“He’s saved!” said Saint-Clair.
“She too,” said Lourmel.
“But it’s a provisional measure,” Saint-Clair said, gravely. “It’s necessary to make it definitive. We must return to Paris. We’ll eat in the car–after that, you must tell me about your adventure, and I’ll tell you mine. Have you identified the spell-caster?”
“No, have you?”
“No–I only found out about it three hours ago.”
“Amazing!”
“Bah!” Saint-Clair shrugged his shoulders. “If he learns of our intervention, he’ll try to kill us before I can be on his trail–but can he? Let’s get going! To Paris, Pilou–but first, go to the Place Gambetta and stop at the restaurant there for five minutes. That’ll give you and Corsat time to buy a roasted chicken, three bottles of Moët, bread and fruit. We’ll lunch on the road. Don’t worry, Professor, I’ve a complete picnic basket in the car! It will be comfortable and proper–but I warn you, we’ll be doing 80 kilometers an hour. I have motoring goggles for both of us, though.”
By the time the roadster drew into the courtyard of the little house in the Rue Nansouty, three hours later, Saint-Clair knew every detail of Irène de Ciserat’s painful adventure and Professor Onésime Lourmel had learned the whole story of the tragic blackmail to which Alexandre Prillant was subjected.
Once they were in the house, the explorer entrusted his guest to Corsat, who led him to the little guest-apartment on the first floor, where he was able to shave while his clothes were brushed. Before going to his own dressing-room, Saint-Clair went into the studio and finally brought out of his pocket the piece of paper that Irène had given him aboard the Lampas. He read it.
It was the letter containing Lucifer’s ultimatum–the letter that had been given to Irène on the quayside in Le Havre.
Saint-Clair re-read the letter, then put it into his wallet with the telegram that Prillant had left with him. He put the wallet on the table, along with several other objects–a chronometer, a matchbox, a bunch of keys and a Browning. Then, he undressed, washed, rinsed and dried himself rapidly and put on fresh underclothes and flannel pajamas.
Rested and refreshed, with his feet bare inside his oriental slippers, Saint-Clair went down to the smoking-room on the ground floor where Professor Lourmel was waiting for him. As he passed through the studio, he picked up his wallet, which he threw on a table. After that, he went straight to the little desk in the corner of the room which bore a telephone, notepads and various directories.
On one of the pads, he saw a note in Choiffour’s handwriting–the concierge answered all telephone calls in his master’s absence. It said: Monsieur Mathias Narbonne asks to be informed as soon as Monsieur de Saint-Clair returns. The matter extremely serious and urgent.
The Nyctalope had met the celebrated philanthropist in America. He had a presentiment, which immediately expressed itself aloud: “Ah! Is this another matter concerning the mysterious Lucifer?” Turning to Lourmel, he said: “We must start a sort of council of war. I think there will be at least four of us–perhaps more. My intuitions are rarely mistaken. Monsieur Narbonne, whom you know, wishes to talk to me about an extremely serious and urgent matter. Is he involved too?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” the Professor said. “Our national philanthropist is an ideal target for the hatred of a malefactor of this Lucifer’s sort.”
“We’ll find out.”
Unhooking the telephone receiver, Saint-Clair dialed Narbonne’s number. He got through immediately.
“Hello? Monsieur Narbonne? Oh, it’s you, d’Arbol. Yes–what is it?... Oh! Oh! The case is not an isolated one... Ah, Monsieur Narbonne! Good day!... Yes! You are not alone... No, not on the telephone... What?... Very well, we’ll be waiting for you... Who, us? You’ll see... Understood.”
He hung up, then remained silent and still for a minute, while the interested Lourmel waited patiently. Then he unhooked the receiver again.
“Hello!... Hello Mademoiselle, my name is Leo Saint-Clair. Yes... Perfectly. Get me the President of the Council... Yes, at the Place Beauvau. Thank you.”
