The Secret of Sarek Part 55

He went nearer. He still had Conrad's dagger in his hand: and perhaps it was this that suggested killing to him, for his eyes fell upon the weapon and it was not till then that he seemed to realise that he was carrying it and that he might make use of it.

He was not more than three paces from the woman, when he perceived that the wrist which was uncovered was all bruised and as it were mottled with black patches, which evidently came from the cords with which she had been bound. Now the ancient Druid had remarked, an hour ago, that the wrists showed no signs of a bruise!

This detail confounded him anew, first, because it proved to him that this was really the woman whom he had crucified, who had been taken down and who was now before his eyes and, secondly, because he was suddenly reentering the domain of miracles; and Veronique's arm appeared to him, alternately, under two different aspects, as the arm of a living, uninjured woman and as the arm of a lifeless, tortured victim.

His trembling hand clutched the dagger, clinging to it, in a manner of speaking, as the only instrument of salvation. Once more in his confused brain the idea arose of striking, not to kill, because the woman must be dead, but of striking the invisible enemy who persisted in thwarting him and of conjuring all the evil spells at one blow.

He raised his arm. He chose the spot. His face a.s.sumed an expression of extreme savagery, lit up with the joy of murder. And suddenly he swooped down, striking, like a madman, at random, ten times, twenty times, with a frenzied unbridling of all his instincts.

"Take that and die!" he spluttered. "Another! . . . Die! . . . And let's have an end of this . . . . You are the evil genius that's been resisting me . . . and now I'm killing you . . . . Die and leave me free! . . . Die so that I shall be the only master!"

He stopped to take breath. He was exhausted. And while his haggard eyes stared blindly at the horrible spectacle of the lacerated corpse, he received the strange impression that a shadow was placing itself between him and the sunlight which came through the opening overhead.

"Do you know what you remind me of?" said a voice.

He was dumbfounded. The voice was not Otto's voice. And the voice continued, while he stood with his head lowered and stupidly holding his dagger planted in the dead woman's body:

"Do you know what you remind me of, Vorski? You remind me of the bulls of my country. Let me tell you that I am a Spaniard and a great frequenter of the bull-ring. Well, when our bulls have gored some poor old cab-horse that is only fit for the knacker's yard, they go back to the body, from time to time, turn it over, gore it again, keep on killing it and killing it. You're like them, Vorski. You're seeing red.

In order to defend yourself against the living enemy, you fall desperately on the enemy who is no longer alive; and it is death itself that you are trying to kill. What a silly beast you're making of yourself!"

Vorski raised his head. A man was standing in front of him, leaning against one of the uprights of the dolmen. The man was of the average height, with a slender, well-built figure, and seemed to be still young, notwithstanding his hair, which was turning grey at the temples. He wore a blue-serge jacket with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and a yachting-cap with a black peak.

"Don't trouble to rack your brains," he said. "You don't know me. Let me introduce myself: Don Luis Perenna, grandee of Spain, a n.o.ble of many countries and Prince of Sarek. Yes, don't be surprised: I've taken the t.i.tle of Prince of Sarek, having a certain right to it."

Vorski looked at him without understanding. The man continued:

"You don't seem very familiar with the Spanish n.o.bility. Still, just test your memory: I am the gentleman who was to come to the rescue of the d'Hergemont family and the people of Sarek, the one whom your son Francois was expecting with such simple faith . . . . Well, are you there? . . . Look, your companion, the trusty Otto, he seems to remember! . . . But perhaps my other name will convey more to you? It is well and favourably known. Lupin . . . . a.r.s.ene Lupin . . . ."

Vorski watched him with increasing terror and with a misgiving which became more accentuated at each word and movement of this new adversary.

Though he recognized neither the man nor the man's voice, he felt himself dominated by a will of which he had already felt the power and lashed by the same sort of implacable irony. But was it possible?

"Everything is possible," Don Luis Perenna went on, "including even what you think. But I repeat, what a silly beast you're making of yourself!

Here are you playing the bold highwayman, the dashing adventurer; and you're frightened the moment you set eyes on one of your crimes! As long as it was just a matter of happy-go-lucky killing, you went straight ahead. But the first little jolt throws you off the track. Vorski kills; but whom has he killed? He has no idea. Is Veronique d'Hergemont dead or alive? Is she fastened to the oak on which you crucified her? Or is she lying here, on the sacrificial table? Did you kill her up there or down here? You can't tell. You never even thought, before you stabbed, of looking to see what you were stabbing. The great thing for you is to slash away with all your might, to intoxicate yourself with the sight and smell of blood and to turn live flesh into a hideous pulp. But look, can't you, you idiot? When a man kills, he's not afraid of killing and he doesn't hide the face of his victim. Look, you idiot!"

