Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

Might is right in the death battle of the three rivals, clashing on the lonely sea for sunken treasure

I

“To M. Oscar van Duyven, of Paris and New York, manufacturer of the Van Duyven Electric Fan, famous in five continents:

Van Duyven perused this letter with a smile and handed it to Pierre Lemasse.

“What do you think of it, Pierre?”

“Mere theatricals,” replied Pierre with a shrug.

“Who brought it here?”

“A young man who is waiting outside.”

“Who is this M. Gaveau?” inquired the American, “or do you know anything of him?”

“Only a little,” said Pierre. “He is a somewhat mysterious personage, who prides himself on his powers of outwitting the police who want him for various robberies of a rather daring character. He is something of a hero amongst the underworld of Paris, but I do not like him,” added Pierre. “I think he is too fond of the limelight.”

“How can he have heard of the cypher and the treasure?”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders. “One never knows, monsieur.”

“Well,” said Van Duyven, “he evidently does not know that we have already dug up the treasure, and that it is lying in several fathoms of water off the coast of Brittany. Shall we see his messenger?”

“By all means,” answered Pierre.

He conducted the messenger to the room. The latter was a tall, lanky youth with a huge cap, a sallow complexion, and a budding mustache. His dark eyes roamed round the apartment.

“Who are you?” asked Van Duyven.

“Marcel Fayard.”

“Who sent you here?”

“My master, Leon Gaveau.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Paris, monsieur, and everywhere.”

“And what is his business?”

“He is a highwayman, monsieur.”

He spoke as if he had said “a baker” or “an undertaker.”

“And you know what he wants?” asked Van Duyven.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, will you tell your master, M. Leon Gaveau, that we cannot accede to his request?”

“Very good, monsieur.”

The messenger turned without another word and left the apartment. Pierre thought it necessary to see him to the door.

“Well, Pierre,” said Van Duyven, “it strikes me that this M. Gaveau is an interesting character. I must say that I should like to have met him, but, of course, we could not give him the cipher key. That would be undignified.”

“Assuredly, monsieur.”

At seven thirty next morning Pierre called Van Duyven to breakfast. They had planned a day at Le Bourget to witness the army air maneuvers. The American appeared in his dressing gown.

“Hello! What’s this?” said Pierre.

“What’s what?” asked Van Duyven, turning round.

“This,” said Pierre, trying to get behind Van Duyven to have a look at his back.

“What?” asked the latter, wheeling round again.

“Stand quiet, for a moment, monsieur,” said Pierre, “there is something pinned on your back.”

Pierre took from the back of the dressing gown a piece of paper pinned by the four corners, on which there was written in pencil:

Van Duyven laughed at the expression of amazement on Pierre’s face. His annoyance was obvious.

“Do you know,” said the millionaire, “this M. Gaveau is a very interesting character. How the devil did he get in here?”

He examined the drawer where the cipher key had been and found it empty. Pierre scrutinized, the fastenings on the doors and windows. There was nothing to indicate that an entry had been forced.

“That is really very clever,” said Van Duyven. “And I am strongly tempted to go to Les Rochers to see him at work.”

“So am I, monsieur,” said Pierre. “I should like to get a chance of taking back that document. Now that the terrible blind man, Jacques Lanneau, who went down with the treasure, is out of the way, I should have no objection to revisiting the scene. If we leave immediately we should reach there some time this evening, in time to anticipate any operations by Leon Gaveau and that Apache who came here with his letter last night.”

They had no delay on the journey. The angelus was ringing when the touring car pulled up in front of the Hotel de France, in the little town of Les Rochers, on the coast of Brittany. Mine host was at the door, bowing politely. As he opened the door of the car he said:

“M. Oscar van Duyven, is it not?”

“Yes,” replied the millionaire.

“I have a letter for you, monsieur,” said the landlord, as he handed Van Duyven a note.

The latter tore it open and read:

II

The American handed the note to Pierre, whose face flushed with anger.

“Who gave you this?” he asked of the landlord.

“A young man who had no need to say he came from Paris,” replied the landlord, rapidly describing Marcel Fayard.

“Would you let us have something to eat,” said Pierre, “and we shall start right back for Paris?”

“But we’re not going back to-night, Pierre,” protested Van Duyven.

“Yes, monsieur, it is really necessary.”

They partook of a hasty repast and reentered the car. Pierre set off at a fast pace, but a mile to the west of the town he swung off on a by road.

“What’s the matter, Pierre?” asked Van Duyven.

“The matter is,” said Pierre grimly, “that we are not going back to Paris tonight. I said what I did back there, so that the ears that were listening would convey it to M. Leon Gaveau the news that we were out of the way. We are making a detour to Aubers, two miles to the south.

“We shall garage the car there and make our way back on foot to that ugly rock called the Devil’s Hoof, where we dug up the treasure. I am convinced that M. Gaveau would not have written that letter, but that he wanted to get rid of us.

“He has probably found out that the treasure is in the sea, and he is going to recover it.”

In a few minutes they reached Aubers and left the car at the inn. Then they made their way on foot back to the gaunt rock near the seashore, known as the Devil’s Hoof. Half an hour’s walk brought them in sight of the scene of their last encounter with the terrible, old blind man, Jacques Lanneau. Even with the knowledge that he was long since dead, Pierre could not look on the scene without a sense of fear.

“He was a terrible fiend,” said Van Duyven, answering the other’s thoughts.

“Horrible!” said Pierre.

As he spoke they rounded a bend of the road, and Pierre stopped short with a faint cry that was like a sob strangled in his throat. He gripped Van Duyven tightly and trembled as though he would fall. His teeth were chattering, and his face became an ashen hue.

Van Duyven himself turned pale, as he gazed, speechlessly, on the figure of an old man, who came toward them tapping the ground with his stick. His silvery white hair was so long that it tossed in the light breeze. His head held erect, and his sightless eyes turned upward to the light, imparted to his face and figure an expression of benignity.

He was thirty yards away when they sighted him, but, as they stood spellbound, he rapidly approached, and covered half the distance before Van Duyven found the power to move or speak.

“Courage, Pierre,” he whispered, “over the fence with you.”

Hastily they climbed the fence. Pierre would have bolted, but that Van Duyven held him by the arm.

“Pull yourself together, Pierre,” he whispered, crouching behind the fence and drawing the boy down beside him.

The blind man came along with a quick, short pace and, as if he had somehow become aware there was some one in the vicinity, he began to beg in a curious, singsong voice:

“May the All Merciful bless and preserve you and yours, good people, and all those who make light the way of the afflicted, and one sou, for the love of Heaven.”

He halted in the spot immediately opposite them. Van Duyven saw a despairing look in Pierre’s eyes, and feared he would cry out. He caught the boy’s wrist in a grip of steel, as much to quiet him as to steady his own nerves. Lanneau ceased speaking, as if expecting an answer, and a puzzled look crossed his face at the silence. After a pause, he moved toward the fence.

“I am in darkness, good people,” he said, “pity my distress and spare a sou, for the love of Heaven.”

With his head raised in the old, familiar, listening attitude, and with a curiously intent look on his face, the blind man groped about with his stick, and, finding the fence, he leaned against it.

For a moment, Van Duyven feared he was going to climb over, but instead, he sat down not a foot from where they lay. He was evidently puzzled, and he looked incredulous, as if asked to believe something that was impossible. After a long pause, he said to himself:

“Well, that’s curious.”

He produced a black cheroot and lit it leisurely. Van Duyven was convinced that all his senses were on the alert, but, to reassure Pierre, he slowly winked at the boy, whose lips were moving silently as he crouched on his hands and knees.

It seemed hours before the blind man stirred. It was really ten minutes before he stood up and resumed his journey, muttering a self-satisfied “Aye.” He was a hundred yards off before either of them ventured to speak.

“That was a close shave,” said Van Duyven as he wiped the perspiration from his brow. “You don’t mean to say you’re crying, Pierre?”

“I thought he was dead,” said the boy, brokenly, his eyes still glued on the retreating figure of Jacques Lanneau. “He knew that we were here.”

“He did not,” said the American. “He thought there was some one here, and our silence merely puzzled him. He must have swam ashore that night we thought he was drowned.”

“I do not think we ought to stay in this locality,” said Pierre solemnly. “There is something uncanny about that creature, and I have a presentiment that he will kill us.”

“Pierre,” said Van Duyven, “I am surprised at you. It was an easy thing for that old rascal to string you up as he did when he took you unawares, but it is a different proposition now when we know the Satanic personage we are dealing with. Where is he going now?” he added, his eyes on the distant figure.

“He is climbing the Devil’s Hoof,” he continued. “Come along, Pierre. If Leon Gaveau and his friend turn up here now, there will be a delightful tussle. I would not miss it for millions.”

As if they thought the blind man could really see, they crouched as they crossed the road and climbed the fence at the other side. Sheltering behind the bowlders on the broken ground, they reached the crest of the rise and lay prone, hidden in the bennet, at a spot from which they had a view of the strand as well as of the Devil’s Hoof. Outlined against the sky, they saw the figure of the old blind man on the crest of the Hoof, placidly smoking.

After some time, two men appeared on the beach, one of whom they immediately recognized as Marcel Fayard. The other was a young man, slim, graceful, and debonair, with handsome dark features.

“That is Leon Gaveau, I expect,” said the millionaire.

“It must be,” said Pierre. “There is going to be some excitement now.”

The pair stopped when they saw the blind man, and at the same moment, the latter stood up and proceeded to make his way down the broken path toward the strand. Tapping the ground, he approached a small, flat-bottomed fishing boat lying upturned on the strand.

He turned it over, and having placed in it a pair of oars and some tackle which were lying underneath, he dragged the little craft to the water’s edge. The tackle included a heavy, ungainly affair that looked like the jaws of an enormous rat trap.

He was about to push the boat into the water when he stopped, listening to the footsteps of Gaveau and his companion as they drew near. He began at once to address them as possible benefactors.

“God light your way,” he said, “have pity on the blind. Will you give the poor old man one sou for the love of Heaven, and God bless you?”

“But you are not a poor man,” said Leon Gaveau.

“Indeed I am. I’ve nothing but this little boat and the fishing tackle and all I am able to catch.”

“You don’t mean to say you go out to fish by yourself?”

“I do, indeed, sir,” said the blind man as he approached the speaker, “I do, indeed, though I am entirely blind. You will ask how it is I manage to get back to land and not row out to sea. But the lowing of the kine, and the tolling of the angelus bell are my guide ropes and they bring me safely home.”

Van Duyven chuckled as he watched the astonished face of the highwayman.

“What sort of fish do you catch?” asked the latter.

“Any sort I can.”

“Isn’t it strange you have no one to help you, or that you would not find something to do ashore that was not so dangerous?”

“You do not understand, sir. I love the sea, for I sailed the ocean for many a year when I had my eyesight. The accident that deprived me of my eyes might have ended my life, but the Creator was kind in giving me time to repent my evil life.”

Leon Gaveau gave the old man some money and the latter pushed off the boat and commenced rowing strongly seaward. Gaveau and his companion strolled along the strand for some little distance and then, returning, squatted down on a knoll within a few yards of the spot where our friends were hidden.

Their eyes were on the movements of the old man in the boat. The latter, having rowed a couple of hundred yards, threw overboard a short net fitted with cork floats.

III

“Well?” Pierre and Van Duyven concluded that the voice was that of Leon Gaveau.

“I can’t make it out,” said Fayard. “He is not fishing, whatever he is doing. That’s not a net.”

“He is fishing,” said Gaveau, “but not for fish. There’s a little black buoy on his starboard hand. It marks the place where he last finished his search and he won’t begin to drag for his oysters until he finds that buoy.”

As he spoke, the net fouled the buoy, and the blind man shipped his oars and hauled in on the rope. Catching the buoy, he lifted it into the boat. Then he threw out his oyster drag, and proceeded to row in such a manner that he described a large circle.

Ever shortening his stroke on the inner oar, he maneuvered in such a way that his circles became smaller and smaller, until he had swept all the area within his first circle. Then he pulled on the mooring rope and recovered the anchor to which it was fast. He rowed straight out to sea for about thirty yards, where he dropped the anchor again, and began to drag the new ground thus gained.

“He doesn’t seem to be catching many oysters,” said Fayard.

“He doesn’t want to,” replied Leon Gaveau. “He is looking for the treasure which was buried under the sign of the Crooked Star. I told you the treasure had been dug up. I did not tell you that Jacques Lanneau, the blind man, was nearly drowned when he tried to follow the men who took it.

“I feared at first that the treasure was gone, but now, I know where it is. It’s out there, under the sea, and that old blind man, with a wealth of patience and industry worthy of a better cause, is hunting for it. I must say, I am glad I brought the Marguerite along. She will come in handy to-night.”

“Do you mean to say,” asked Fayard, “that you are going to fish for the treasure too?”

“Yes, and that to-night, when that venerable old gentleman, who, if he’s not a saint must be Satan himself, thinks well of coming ashore. Hello, what’s up now?”

The highwayman’s exclamation was called forth by the movements of the blind man. The latter had suddenly ceased rowing and began to haul slowly and steadily on the oyster drag. His catch was heavy and his little boat tilted, with her prow high in the air.

As the drag came to the surface, they saw that it held fast in its jaws something black and heavy. Lanneau almost capsized the boat, but he managed after a desperate effort to get the booty safely aboard. He bent over it eagerly, and then, in the failing evening light, they saw him rise to his full height.

He stretched his arms above his head and seemed to be executing a weird dance that threatened to swamp his little craft. Across the water, they could hear the chanting of an old sea song. Suddenly he sat down again, and, taking the oars, he listened for a moment with his head raised in the air and then began rowing fast and strong for the open sea.

“Diable!” cried Leon Gaveau, rising to his feet. “He has got the treasure.”

“And he’s going off with it,” said Fayard.

“He won’t go far,” said Gaveau calmly, lighting a cigarette. “Before he covers half a mile I shall catch him if the light holds. Come along.”

The pair went off, running in the direction of Les Rochers. Pierre was gazing earnestly at the American.

“Well, monsieur?” he asked.

“Is there another boat about, Pierre?”

“There is one on the strand a quarter of a mile to the south.”

“Well,” said Van Duyven, “we are going to be in the chase, too, and we have no time to lose.”

They ran all the way to the boat and were lucky to find a pair of oars beneath her. They had her quickly afloat and went off in the wake of the old blind man, who, fortunately for them, had changed his course slightly to the south.

Their boat was making water, however, and Van Duyven had to keep baling her out while Pierre worked at the oars like one possessed. In the spirit of the chase he had forgotten his fear. The daylight was failing fast, but the distance between them and the quarry grew every moment perceptibly less.

Suddenly, on the evening silence, there broke a strange noise, the vibrant hum of a motor boat which, even as they perceived it, grew more and more distinct.

“There comes the Marguerite,” said Van Duyven.

They were now some distance out at sea, and the whir of the motor boat began to fill the universe. Lanneau had stopped his rowing to listen to the strange noise, and they gained quickly on him.

Out from the dusk, the motor boat swung into view, making a grand curve toward the blind man’s boat. Van Duyven and Pierre were ten yards from their quarry when Leon Gaveau and his companion came alongside the blind man’s little craft.-.

“Well, M. Lanneau,” cried Gaveau as he shut off the engine and laid his hand on the gunwale of the fishing boat, “have you caught many oysters?”

Lanneau did not reply. He was sitting quiet and still on the thwarts.

“He will murder the two of them,” said Pierre in a whisper.

“I dare say, you are surprised at my familiarity,” continued Leon Gaveau, “and I must introduce myself. I am Leon Gaveau, highwayman, at your service, and with me is my friend, Marcel Fayard.

“Now, I’ll trouble you, M. Lanneau, to hand me over that little treasure you picked up. And,” he continued, raising his voice, and turning toward Van Duyven, “I want you, messieurs, whoever you are, to stand off. If you come closer, I shoot you dead!”

The old blind man began to whine, as if in fear of his life.

“For the love of God, monsieur,” he said as he leaned toward the motor boat, “don’t murder me, I’m only a poor old fisherman.”

“Very good,” said Gaveau, “I’ll buy your fish. How much shall we say?”

“Ah, sir, you shouldn’t—”

“Silence,” cried Gaveau, “I want no play acting. Just hand over the treasure without any more talk.”

There was a ring in his voice which showed he was in earnest. Lamenting loudly, the blind man lifted the box to the edge of the motor boat. He overbalanced himself and tumbled in after it. Then he lay in a heap, crying that he was hurt. Fayard went to his assistance, and leaned over him.

“Look out, Gaveau!” cried Van Duyven in his excitement, standing up in his own boat. “Look out for treachery!”

He had just realized that Gaveau did not know the fiend he had to deal with. Even as he spoke, the blind man flashed his right arm upward, and, with a fearful cry, Fayard, his face covered with blood, sprawled over the boat’s side, slid off into the water and disappeared.

On hearing the warning cry, Gaveau had stepped back a pace. The action saved his life, for the blind man’s hand, bearing the bloody dagger, cut the air not an inch from his chin. The force of the futile blow staggered the old man, and Gaveau on the moment jumped in under his guard. Locked in a fierce embrace, the pair rocked this way and that.

Van Duyven seized an oar, and started paddling toward the motor boat. But before he reached it, both men fell, and all at once the engine started and the boat leaped forward. Gaveau was seen to rise in the air, the blind man holding his legs. The former gave a sudden twist, and they both tumbled into the water and disappeared. Almost at the same moment, Van Duyven’s boat, which had been slowly filling, went under.

“Are you all right, monsieur?” asked Pierre as he came to the surface.

“All right,” answered Van Duyven.

IV

They climbed into the blind man’s boat and peered all around for a sign of the others, while away in the distance they could hear the whir of the motor boat as she careered madly out to sea bearing the accursed treasure with her.

A white object came into view on the surface of the darkening waters. Pierre, without a moment’s hesitation, dived off and swam to it. He grasped by the hair the unconscious body of Leon Gaveau. With difficulty they got him aboard, and Pierre attended to him as well as he could while Van Duyven rowed around, vainly scanning the sea for signs of the others.

They were gone for ever. After awhile, the purring of the motor boat became a faint hum and then died away altogether. Van Duyven rowed toward the land, and Leon Gaveau, the highwayman, slowly opened his eyes.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re all right,” replied Pierre.

Painfully, Gaveau sat up.

“You are Van Duyven,” he said, addressing the American. “It was you who shouted that warning. He would have had me but for that. Where is he?”

“He is gone,” said Van Duyven.

“Well, he nearly brought me with him,” said the other. “Poor Fayard is dead, too, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that.” He stopped speaking and leaned weakly over the side. Then he took a violent fit of vomiting.

“I’m not used to drinking,” he said. “Where’s the treasure?”

“Gone off in the motor boat.”

“And no one with it?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a pity.”

He turned to Pierre.

“Boy,” he said, “from all I have heard, I have a liking for you. If you take the dagger out of my back, I will let you have it for a keepsake.”

“The what?” cried Pierre in amazement.

Gaveau shifted his position so that Pierre could step behind him. Sticking in his back, near the shoulder, was the blind man’s dagger. The highwayman did not wince as Pierre drew it out.

“I suppose,” continued Gaveau, while Pierre undressed him to bind the wound, “I should thank you people for saving my ’ife. I am not sure that I am very grateful, to tell you the truth.”

“You ought to thank your Maker,” said Van Duyven with some solemnity.

“I suppose so,” said Gaveau, and was thoughtful for awhile.

When the boat grounded he stepped ashore and stood about while the others dragged her up on the beach. Then he came forward, offering his hand.

“I may do as much for you people another time,” he said and, turning on his heel, he disappeared into the darkness.