It’s Monday, he said to himself. There won’t be many people on the further pathways, and no one in the new luxurious restaurant in front of the Terrace. Let’s go! I’ll build up a healthy appetite with a brisk walk in the park.
The Nyctalope lived in the Rue Nansouty, on the edge of the Parc Montsouris in the 14th arrondissement. He had bought a little townhouse with an artist’s studio, which he had converted into a very comfortable library and trophy-room. His household included a manservant and a chauffeur, sturdy fellows who were intelligent and resolute, companions in his adventures, loyal to the last drop of their blood and the last thought in their skulls. There was also a concierge-groundskeeper and his wife, a fine cook whose talents were well-suited to Saint-Clair’s delicate tastes. The Nyctalope was both gourmet and gourmand, all the more so because he was well aware that, when he was on his expeditions, he had to content himself with dried meat, smoked fish, processed cheese, pressed figs, coarse dates, biscuits that had to be broken with a hammer–in sum, anything that could serve the purpose of human nutrition.
“Corsat,” said Saint-Clair to the manservant, who had arrived in his dressing-room to administer his daily massage, “tell Pilou that we’ll be lunching in Saint-Cloud today. We’ll leave at 9 a.m. You’ll come too. Warn Sidonie and tell her that for dinner, I’ll only want boiled eggs with tomatoes and baked endives. Fetch two bottles of the ’96 Chateau Margaux–I distrust vintages that I haven’t chosen for myself.”
Having taken these precautions, Saint-Clair–feeling healthy and youthful, illuminated by a serenity he had not known for 15 months–climbed into the car that was waiting for him in the enclosed courtyard of his little house. Pilou, who was sitting at the steering-wheel, looked like a young English general in his eccentric uniform. In a similarly correct manner, Corsat closed the door and took the seat next to the chauffeur. The concierge-groundskeeper, Choiffour, opened the gate and gave a military salute as the low-slung roadster went past.5
Just as the rear wheels were passing through the gateway, however, Saint-Clair sat up straight and said: “Stop!” The car came to an abrupt halt. Then, in the silence of the deserted quarter, the four men were able to hear quite clearly the repetition of the sound that Saint-Clair’s super-refined hearing had already caught, which had prompted him to give the order to halt: it was the ringing of a telephone.
If such a simple thing caused the Nyctalope’s return to his home, it was because the ring had an exceptional quality. The telephone installed in the studio was a special line, private and secret, which only served one of Saint-Clair’s correspondents: Monsieur Alexandre Prillant, an illustrious politician and intimate friend of his, who was presently President of the Council and Minister of the Interior. Furthermore, Monsieur Prillant did not always use that special line to communicate telephonically with Saint-Clair. Normally, he asked the operator to connect him, just like anyone else, and the call would cause an ordinary instrument in the smoking-room or the ground floor of the house to ring–which would not have been audible outside. For the President of the Council to use the secret telephone, it must be a matter to extreme importance.
Saint-Clair snatched up the receiver.
“Is that you, Leo?” said a voice that he recognized–Monsieur Prillant’s–gravely.
“Yes, Alex,” Saint-Clair replied.
“Are you free?”
“Yes.”
“Can you come straight away?”
“To your house or the ministry?”
“My house. Immediately?”
“Yes–my car’s in the courtyard. I was going to spend the day in the country.”
“Forget the country. I need you. It’s serious.”
“I’ll hurry.”
“Thank you.”
On hearing that word, Saint-Clair buttoned his coat, went downstairs, leapt back into the car and said to Pilou: “Monsieur Prillant’s house–quickly!”
Choiffour opened the gate again and the roadster shot out. The Nyctalope’s car only took a quarter of an hour to go from the Rue Nansouty to the Avenue Kléber, where Alexandre Prillant lived.