There was another pause, during which he remained still. Then: “Hello, is that you, Alex?... Yes, it’s me, Leo... All is well. The child is safe. I’ll tell you how and where... Right away, if you can spare two hours... Yes? Perfect. Come, then... You’ll find two important people here... Who? Professor Lourmel and Monsieur Narbonne... Perfectly... Hurry... Understood!”
Saint-Clair replaced the receiver, this time definitively. Then, addressing the Professor, not without a certain solemnity, he said: “My dear Professor, I have the pleasure of informing you that, under the chairmanship of Monsieur Prillant, the meeting of the mineworkers’s employers and the delegates of the CGT has just concluded with a solid agreement that guarantees France, save for some unforeseeable catastrophe, at least ten years of social harmony. And I can also tell you that the same Monsieur Prillant will be here in 20 minutes, shortly preceded by Monsieur Mathias Narbonne.” He changed his tone to add, in a more familiar manner: “It’s useless to say anything more until they’re here–we’d only have to repeat ourselves. Cigars and cigarettes are here–I’ll have some water brought in, sugar, fruits, rum... Is that all right by you? Good!”
Mathias Narbonne and André d’Arbol arrived first. Their car, a saloon devoid of luxury but solid and comfortable, had scarcely parked on one side of the courtyard when a horn sounded and the concierge had to open the gate again. It was Monsieur Prillant’s limousine. Saint-Clair appeared at the door of the house.
The statesman and the philanthropist knew one another, naturally. They shook hands, then Narbonne and André exchanged brief cordial greetings with Saint-Clair. Afterwards, in the smoking-room, there was a short conversation between Prillant and Lourmel, while the philanthropist gave a concise explanation to Saint-Clair in a low voice.
When the hats and gloves had been taken away by Corsat, everyone sat down around a table, on which bottles, carafes, glasses, and fruits–both fresh and dried–had been set out, along with spoons and knives, boxes of cigars and cigarettes, a few blotting-pads and paper and pens.
There was a moment of silence while everyone concentrated his thoughts.
“My friends,” Saint-Clair said, eventually, “let us first summarize the facts in chronological order.
“First, Mademoiselle Irène de Ciserat is subjected to some kind of strange abuse in Venice, the observation of which led Professor Lourmel and Louis Mattol to conclude that she was under a spell–a phenomenon that falls into the category of what are nowadays called the occult sciences.
“Second, young Henri Prillant, age ten, is subjected to partial strangulation four times in every 24 hours, at regular intervals–strangulation that can only be explained supernaturally.
“Third, Monsieur Narbonne receives in his right hand–which is presently bandaged and supported by a sling–a dagger-blow that transpierces it, under conditions that again require the admission of a supernatural factor.
“Further:
“First, in Le Havre, while crossing the pavement of the main quay, between the car that had brought her and the building that she was entering, Mademoiselle Irène de Ciserat is intercepted by an unknown man, who slips a piece of paper into her hand, then disappears round the next street-corner. This is the piece of paper. It is a letter. I shall read it.”
When the letter had been read, Saint-Clair–without taking any notice of the violent emotion that his listeners did not even think of hiding–calmly put the piece of paper down to his left. Drawing another sheet of paper out of his wallet, he continued.
“Second, every morning for six days, including today, Monsieur Prillant has received a telegram. The six telegrams are identical. A police operation allowed them to arrest three women–the intermediaries who sent the last three telegrams; their examination at Saint-Anne revealed that they had acted under the influence of hypnotic suggestion, that they came from various villages in
the Haute-Alsace, that they did not know one another and that they had no memory of the messages they had sent from Parisian post offices. I will read you one of these telegrams.”
Saint-Clair read, while his audience–even Prillant, who was already perfectly familiar with the terrible message–listened intently. The uttering of the infernal signature resounded, lugubriously and menacingly, in the silence they maintained, while the impassive Saint-Clair put the paper down to his left and withdrew a third sheet from his wallet.
“Third,” he said, without pausing, “in the post brought to him by his manservant shortly after the piercing of his hand, Monsieur Narbonne received this registered letter. I will read it after calling your attention to this skull engraved at its head...”
