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

too tired, Vorski?” asked Don Luis. “Legs feeling better?”

Vorski gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

“Yes, I know,” said Don Luis. “You’re pinning your faith to your last card. Still, I would have you know that I also hold a few trumps and that I have a rather artistic way of playing them. The tree behind you should be more than enough to tell you so. Would you like another instance? While you’re getting muddled with all your murders and are no longer sure of the number of your victims, I bring them to life again. Look at that man coming from the Priory. Do you see him? He’s wearing a blue reefer with brass buttons, like myself. He’s one of your dead men, isn’t he? You locked him up in one of the torture-chambers, intending to cast him into the sea; and it was your sweet cherub of a Raynold who hurled him down before Véronique’s eyes. Do you remember? Stéphane Maroux his name was. He’s dead, isn’t he? No, not a bit of it! A wave of my magic wand; and he’s alive again. Here he is. I take him by the hand. I speak to him.”

Going up to the newcomer, he shook hands with him and said:

“You see, Stéphane? I told you that it would be all over at twelve o’clock precisely and that we should meet at the dolmen. Well, it is twelve o’clock precisely.”

Stéphane seemed in excellent health. He showed not a sign of a wound. Vorski looked at him in dismay and stammered:

“The tutor.⁠ ⁠… Stéphane Maroux.⁠ ⁠…”

“The man himself,” said Don Luis. “What did you expect? Here again you behaved like an idiot. The adorable Raynold and you throw a man into the sea and don’t even think of leaning over to see what becomes of him. I pick him up.⁠ ⁠… And don’t be too badly staggered, old chap. It’s only the beginning; and I have a few more tricks in my bag. Remember, I’m a pupil of the ancient Druid’s!⁠ ⁠… Well, Stéphane, where do we stand? What’s the result of your search?”

“Nothing.”

“François?”

“Not to be found.”

“And All’s Well? Did you send him on his master’s tracks, as we arranged?”

“Yes, but he simply took me down the Postern path to François’ boat.”

“There’s no hiding-place on that side?”

“Not one.”

Don Luis was silent and began to pace up and down before the dolmen. He seemed to be hesitating at the last moment, before beginning the series of actions upon which he had resolved. At last, addressing Vorski, he said:

“I have no time to waste. I must leave the island in two hours. What’s your price for setting François free at once?”

“François fought a duel with Raynold,” Vorski replied, “and was beaten.”

“You lie. François won.”

“How do you know? Did you see them fight?”

“No, or I should have interfered. But I know who was the victor.”

“No one knows except myself. They were masked.”

“Then, if François is dead, it’s all up with you.”

Vorski took time to think. The argument allowed of no debate. He put a question in his turn:

“Well, what do you offer me?”

“Your liberty.”

“And with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, the God-Stone.”

“Never!”

Don Luis shouted the word, accompanying it with a vehement gesture of the hand, and he explained:

“Never! Your liberty, yes, if the worst comes to the worst and because I know you and know that, denuded of all resources, you will simply go and get yourself hanged somewhere else. But the God-Stone would spell safety, wealth, the power to do evil⁠ ⁠…”

“That’s exactly why I want it,” said Vorski; “and, by telling me what it’s worth, you make me all the more difficult in the matter of François.”

“I shall find François all right. It’s only a question of patience; and I shall stay two or three days longer, if necessary.”

“You will not find him; and, if you do, it will be too late.”

“Why?”

“Because he has had nothing to eat since yesterday.”

This was said coldly and maliciously. There was a silence; and Don Luis retorted:

“In that case, speak, if you don’t want him to die.”

“What do I care? Anything rather than fail in my task and stop midway when I’ve got so far. The end is within sight: those who get in my way must look out for themselves.”

“You lie. You won’t let that boy die.”

“I let the other die right enough!”

Patrice and Stéphane made a movement of horror, while Don Luis laughed frankly:

“Capital! There’s no hypocrisy about you. Plain and convincing arguments. By Jingo, how beautiful to see a Hun laying bare his soul! What a glorious mixture of vanity and cruelty, of cynicism and mysticism! A Hun has always a mission to fulfil, even when he’s satisfied with plundering and murdering. Well, you’re better than a Hun: you’re a Superhun!”

And he added, still laughing:

“So I propose to treat you as Superhun. Once more, will you tell me where François is?”

“No.”

“All right.”

He turned to the four Moors and said, very calmly:

“Go ahead, lads.”

It was a matter of a second. With really extraordinary precision of gesture and as though the act had been separated into a certain number of movements, learnt and rehearsed beforehand like a military drill, they picked up Vorski, fastened him to the rope which hung to the tree, hoisted him up without paying attention to his cries, his threats or his shouts and bound him firmly, as he had bound his victim.

“Howl away, old chap,” said Don Luis, serenely, “howl as much as you like! You can only wake the sisters Archignat and the others in the thirty coffins! Howl away, my lad! But, good Lord, how ugly you are! What a face!”

He took a few steps back, to appreciate the sight better:

“Excellent! You look very well there; it couldn’t be better. Even the inscription fits: ‘V. d’H.,’ Vorski de Hohenzollern! For I presume that, as the son of a king, you are allied to that noble house. And now, Vorski, all you have to do is to lend me an attentive ear: I’m going to make you the