Monsieur Prillant was waiting for his young friend–the explorer was 15 years younger than the statesman–in his study. Outside his public duties, the Minister, who had been widowed three years before, devoted himself entirely to his belatedly-born son named Henri–a handsome, robust and intelligent boy of ten, for whom he entertained greater ambitions of happiness than he had ever entertained on his own behalf. Prillant had adored his wife, and his son was his only consolation; he said sometimes that if misfortune were to overtake his son, the Sun would turn black for him, and life would no longer be anything but gloom.
“Dear God, what’s the matter?” cried Saint-Clair, at the sight of his great and powerful friend.
Alexandre Prillant’s face was livid and drawn; his eyes were hollow and burning with fever–but the two vertical wrinkles between his furrowed eyebrows testified that the decisive will of a man of mature years remained intact within this man of 50, tormented by some atrocious pain.
After shaking Saint-Clair’s hand, Prillant asked him to sit down, then sat down himself. “Something horrible is happening,” he said, in a slow, dull voice with a grave and sonorous tone. “Henri is dying, by slow degrees, of intermittent strangulation.”
“What?” said Saint-Clair, startled.
“Yes! Listen, and don’t interrupt–the minutes are worth as much as hours. I shall be brief, in any case. With you, the essentials are sufficient...
“You know that, for ten days now, France has been threatened by a general strike, fomented clandestinely by Communist organizations and planned by the Confédération Générale du Travail, to express solidarity with the agricultural workers, who have been on strike for two weeks.”
“I know.”
“Today, at noon, a meeting was to have taken place between the delegates of the CGT, the Association Patronale des Mines and the government. I convened the conference and I was to chair it. I’m sure that it would have concluded with an agreement; tomorrow, there would have been a universal return to work on entirely new terms, the general strike would have been called off, and social peace would be ensured in our nation for at least a decade...”
“I know that–I believe you.”
“Well, my friend,” Prillant went on, in a voice that was now slightly tremulous, “since that conference was announced, exactly six days ago, I have received a telegram like this every morning. This is today’s–take it and read it. The other five were identical.”
Prillant pushed a sheet of blue-tinted paper, folded in two, towards the corner of the desk where Saint-Clair was sitting. Saint-Clair took it up impassively, and read:
To Monsieur Alexandre Prillant,
President of the Council, Minister of the Interior
Call off the conference. Discourage the APM by a curt refusal to negotiate. Oppose the proposals of the CGT by refusing point-blank to see them. Otherwise, your son Henri, to whom I am applying strangulation every six hours, will be completely asphyxiated and killed at noon on May 7.
Lucifer.
Saint-Clair remained motionless and mute for 30 seconds. He was very pale. Then he raised his head and gazed at his friend; his large eyes were fiery. “This isn’t a sinister, joke, is it?” he said, dryly.
Prillant shook his head. Making an effort to remain calm, although his voice was plaintive with suppressed emotion, he replied: “Four times a day, at regular intervals–at 6 a.m., noon, 6 p.m. and midnight–my beloved Henri’s throat is violently seized by invisible hands. He is choked and strangled. He suffocates; he croaks; he almost expires. Then the strangulation abruptly ceases. The marks of the strangler’s fingers remain visible...” There was a silence charged with anguish; then Prillant began speaking again. “For the first three days, I observed and reflected, swearing everyone here to silence regarding the unimaginable phenomenon. On the evening of the third day, I telephoned Professor Lourmel, but he ha
d just left for Italy. Immediately, I summoned the Prefect of Police and the head of the Sûreté. They instituted a general surveillance in post offices of people sending telegrams. On the evening of May 4, 5 and 6, three women were arrested–three Alsatian women. They were immediately interrogated, examined and studied. They had acted under the influence of hypnotic suggestion; their will was not their own and they could not remember anything. Then, in desperation, I called you.”
Prillant fell silent.
After a terrible pause, Saint-Clair simply said: “Why do you not obey this Lucifer?”
Prillant replied with the same simplicity. “Never! The circumstances, the facts, my reputation, my ideas relating to the present social conflict–everything indicates that I am the one man in France, at this moment, who can prevent France from falling victim to a Communist Revolution in years to come! My duty as a Frenchman, a Minister and a civilized human being is to act...” He stiffened, seeming to draw himself up in his armchair. His face was implacable. “My son Henri,” he said, in a voice that was hoarse but firm, “will probably die at noon when I, the President of the Council of Ministers of the Republic, the supreme holder of authority in France, will open the meeting from which an agreement will emerge between labor and capital.”