He showed the sinister image all around, and began reading again. Having read it, Saint-Clair put the letter down to his left and set both his forearms on the table, with the palms of his hands flat.
“Finally,” he said, still calm, his delivery slow, precise and emphatic, “I make particular note of one fact: Mademoiselle Irène’s statement reveals to us that, before her marriage, she was obliged to reject an impromptu proposal of marriage made by a mysterious red-haired man on the occasion of a party given by Monsieur Lourmel in honor of the American Professor Jameson. The disappearance thereafter of three photographs of Irène has been established.
“These, then, are the facts.
“One: after investigating Irène’s case, Professor Lourmel and Louis Mattol have concluded that a spell had been cast. Two: as soon as I was apprised of Henri’s situation, I, too, concluded that a spell had been cast. Three: knowing now what happened to Monsieur Narbonne, I conclude that it, too, was the result of a spell. This conclusion is corroborated by the fact that the spell-caster revealed himself and confessed his responsibility in the letters that he signed Lucifer.
“The objectives of the three spells are also revealed by the spell-caster himself. He desires to possess Irène; he intends to annex Monsieur Narbonne’s billions; and he wishes to foster Communist anarchy in France.
“It is up to us, on the one hand, to ensure that these three objectives are unattained, and, on the other hand, to prevent Lucifer from taking revenge on his victims–or anyone else he may choose.
“Without any communication between us, thanks to our relative familiarity with the so-called occult sciences, Mattol and I immediately thought of the same protective device: the antagonism of milieux–the Lampas and its submersion under the sea. The cushion of water will form a shield between the designated victim and the projection of the spell. I was familiar with Ciserat’s preparations for submarine explorations and knew about the Lampas, too. I hastened to shelter Henri Prillant therein before the fatal hour, just as Irène’s relatives did the same to protect the young woman from the threat of further abuse.
“As to the rest, Irène will not submit to the demand made of her. Monsieur Prillant has not submitted either, since the conference has taken place and reached its fortunate conclusion. This, my friends, is where we are now. The exposure of these facts was necessary, but now, all that is in the past; we shall speak of it no more. The future lies before us. What are we to do? First, Monsieur Narbonne, do you intend to capitulate?”
“Never!” said Narbonne, firmly. “I summoned my solicitor this morning and added a peremptory codicil to my will, which gives my entire fortune to certain benevolent causes, by means of a simple and inexpensive foundation. When the lawyer left, I said to André: ‘Now let’s wait for June 10. If I should die...’ He did not dare say to no–I would not have taken it well! But while talking about the supernatural–for that seemed to me to be the only explanation–and trying to counter his objections–for André has remained a skeptic despite it all–I thought of you, Saint-Clair. Your knowledge is encyclopedic, and you have done such astonishing things! Besides, I, too, now have the resource of a submarine!” And the brave Monsieur Narbonne burst into laughter.
“Let’s deliberate, then,” said Saint-Clair, “and decide what to do next.”
Part Two: The Nyctalope in Pursuit
I. An A to Z of Paris, via X and Y
At 6 a.m. on May 8–the day after the council of war held against the mysterious Lucifer at the Rue Nansouty, Leo Saint-Clair, the Nyctalope, went to Saint-Anne Asylum. He left Corsat, his Burgundian manservant, and Pilou, his Provençal chauffeur-mechanic, at the main door.
The three men were dressed in almost exactly the same light and comfortable costume: grey jackets and trousers, traveling caps and worn kid gloves, with aviator’s boots for their master and cycling shoes for Corsat and Pilou. The Burgundian was carrying three monastic robes rolled up and secured with string, while the Provençal was furnished with a gusseted suitcase of medium dimensions, containing necessary articles of toiletry, a medicine kit, some changes of underwear and various scientifically-perfected burglar’s tools.
The Nyctalope and his two adjutants were armed with special pistols–invented and constructed by Saint-Clair himself–containing capsules of liquefied air, which propelled 8mm bullets over a range of 500 meters, with neither sound nor smoke, and which could be fired ten times without reloading.
