The Sixth Key(129)

‘I promise you, my gun is loaded, and I am a very good shot, unlike our brother,’ he said, indicating La Dame.

‘Brother?’ Rahn said to him.

‘No time for pleasant chatter. I want you to stand up slowly and throw the gun over there.’

Rahn did as he was told.

‘What are you going to do with us?’ Deodat said.

‘We’re going somewhere a little warmer!’

‘I demand to know where we’re going!’ Rahn said, knowing full well that he was in no position to demand anything.

‘Why, Monsieur Rahn, you are going to Hell . . .’





45


In the Heat of the Moment

‘Let me leap out of the frying-pan into the fire.’

Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote


Rahn and the others were bundled uncomfortably into the back seat of the black Citroën, a gun pointing in their faces. When they reached their destination, the Maison de Cros, the three of them were marched at gunpoint into the house. It was deserted, every room was littered from the ransacking two nights before and moreover, there was the all-pervading stench of death. The stench only grew in intensity the closer they came to the wine cellar where Deodat had been detained, and where the body of the real Inspecteur Beliere remained, hanging from the rafters.

‘What are you doing?’ La Dame said anxious, surprised. ‘This isn’t what we planned. I was supposed to bring it to you. You’d better speak to your superiors! Is this the way to treat a brother?’

The man looked on, impassively, aiming the gun at La Dame.

‘You’re more stupid than we anticipated. This was always going to be the end. Didn’t you realise that, Professor La Dame? Besides, you were never really a brother. You were, let us say, nothing more than a provisional guest. And now you’ve worn out your welcome!’

Still incredulous, La Dame was tied with his hands behind him, back to back with Rahn and Deodat. They were made to sit down with their legs in front of them and then their feet were tied.

The man with the gun perused the leather-bound book in his hands. ‘We are grateful to you for your wonderful work, Monsieur Rahn. We could not have done it better ourselves.’

‘What are you going to do with that manuscript?’ Deodat spat.

‘It will be safe with us,’ he said, his perfect, urbane English sounding strange in the present circumstances. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, puffing on it until the end glowed.

‘Who are you and what do you want with it, anyway?’ Deodat said.

‘I suppose it will not hurt to explain a few things, since you have been of great assistance. Consider it your last sacrament.’ He exhaled a plume of smoke. ‘I suppose you’ve already guessed that there is going to be a war, it is inevitable – even desirable.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette, as if he could see the war in his mind’s eye and it was a pleasant image. ‘We English, I’m sure you know, Monsieur Roche, were always intended to be the leaders of this epoch. We have used the French before – your Masonic Lodge the Grand Orient, for instance, has always been in our pockets and we have used, and continue to use, the Germans. What was begun in the last war will continue with this new war, until we have achieved our aims. Try to view it, magistrate –’ he ashed his cigarette, ‘– as the triumph of Sherlock Holmes over Monsieur Lecoq!’ There was a curt smile. ‘The superior English have outdone the arrogant French and the German peasants!’

‘So,’ Deodat said, ‘the English Lodges were responsible for the last war?’

The British were known to have a particular fondness for talking about their conquests and Rahn guessed that Deodat was playing for time, but time for what?

He smiled. ‘Plans for the Great War were made in London,’ the man continued, ‘and filtered into western Europe, where they were relayed to the Balkans and through them to Russia. Your history books won’t tell you, magistrate, that Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophia were assassinated by men paid by Russians, working for Englishmen.’

‘The Serbians who shot Franz Ferdinand were working for you?’ Deodat said.

‘Yes, but they didn’t know it, of course; the Black Hand always thought themselves quite independent – if only they knew who was behind them! Do you know that their catchcry is “Viva Angelina”? Angelina is, of course, a Serbian saint.’ The man smiled, looking like a schoolteacher instructing his favourite students.

‘Viva Angelina!’ Rahn said. ‘Gélis was killed by Serbians?’

The man shrugged. ‘It was necessary. You see, Saunière was making friends with the Habsburgs . . . we couldn’t allow that, it was a warning to him.’