He himself stopped over the corpse and unwrapped the veil around the head.

Vorski had closed his eyes. Kneeling, with his chest pressed against the dead woman's legs, he remained without moving and kept his eyes obstinately shut.

"Are you there now?" chuckled Don Luis. "If you daren't look, it's because you've guessed or because you're on the point of guessing, you wretch: am I right? Your idiot brain is working it out: am I right?

There were two women in the Isle of Sarek and two only, Veronique and the other . . . the other whose name was Elfride, I understand: am I right? Elfride and Veronique, your two wives, one the mother of Raynold, the other the mother of Francois. So, if it's not Francois'

mother whom you tied on the cross and whom you've just stabbed, then it's Raynold's mother. If the woman lying here, with her wrists bruised by the torture, is not Veronique, then she's Elfride. There's no mistake possible: Elfride, your wife and your accomplice; Elfride, your willing and subservient tool. And you know it so well that you would rather take my word for it than risk a glance and see the livid face of that dead woman, of your obedient accomplice tortured by yourself. You miserable poltroon!"

Vorski had hidden his head in his folded arms. He was not weeping.

Vorski could not weep. Nevertheless, his shoulders were jerking convulsively; and his whole att.i.tude expressed the wildest despair.

This lasted for some time. Then the shaking of the shoulders ceased.

Still Vorski did not stir.

"Upon my word, you move me to pity, you poor old buffer!" said Don Luis.

"Were you so fond of your Elfride as all that? She had become a habit, what? A mascot? Well, what can I say? People as a rule aren't such fools as you! They know what they're doing. They look before they leap! Hang it all, they stop to think! Whereas you go floundering about in crime like a new-born babe struggling in the water! No wonder you sink and go to the bottom . . . . The ancient Druid, for instance: is he dead or alive? Did Conrad stick a dagger into his back, or was I playing the part of that diabolical personage? In short, are there an ancient Druid and a Spanish grandee, or are the two individuals one and the same?

This is all a sealed book to you, my poor fellow. And yet you'll want an explanation. Shall I help you?"

If Vorski had acted without thinking, it was easy to see, when he raised his head, that on this occasion he had taken time to reflect; that he knew very well the desperate resolve which circ.u.mstances called upon him to take. He was certainly ready for an explanation, as Don Luis suggested, but he wanted it dagger in hand, with the implacable intention of using it. Slowly, with his eyes fixed on Don Luis and without concealing his purpose, he had freed his weapon and was rising to his feet.

"Take care," said Don Luis. "Your knife is faked as your revolver was.

It's made of tin-foil."

Useless pleasantry! Nothing could either hasten or delay the methodical impulse which urged Vorski to the supreme contest. He walked round the sacred table and took up his stand in front of Don Luis.

"You're sure it's you who have been thwarting all my plans these last few days?"

"The last twenty-four hours, no longer. I arrived at Sarek twenty-four hours ago."

"And you're determined to go on to the end?"

"Yes; and farther still, if possible."

"Why? And in what capacity?"

"As a sportsman; and because you fill me with disgust."

"So there's no arrangement to be made?"

"No."

"Would you refuse to go shares with me?"

"Ah, now you're talking!"

"You can have half, if you like."

"I'd rather have the lot."

"Meaning that the G.o.d-Stone . . ."

"The G.o.d-Stone belongs to me."

Further speech was idle. An adversary of that quality has to be made away with; if not, he makes away with you. Vorski had to choose between the two endings; there was not a third.

Don Luis remained impa.s.sive, leaning against the pillar. Vorski towered a head above him: and at the same time Vorski had the profound impression that he was equally Don Luis' superior in every other respect, in strength, muscular power and weight. In these conditions, there was no need to hesitate. Moreover, it seemed out of the question that Don Luis could even attempt to defend himself or to evade the blow before the dagger fell. His parry was bound to come late unless he moved at once. And he did not move. Vorski therefore struck his blow with all certainty, as one strikes a quarry that is doomed beforehand.

And yet--it all happened so quickly and so inexplicably that he could not tell what occurred to bring about his defeat--and yet, three or four seconds later, he was lying on the ground, disarmed, defeated, with his two legs feeling as though they had been broken with a stick and his right arm hanging limp and paining him till he cried out.

Don Luis did not even trouble to bind him. With one foot on the big, helpless body, half-bending over his adversary, he said:

"For the moment, no speeches. I'm keeping one in reserve for you. It'll strike you as a bit long, but it'll show you that I understand the whole business from start to finish, that is to say, much better than you do.

There's one doubtful point: and you're going to clear it up. Where's your son Francois d'Hergemont?"