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

that some day a prince of Almain would appear at Sarek, one Vorski, who would slay his thirty victims and to whom I was to make an agreed signal when his thirtieth victim had breathed her last. Therefore, as I’m a slave to orders, I got together my little parcel, bought two Bengal lights at three francs seventy-five apiece at a hardware shop in Brest, plus a few choice crackers, and, at the appointed hour, took up my perch in my observatory, taper in hand, all ready for work. When you started howling, in the top of the tree, ‘She’s dead! She’s dead!’ I thought that was the right moment, set fire to the lights and with my crackers shook the bowels of the earth. There! Now you know all about it.”

Vorski stepped forward, with his fists raised to strike. That torrent of words, that imperturbable composure, that calm, bantering voice put him beside himself.

“Another word and I’ll knock you down!” he cried. “I’ve had enough of it.”

“Is your name Vorski?”

“Yes; and then?”

“Are you a prince of Almain?”

“Yes, yes; and then?”

“Have you slain your thirty victims?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Well, then you’re my man. I have a God-Stone to hand you and I mean to hand it you, come what may. That’s the sort of hairpin I am. You’ve got to pocket it, your miracle-stone.”

“But I don’t care a hang for the God-Stone!” roared Vorski, stamping his foot. “And I don’t care a hang for you! I want nobody. The God-Stone! Why, I’ve got it, it’s mine. I’ve got it on me.”

“Let’s have a look.”

“What do you call that?” said Vorski, taking from his pocket the little stone disk which he had found in the pommel of the sceptre.

“That?” asked the old man, with an air of surprise. “Where did you get that from?”

“From the pommel of this sceptre, when I unfastened it.”

“And what do you call it?”

“It’s a piece of the God-Stone.”

“You’re mad.”

“Then what do you say it is?”

“That’s a trouser-button.”

“A what?”

“A trouser-button.”

“How do you make that out?”

“A trouser-button with the shaft broken off, a button of the sort which the niggers in the Sahara wear. I’ve a whole set of them.”

“Prove it, damn you!”

“I put it there.”

“What for?”

“To take the place of the precious stone which Maguennoc sneaked, the one which burnt him and obliged him to cut off his hand.”

Vorski was silent. He was nonplussed. He had no notion what to do next or how to behave towards this strange adversary.

The ancient Druid went up to him and, gently, in a fatherly voice:

“No, my lad,” he said, “you can’t do without me, you see. I alone hold the key of the safe and the secret of the casket. Why do you hesitate?”

“I don’t know you.”

“You baby! If I were suggesting something indelicate and incompatible with your honour, I could understand your scruples. But my offer is one of those which can’t offend the nicest conscience. Well, is it a bargain? No? Not yet? But, by Teutatès, what more do you want, you unbelieving Vorski? A miracle perhaps? Lord, why didn’t you say so before? Miracles, forsooth: I turn ’em out thirteen to the dozen. I work a little miracle before breakfast every morning. Just think, a Druid! Miracles? Why, I’ve got my shop full of ’em! I can’t find room to sit down for them. Where will you try first? Resurrection department? Hair-restoring department? Revelation of the future department? You can choose where you like. Look here, at what time did your thirtieth victim breathe her last?”

“How should I know?”

“Eleven fifty-two. Your excitement was so great that it stopped your watch. Look and see.”

It was ridiculous. The shock produced by excitement has no effect on the watch of the man who experiences the excitement. Nevertheless, Vorski involuntarily took out his watch: it marked eight minutes to twelve. He tried to wind it up: it was broken.

The ancient Druid, without giving him time to recover his breath and reply, went on:

“That staggers you, eh? And yet there’s nothing simpler for a Druid who knows his business. A Druid sees the invisible. He does more: he makes anyone else see it if he wants to. Vorski, would you like to see something that doesn’t exist? What’s your name? I’m not speaking of your name Vorski, but of your real name, your governor’s name.”

“Silence on that subject!” Vorski commanded. “It’s a secret I’ve revealed to nobody.”

“Then why do you write it down?”

“I’ve never written it down.”

“Vorski, your father’s name is written in red pencil on the fourteenth page of the little notebook you carry on you. Look and see.”

Acting mechanically, like an automaton whose movements are controlled by an alien will, Vorski took from his inside pocket a case containing a small notebook. He turned the pages till he came to the fourteenth, when he muttered, with indescribable dismay:

“Impossible! Who wrote this? And you know what’s written here?”

“Do you want me to prove it to you?”

“Once more, silence! I forbid you⁠ ⁠…”

“As you please, old chap! All that I do is meant for your edification. And it’s no trouble to me! Once I start working miracles, I simply can’t stop. Here’s another funny little trick. You carry a locket hanging from a silver chain round your shirt, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Vorski, his eyes blazing with fever.

“The locket consists of a frame, without the photograph which used to be set in it.”

“Yes, yes, a portrait of⁠ ⁠…”

“Of your mother, I know: and you lost it.”

“Yes, I lost it last year.”

“You mean you think you’ve lost the portrait.”

“Nonsense, the locket is empty.”

“You think the locket’s empty. It’s not. Look and see.”

Still moving mechanically, with his eyes starting from his head, Vorski unfastened the button of his shirt and pulled out the chain. The locket appeared. There was the portrait of a woman in a round gold frame.

“It’s she, it’s she,” he muttered, completely taken aback.

“Quite sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do you say to it all, eh? There’s no fake about it, no deception. The ancient Druid’s a smart