pack of nincompoops,” he said. “Someone’s been here. Little Mother Coralie and Ya-Bon have had a narrow escape from being killed.”

They began to protest loudly.

“Silence!” he commanded. “You deserve a good hiding, every one of you. I’ll forgive you on one condition, which is that, all this evening and all tonight, you speak of Little Mother Coralie as though she were dead.”

“But whom are we to speak to, sir?” one of them objected. “There’s nobody here.”

“Yes, there is, you silly fool, since Little Mother Coralie and Ya-Bon have been attacked. Unless it was yourselves who did it!⁠ ⁠… It wasn’t? Very well then.⁠ ⁠… And let me have no more nonsense. It’s not a question of speaking to others, but of talking among yourselves⁠ ⁠… and of thinking, even, without speaking. There are people listening to you, spying on you, people who hear what you say and who guess what you don’t say. So, until tomorrow, Little Mother Coralie will not