“And afterwards?” said Saint-Clair, still impassive.
“Ah! Afterwards...” The father let his face fall into his hands and a sob shook his entire body–but he got up immediately, abruptly straightening his nimble and vigorous body. “Afterwards,” he said, determinedly, “I shall devote everything I have–my power, my fortune, my grief and my hatred–to avenging my son.”
Saint-Clair also got up, though, and clasped his friend’s hands almost brutally. “Alex,” he said, his tone curt, his voice authoritative and his gaze fixed, “do you trust me?”
“Yes, completely,” Prillant affirmed, forcefully.
“If I say that your son will not die, will you believe me?”
“Yes, I’ll believe you!”
“And you will do your duty with serenity–with total serenity?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Saint-Clair laughed–a peculiar laugh of bravado and triumph, terrible in the circumstances. “Well,” he said, “I tell you this, my friend–your son will not die.”
“Oh, Leo...”
“Shut up. It’s time to act. Where’s Henri?”
“In his room, with his English governess and his tutor.”
“The same ones he had 15 months ago?”
“Yes, Miss Ellen and Monsieur Verfeuil.”
“Is he dressed?”
“Yes. I saw him before I telephoned.”
“Good. I’ll take him away.”
“You...”
“Will you hesitate now?” Saint-Clair said, interrupting.
“No, no! Go–take him! Provided that you save him, do whatever you wish.”
“I’ll take him away. I don’t know when I’ll be able to return him to you–a week, a fortnight, a month... but he’ll live! Have no doubt about that, by God!”
“I don’t doubt it, Leo. Do you know, then...?”
“I suspect... I deduce... Oh, the hell with it–Yes, I know!”
“Explain then, as briefly as possible.”
“No! We must act now, and talk later.”
“You’re right, as always. Come on, then.”
Henri Prillant had not forgotten his “Uncle Saint-Clair” who, like an uncle who was both genuine and marvelous, brought or sent him the most miraculous toys. The children that Henri played with in the Trocadéro gardens and his friends’ houses never had such things.
Containing his emotion with difficulty, Saint-Clair said to Henri: “My boy, I shall cure the illness that has afflicted you from time to time for several days. Furthermore, your father is allowing me to give you a great treat. Can you guess what?”
“What? What is it?” said the child, his eyes avid with curiosity.
“A journey–a lovely journey in a motor car. We’re leaving straight away. Papa says we may–isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes!” said Prillant, smiling but almost weeping with emotion.
“Oh, in a motor car!” cried the child, clapping his hands and then throwing his arms around Saint-Clair’s neck.
Three minutes later, the explorer climbed back into his roadster with Henri and Miss Ellen. Monsieur Prillant and the tutor Verfeuil brought blankets and coats.
“Pilou,” Saint-Clair said, in the curt, incisive tone that the Nyctalope’s voice took on in matters of life and death, “it’s 9:30 a.m. It’s necessary to be in Le Havre by 11:30 a.m. It’s 228 kilometers...”
“We’ll be there, boss! The tires are brand new, and I have three spare wheels. Even if one bursts, we’ll get there. There are stretches where I can do 150 kph...”
“Good–I’m counting on you and your machine.” Turning to Prillant, Saint-Clair went on: “Can you reach the director of the Subtransatlantic Company in Le Havre by radio within an hour?”
“Yes, if I take care of it myself,” the Minister replied.
“Good. Have their top man in Paris send the director in Le Havre the following message: Prepare the submarine Lampas for an immediate departure and submersion at 11:30 a.m. and place it at the disposal of Leo Saint-Clair.”
Then, in response to a “Get going!” the car moved off, carrying the enraptured Henri Prillant wedged between Saint-Clair and Miss Ellen.
