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

“You’re mad.”

“I heard it too,” said Otto, “and it seems to me that it hit the tree.”

“What tree?”

“The oak, of course! It was as though somebody had fired at us.”

“There was no report.”

“A stone, then; a stone that must have hit the oak.”

“We’ll soon see,” said Vorski.

He turned his lantern and at once let fly an oath:

“Damn it! Look, there, under the lettering.”

They looked. An arrow was fixed at the spot to which he pointed. Its feathered end was still quivering.

“An arrow!” gasped Conrad. “How is it possible? An arrow!”

And Otto spluttered:

“We’re done for! It’s us they were aiming at!”

“The man who took aim at us can’t be far off,” Vorski observed. “Keep your eyes open. We’ll have a look.”

He swung the light in a circle which penetrated the surrounding darkness.

“Stop,” said Conrad, eagerly. “A little more to the right. Do you see?”

“Yes, yes, I see.”

Thirty yards from where they stood, in the direction of the Calvary of the Flowers, just beyond the blasted oak, they saw something white, a figure which was trying, at least so it seemed, to hide behind a clump of bushes.

“Not a word, not a movement,” Vorski ordered. “Do nothing to let him think that we’ve discovered him. Conrad, come with me. You, Otto, stay here, with your revolver in your hand, and keep a good watch. If they try to come near and to release her ladyship, fire two shots and we’ll run back at once. Is that understood?”

“Quite.”

Vorski bent over Véronique and loosened the veil slightly. Her eyes and mouth were still concealed by their bandages. She was breathing with difficulty; the pulse was weak and slow.

“We have time,” he muttered, “but we must hurry if we want her to die according to plan. In any case she doesn’t seem to be in pain. She has lost all consciousness.”

He put down the lantern and then softly, followed by his assistant, stole towards the white figure, both of them choosing the places where the shadow was densest.

But he soon became aware, on the one hand, that the figure, which had seemed stationary, was moving as he himself moved forward, so that the space between them remained the same, and, on the other hand, that it was escorted by a small black figure frisking by its side.

“It’s that filthy mongrel!” growled Vorski.

He quickened his pace: the distance did not decrease. He ran: the figure in front of him ran likewise. And the strangest part of it was that they heard no sound of leaves disturbed or of ground trampled by the mysterious person running ahead of them.

“Damn it!” swore Vorski. “He’s laughing at us. Suppose we fired at him, Conrad?”

“He’s too far. The bullets wouldn’t reach him.”

“All the same, we’re not going to⁠ ⁠…”

The unknown individual led them to the end of the island and then down to the entrance of the tunnel, passed close to the Priory, skirted the west cliff and reached the footbridge, some of the planks of which were still smouldering. Then he branched off, passed back by the other side of the house and went up the grassy slope.

From time to time the dog barked gaily.

Vorski could not control his rage. However hard he tried, he was unable to gain an inch of ground: and the pursuit had lasted fifteen minutes. He ended by vituperating the enemy:

“Stop, can’t you? Show yourself a man!⁠ ⁠… What are you trying to do? Lead us into a trap? What for?⁠ ⁠… Is it her ladyship you’re trying to save? It’s not worth while, in the state she’s in. Oh, you damned, smart bounder, if I could only get hold of you!”

Suddenly Conrad seized him by the skirt of his robe.

“What is it, Conrad?”

“Look. He seems to be stopping.”

As Conrad suggested, the white figure for the first time was becoming more and more clearly visible in the darkness and they were able to distinguish, through the leaves of a thicket, its present attitude, with the arms slightly opened, the back bowed, the legs bent and apparently crossed on the ground.

“He must have fallen,” said Conrad.

Vorski, after running forward, shouted:

“Am I to shoot, you scum? I’ve got the drop on you. Hands up, or I fire.”

Nothing stirred.

“It’s your own lookout! If you show fight, you’re a dead man. I shall count three and fire.”

He walked to twenty yards of the figure and counted, with outstretched arm:

“One⁠ ⁠… two.⁠ ⁠… Are you ready, Conrad? Fire!”

The two bullets were discharged at the same time.

There was a cry of distress. The figure seemed to collapse. The two men rushed forward:

“Ah, now you’ve got it, you rascal! I’ll show you the stuff that Vorski’s made of! You’ve given me a pretty run, you oaf! Well, your account’s settled!”

After the first few steps, he slackened his speed, for fear of a surprise. The figure did not move; and Vorski, on coming close, saw that it had the limp and misshapen look of a dead man, of a corpse. Nothing remained but to fall upon it. This was what Vorski did, laughing and jesting:

“A good bag, Conrad! Let’s pick up the game.”

But he was greatly surprised, on picking up the game, to feel in his hands nothing but an almost impalpable quarry, consisting, to tell the truth, of just a white robe, with no one inside it, the owner of the robe having taken flight in good time, after hooking it to the thorns of a thicket. As for the dog, he had disappeared.

“Damn and blast it!” roared Vorski. “He’s cheated us, the ruffian! But why, hang it, why?”

Venting his rage in the stupid fashion that was his habit, he was stamping on the piece of stuff, when a thought struck him:

“Why? Because, damn it, as I said just now, it’s a trap: a trap to get us away from her ladyship while his friends went for Otto! Oh, what an ass I’ve been!”

He started to go back in the dark and, as soon as he was able to see the dolmen, he called