The Golden Triangle Part 26

_Armand Belval_

The old man displayed the same torpor. Patrice continued the test. He wrote down the names of Essares Bey and Colonel Fakhi. He drew a triangle. The old man failed to understand and went on chuckling.

But suddenly his laughter lost some of its childishness. Patrice had written the name of Bournef, the accomplice, and this time the old secretary appeared to be stirred by a recollection. He tried to get up, fell back in his chair, then rose to his feet again and took his hat from a peg on the wall.

He left his room and, followed by Patrice, marched out of the house and turned to the left, in the direction of Auteuil. He moved like a man in a trance who is hypnotized into walking without knowing where he is going. He led the way along the Rue de Boulainvilliers, crossed the Seine and turned down the Quai de Grenelle with an unhesitating step.

Then, when he reached the boulevard, he stopped, putting out his arm, made a sign to Patrice to do likewise. A kiosk hid them from view. He put his head round it. Patrice followed his example.

Opposite, at the corner of the boulevard and a side-street, was a cafe, with a portion of the pavement in front of it marked out by dwarf shrubs in tubs. Behind these tubs four men sat drinking. Three of them had their backs turned to Patrice. He saw the only one that faced him, and he at once recognized Bournef.

By this time Simeon was some distance away, like a man whose part is played and who leaves it to others to complete the work. Patrice looked round, caught sight of a post-office and went in briskly. He knew that M. Ma.s.seron was at the Rue Raynouard. He telephoned and told him where Bournef was. M. Ma.s.seron replied that he would come at once.

Since the murder of Essares Bey, M. Ma.s.seron's enquiry had made no progress in so far as Colonel Fakhi's four accomplices were concerned.

True, they discovered the man Gregoire's sanctuary and the bedrooms with the wall-cupboards; but the whole place was empty. The accomplices had disappeared.

"Old Simeon," said Patrice to himself, "was acquainted with their habits. He must have known that they were accustomed to meet at this cafe on a certain day of the week, at a fixed hour, and he suddenly remembered it all at the sight of Bournef's name."

A few minutes later M. Ma.s.seron alighted from his car with his men. The business did not take long. The open front of the cafe was surrounded.

The accomplices offered no resistance. M. Ma.s.seron sent three of them under a strong guard to the Depot and hustled Bournef into a private room.

"Come along," he said to Patrice. "We'll question him."

"Mme. Essares is alone at the house," Patrice objected.

"Alone? No. There are all your soldier-men."

"Yes, but I would rather go back, if you don't mind. It's the first time that I've left her and I'm justified in feeling anxious."

"It's only a matter of a few minutes," M. Ma.s.seron insisted. "One should always take advantage of the fl.u.s.ter caused by the arrest."

Patrice followed him, but they soon saw that Bournef was not one of those men who are easily put out. He simply shrugged his shoulders at their threats:

"It is no use, sir," he said, "to try and frighten me. I risk nothing.

Shot, do you say? Nonsense! You don't shoot people in France for the least thing; and we are all four subjects of a neutral country. Tried?

Sentenced? Imprisoned? Never! You forget that you have kept everything dark so far; and, when you hushed up the murder of Mustapha, of Fakhi and of Essares, it was not done with the object of reviving the case for no valid reason. No, sir, I am quite easy. The internment-camp is the worst that can await me."

"Then you refuse to answer?" said M. Ma.s.seron.

"Not a bit of it! I accept internment. But there are twenty different ways of treating a man in these camps, and I should like to earn your favor and, in so doing, make sure of reasonable comfort till the end of the war. But first of all, what do you know?"

"Pretty well everything."

"That's a pity: it decreases my value. Do you know about Essares' last night?"

"Yes, with the bargain of the four millions. What's become of the money?"

Bournef made a furious gesture:

"Taken from us! Stolen! It was a trap!"

"Who took it?"

"One Gregoire."

"Who was he?"

"His familiar, as we have since learnt. We discovered that this Gregoire was no other than a fellow who used to serve as his chauffeur on occasion."

"And who therefore helped him to convey the bags of gold from the bank to his house."

"Yes. And we also think, we know . . . Look here, you may as well call it a certainty. Gregoire . . . is a woman."

"A woman!"

"Exactly. His mistress. We have several proofs of it. But she's a trustworthy, capable woman, strong as a man and afraid of nothing."

"Do you know her address?"

"No."

"As to the gold: have you no clue to its whereabouts, no suspicion?"

"No. The gold is in the garden or in the house in the Rue Raynouard. We saw it being taken in every day for a week. It has not been taken out since. We kept watch every night. The bags are there."

"No clue either to Essares' murderer?"

"No, none."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Why should I tell a lie?"

"Suppose it was yourself? Or one of your friends?"

"We thought that you would suspect us. Fortunately, we happen to have an alibi."

"Easy to prove?"

"Impossible to upset."

"We'll look into it. So you have nothing more to reveal?"

"No. But I have an idea . . . or rather a question which you will answer or not, as you please. Who betrayed us? Your reply may throw some useful light, for one person only knew of our weekly meetings here from four to five o'clock, one person only, Essares Bey; and he himself often came here to confer with us. Essares is dead. Then who gave us away?"

"Old Simeon."

Bournef started with astonishment: