Three days later, Léon stood on the steamship dock at Marseille harbor, taking a deep breath of the air tinged with the scent of the sea.
He had ignored Bernard's advice and insisted on bringing only a small leather suitcase, inside which were a few changes of clothes, a rolled-up map, and the copper box his father had left him—the copper box was carefully wrapped in oilcloth and tucked into the lining of the suitcase. As for the so-called "Marseille Railway Project Confidential Documents," they now lay quietly inside a Browning pistol case. The pistol was a keepsake from his father—silver in color, with the crest of the Molay family engraved on the grip.
Léon slipped the pistol case into his coat's inner pocket and boarded the "Provence Star" steamship bound for Lyon.
This was a dual-purpose passenger and cargo vessel operating on the Rhone, painted white with a faint plume of smoke rising from its chimney. The first-class cabins were on the top deck, a total of eight compartments. Léon had reserved the innermost one. He had given himself a name—"Arnaud," an ordinary merchant heading to Marseille to discuss olive oil trade.
The ship set sail promptly at three in the afternoon. Léon stood by the window in his cabin, watching Marseille port gradually recede. The crowd on the dock grew smaller and smaller until only seagulls remained circling overhead.
The scenery along both banks of the Rhone was beautiful. The early autumn sunlight shimmered on the river's surface, sparkling like a thousand tiny stars. In the distance, endless vineyards and scattered villages stretched out. But Léon was not in the mood to enjoy it. He sat by the window, reopening the ledger his father had left him, trying to find some pattern in the dense rows of numbers.
The ledger covered a span of twelve years, from 1885 to 1897. Each page bore his father's handwriting, annotated with dates and locations. But what puzzled Léon was that these figures did not correspond to any known business—he had seen the Molay Bank's accounts since childhood; his father had used ledgers to teach him to read, and he was very familiar with those numbers. Yet, the figures in this ledger belonged to an entirely different system.
The name "Redbeard" appeared seven times. Each time, it was accompanied by a large expenditure—ranging from fifty thousand to two hundred thousand francs. The reason for the expenditure was always listed as "Transport."
What kind of transport required such a huge sum?
Léon was engrossed in his reading when suddenly he heard footsteps outside the door. The sound paused in the corridor, then continued forward, stopping at his cabin door.
He quickly closed the ledger, stuffed it under his pillow.
There was a knock.
"Sir, dinner time. The dining hall is on the second deck, starting at seven," came the voice of a steward.
"Understood," Léon replied.
The footsteps receded.
He exhaled softly, walking to the window. It was already dark outside, and the villages on both banks twinkled with lights. The Rhone, in the night, turned into a black silk ribbon flowing quietly forward.
He decided to go to the dining hall. On one hand, he was genuinely hungry; on the other, he wanted to observe who else was on board.
The dining hall was on the second deck, a spacious room that could seat thirty or forty people. White tablecloths covered the tables, each with an oil lamp burning softly. Léon found a seat by the window and ordered fish soup and toasted bread.
He ate silently while discreetly observing his surroundings.
At the table to his left sat two middle-aged men, dressed in decent suits, discussing the silk prices in Lyon. To his right was a young couple with a four or five-year-old girl, who was poking at mashed potatoes with a spoon. Near the door sat three men dressed in rough cloth, with dark skin, looking like workers or fishermen.
Léon's gaze lingered on those three men for a moment.
They ordered simple dishes—each with a stew and bread—but ate quickly, occasionally whispering to each other, their eyes casually sweeping the room. One of them had a thick beard, a scar over his brow, and didn't remove his hat while eating.
Léon lowered his head and continued drinking his fish soup.
After dinner, he didn't return directly to his cabin. Instead, he took a walk on the deck. The night breeze was cool and refreshing. He leaned against the railing, watching the propeller at the stern churn up white foam, especially conspicuous in the darkness.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Léon didn't turn around, continuing to watch the river.
The footsteps stopped about two meters behind him. After a few seconds, they continued forward, passing by his side and disappearing at the other end of the railing.
It was the man with the scar over his brow.
When Léon returned to his cabin, the first thing he did was check his suitcase. It was still in its original place, and a strand of hair he had left in the suitcase's lid was still there—something he always did before leaving, a habit his father had taught him.
But he still felt uneasy.
He took out the Browning pistol case, opened it, and confirmed the documents were still inside. Then he slid the case back into his coat's inner pocket, lay on the bed, and fell asleep fully dressed.
In the middle of the night, he was awakened by a faint noise.
The sound was soft, like someone walking carefully in the corridor. Léon opened his eyes and listened quietly in the darkness. The footsteps paused outside his door, then continued forward, gradually fading away.
He got up and went to the door, peering through the peephole.
The corridor was empty, only the faint yellow glow of the oil lamp cast shadows on the wall. But Léon noticed that the door of the cabin opposite, which had been closed all along, was emitting a faint light through the crack.
He remembered clearly that this cabin had been dark earlier in the evening.
He returned to his bed, fished out the Browning pistol from under his pillow, and placed it within easy reach. He didn't sleep again, simply leaning against the headboard, staring at the night outside the window.
The ship had passed Avignon and entered the Provence region. Under the moonlight, the lavender fields on both banks had been harvested, leaving neat rows and scattered wildflowers. The distant mountains looked like sleeping giants, quietly resting in the night.
At the blackest moment before dawn, Léon suddenly remembered his father.
When he was a child, his father took him to Marseille to see the sea. He was six years old then, standing on the dock, excitedly watching huge cargo ships come and go. His father stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, saying, "Léon, remember, these ships carry not just goods but the livelihoods of countless people. The Molay family's responsibility is to ensure these ships can sail the seas forever."
He didn't understand his father's words at the time. Now, he thought he might understand a little.
As the first light appeared on the horizon, Léon got up and walked to the window. A thin fog drifted over the river, and the sleeping villages on both banks remained still. He saw a figure standing on the deck at the stern, dressed in rough cloth, looking in his direction.
It was the man with the scar over his brow.
Léon squinted. The man seemed to realize he had been spotted, turned around, and slowly walked back into the cabin.
Léon looked down at the gun case in his arms, then at the gradually clearing riverbank outside the window.
In a few hours, the ship would dock in Marseille. If those people truly intended to act, it would be during this final stretch.
He took the pistol out of the case, checked the ammunition, then re-holstered it. The documents were tucked close to his body, while the gun case was casually tossed onto the bed, looking like an old, discarded object.
Having done all this, he opened the cabin door and headed to the deck.
Better to check himself than wait for someone to come knocking.
On the early morning deck, only a few early risers were strolling. Léon reached the bow and stood facing the river wind. In the distance, Marseille's silhouette was faintly visible through the morning mist.
Behind him, footsteps sounded again.
This time, there was more than one person.
Léon did not turn around. He watched the increasingly near port of Marseille, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Come on.
He had waited so many days; now, at last, the moment had arrived.