At the asylum, Saint-Clair was met by Professor Lourmel. Two minutes later, he witnessed the release of the three Alsatian women arrested after dispatching telegrams addressed to Monsieur Prillant from three different post offices at the same hour on three consecutive days. They had been questioned while awake, and then again while in a hypnotic trance, and had given no other response, in strongly-accented French, than: “I don’t know!” Whatever the question was, the response never varied: “I don’t know!”
On seeing them walk away, clad in banal costumes like chambermaids of the modest sort, having given no evidence that they knew or recognized one another, the Nyctalope decided to follow the most lively of the three. For private convenience, he named her Dorothée–for these unconscious emissaries of Lucifer had no papers and had not uttered any name that might permit their identification.
Saint-Clair shook Lourmel’s hand in the large doorway and began following the enigmatic Dorothée; Corsat and Pilou walked behind him. Ten meters away from the asylum’s exit, they overtook the other two women, who were being trailed by two of the cleverest of the Sûreté inspectors especially assigned to Monsieur Prillant.
The three women immediately set off in different directions. Dorothée, without a moment’s hesitation, took the Boulevard Saint-Jacques and headed straight for the Métro station, changing her traveling bag from one hand to the other several times over. The two others, hypnotically entranced, slowly went along the Rue de la Santé, gradually drawing apart with the utmost carelessness, one encumbered by a suitcase, the other by a bundle. Saint-Clair soon lost sight of them, concentrating his attention henceforth on Dorothée. She was a slim, rather frail girl, more nervous than the women of the Rhineland usually were–assuming that her origin could be accurately judged from her accent.
The Nyctalope never wasted mental effort on the construction of useless hypotheses. He had no idea what Dorothée would do. He did not speculate as to where she might lead him; he simply followed her, determined to do so until she arrived at her lodgings, or until her attitude or some intervening event demonstrated that she was quite disorientated and lost.
All the same, the Nyctalope could not help being surprised when, after Dorothée had led him to the Gare de Lyon, he heard her ask for a second-class ticket to Marseille at the window serving the Burgundy lines. Although he had formed no conjectures, he had not expected the German woman to set off for the Mediterranean.
Everything about the young woman–the abrupt accent, unsoftenable even by a long sojourn in another country, the cut of her dress, her footwear, the shape of her hat and her general appearance–testified that scarcely a week had gone by since she had quit the banks of the Rhine. But she was not returning to her own country; she was going to Marseille!
“We’ll follow her!” sai
d Saint-Clair. He bought three second-class tickets to Marseille.
Resisting the temptation to engage in vain conjectures, Saint-Clair restricted himself to observing Dorothée. She seemed every inch the traveler: a trifle distraught, sulky and fatigued, but decisive and at ease, quite accustomed to the course of events. She bought a fashion magazine and one of those magazines that are to literature what a pot-pourri is to music. She read, drowsed, stared at the countryside, ate in the restaurant car, relaxed in the corridor of the carriage and slept upright, wedged in the corner of her compartment, with two cushions hired on the platform at Paris. After getting off at Marseille at 9:40 p.m., she left the station, hesitated momentarily in between the five or six hotel omnibuses standing there, then boarded the one whose conductor, more enterprising than his counterparts, had grabbed her luggage.
Saint-Clair found a fiacre, climbed into it with his two companions, and gave the name of the hotel that had been on the front of the omnibus Dorothée had taken. He arrived there before her, overheard the number of the room that was given to her, and arranged to have the room next door, which was free. By chance, Pilou and Corsat were already accommodated on the same floor.
At 9:35 a.m. on the following day, they set off again in the direction of Ventimiglia, with tickets for Antibes. There they all wound up–taking sufficient precautions to ensure that Dorothée did not know that she was being trailed–at a third-rate hotel situated not far from the station.
At the hotel desk, Saint-Clair heard Dorothée say: “I’ll be staying three full days, and I’ll take my meals in my room, at the full-board rate.”
Saint-Clair, Corsat and Pilou sat down around a table in a little garden overlooking the hotel entrance, on which a servant deposited a bottle of lemonade and three glasses. No one else was there.
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 8