The 228 kilometers were covered in an hour and 52 minutes. Having left the Avenue Kléber in Paris at 9:30 a.m., Saint-Clair and little Henri arrived at the main quay in Le Havre at 11:22 a.m. The car stopped in front of the pontoon hangar in which the Lampas and the Synancée were moored. The Lampas, already outside, was maneuvering slowly in the harbor, scarcely a cable’s length away. Saint-Clair, leaping out of the roadster, saw a silhouette and a face he recognized on the submarine’s gangway.
“Ciserat!” he cried.
“Saint-Clair!” the naval officer replied.
A dinghy was moored nearby; Saint-Clair leapt nimbly into it. “Miss,” he said, “pass me the child and get aboard.”
The Englishwoman obeyed, rapidly and dexterously.
The explorer took the oars and soon came abreast of the submarine.
“You, here!” said Ciserat, assisting his friend, the young woman and Henri to climb on to the gangway. “Who’s the child? Is he yours? I don’t know–the radio message that was passed to me as we were about to depart didn’t explain anything.”
“You talk too much, old chap,” Saint-Clair said. “Get the young lady aboard, and the boy–who is the only son of Alexandre Prillant, President of the Council and Minister... do you hear? Get aboard, get going, submerge! Before noon, the Lampas has to be under 100 meters of water.”
At that moment, a head appeared at one of the open hatchways between the conning-tower and the gangway, which led down into the submarine’s interior. On seeing that head, Saint-Clair cried out in amazement. “Oh! Professor Lourmel! So you’re not in Italy?”
“I have been,” the Professor said, climbing on to the bridge. “I heard you–what’s happening?” He looked at the child and frowned–then experienced the sudden illumination of which brains of genius are capable, went to Saint-Clair and whispered in his ear: “Another case of spell-casting, eh?”
Saint-Clair started. “What do you mean, another?”
“Yes, my niece, Ciserat’s wife. In Venice... Phenomena of torture by supernatural means. Mattol, my pupil, had the idea of the opposition of milieux–but for you, in similar circumstances, to have thought of the Lampas... of sheltering underwater... you must believe that...”
“I don’t believe, I know! God’s blood! Too much talking. At midday...”
“One more minute, Nyctalope!” the Professor commanded, in a masterful voice. “Since you’re certain, you surely aren’t leaving with the infant?”
“Oh, I’m not leaving. I have a investigation to conduct.”
; “I thought so, Saint-Clair. I, too, need to investigate, to punish...” And he called out: “Mattol! I’m getting off! The suitcases, quickly!” Then, to Ciserat, he said: “Not another word. You heard and understood. Be calm. Once we’re in the dinghy, depart and submerge. Poste restante, New York, a fortnight hence.”
Mattol emerged, looking slightly haggard. A sailor passed him the suitcases, which he threw into the moored dinghy. Lourmel had already quit the gangway. Saint-Clair followed him. As they passed an open hatchway, Irène de Ciserat suddenly appeared in front of the explorer. An exclamation sprang to his lips, but she put the index finer of her left hand to her lips, instructing him to be silent, while her right hand thrust a folded piece of white paper into his. She knew Saint-Clair, having met him at least 20 times at her father’s dinner-parties. He took the paper and went on.
At another hatchway, Ciserat helped Miss Ellen and Henri into the submarine. Mattol followed them. Lourmel and Saint-Clair got into the dinghy and cast off the mooring-rope.
Ciserat gave his orders. The waters behind the Lampas became agitated. Sailors appeared and set about dismantling the guard-rails and walkway of the gangway. Then they dived into the hatchways, which were sealed. There was a metallic clicking sound, distinct at first, dull thereafter. Ciserat remained alone on the conning-tower–and the Lampas drew away, towards the harbor entrance.
Saint-Clair and Lourmel watched it mutely from the quay, on to which they had just climbed, a few paces away from the roadster. When they had seen Ciserat wave his cap in the air and the Lampas disappear behind the curve of the quay where the semaphore tower was, they looked at one another, smiling.
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 7