The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer!

by Jean de La Hire

  “So are we going to Colmar, boss?” asked Pilou.

  “Not to Colmar, but to Mulhouse. I shall go to Colmar alone, by rail, carefully disguised. You’ve only just time to lighten the suitcase and buckle the portmanteau–get on with it! We’ll meet again in Dijon. I’ll be there on the early hours of May 11, arriving on the Calais-Mediterranean express at 3:57 a.m.”

  “We’ll be there before you, boss,” Pilou assured him.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  He shook their hands, took up his hat, left the room and the hotel, and went to dine at Cap d’Antibes, at a certain table in a particular room in a certain hotel. He ordered the waiter to set a bouquet of three white roses, which had scarcely begun to fade, in the place opposite, where Laurence Païli had once sat.

  II. La Païli’s Lover

  On the following day, May 10, at 9:30 a.m., Leo Saint-Clair collected an encrypted telegram at the Antibes post office. Its second part upset him profoundly for several minutes, during which he had to retreat to the darkest corner of the drab post office, leaning against the wall to prevent himself from falling over. The telegram was from Monsieur Prillant, and was thus comprised:

  1. Two women separately en route towards Strasbourg and Mulhouse. 2. Laurence Païli disappeared, leaving mother desperate note ordering her to remain silent. Mother confided in me despite supernatural threats. Have Laure’s note for your review. Alex.

  Laure, disappeared! Madame Païli, subjected to supernatural torments! It was only natural that the unfortunate woman, despite that abuse, had trusted Monsieur Prillant, for she and he were the only people in the world who knew about the love between the Nyctalope and Laurence Païli–whom he called Laure and whom the crowds in Paris, Vienna, Rome and New York had ostentatiously nicknamed “the vestal of the Rue Favart.”

  Laure, vanished!

  So she’s in Lucifer’s power! howled the Nyctalope, within himself. And he had to learn this in Antibes, in the corner of the world that had been their lovers’ Paradise!

  The minutes of Saint-Clair’s terrible emotion were long-lasting and extremely painful. Finally, though, the Nyctalope recovered himself, morally and physically. He seized a telegram form and cabled to Prillant: Am coming. Leo.

  Then he ran to the hotel. In a matter of moments, his powerful love for La Païli had generated a new plan of action. He ate a hasty meal, wrote a few letters and was at the railway station at 1:24 p.m. to catch an earlier train.

  That train stopped at Dijon for seven minutes. That was enough for Saint-Clair to leap on to the platform and talk to the assistant station-master about Corsat and Pilou, who would be awaiting him in vain at the Hotel Terminus that night. At 9:10 p.m., he was in Paris. A taxi, whose driver was stimulated by a huge tip given in advance, took him to the Avenue Kléber, where Alexandre Prillant was waiting for him. Within five minutes, he knew everything about Laurence’s disappearance that Monsieur Prillant knew, by virtue of the very complete account given to him by Laurence’s mother. He read and re-read the poignant note left by the singer.

  At 10 p.m., Saint-Clair and Prillant left the Avenue Kléber in the statesman’s limousine; Saint-Clair told his companion everything that had happened regarding Edwige. At the central telephone office, he was put in direct communication with the Hotel Terminus in Dijon and spoke to Corsat and Pilou in person. He directed them to go to Vesoul and wait for him the next day in front of the Prefecture.

  While Saint-Clair was calling Dijon, Prillant telephoned the head of the Sûreté, who arrived ten minutes later aboard a powerful racing-car driven by an élite mechanic. Saint-Clair and his suitcase replaced the head of the Sûreté in the deep and narrow quilted bucket-seat, while the latter climbed into the President of the Council’s limousine.

  At 10:28 p.m. exactly, the Nyctalope left Paris by the Porte de Vincennes. The Sûreté car covered approximately 350 kilometers, going from Paris to Vesoul via Troyes, Chaumont and Langres, at hurricane speed. At 1:12 p.m. on May 11, Saint-Clair transferred from the police car to his own roadster, which was waiting there for him in front of the Vesoul Prefecture.

  The jubilation that Corsat and Pilou had initially felt quickly vanished when they saw the intense emotion that was displayed on their master’s face. The Nyctalope’s features were as white and still as marble. The eyes alone were alive–but what unholy fire burned within those eyes!

  Saint-Clair was now fighting to save from torture–and perhaps death as well–not only Irène de Ciserat, Mathias Narbonne, Henri Prillant and other unknown victims, but La Païli, Laurence Païli, his beloved Laure...

  With the same hurricane speed that the Sûreté car had manifested in transporting the Nyctalope from Paris to Vesoul, the roadster, piloted by Pilou, carried La Païli’s lover towards the Trouée de Belfort.6

  III. The Little Red House

  The villa named The Willows was located north-east of Colmar, ten minutes walk from the town center. It was a large 18th-century dwelling surrounded by beautiful gardens, through which a stream meandered, bordered by magnificent willows.

  The Nortmunds, while remaining French at heart, had settled in 1871 in their estate in Alsace, where they owned important mills and a large agricultural domain.7 Despite the difficulties the family had experienced as a result of the severe, reserved and hostile attitude it had adopted after the annexation by Germany–maintaining it without weakening from generation to generation–when Colmar became French again in 1918, they were the first to celebrate the end of their 45 years of punishment.

  The Nortmund family now consisted of six persons: the grandfather, Charles, who bore his 74 years heartily; his son Louis and his wife Blanche, respectively aged 40 and 37; and the couple’s three children, Paul, Pierrette and Jacqueline. The boy had just started at Saint-Cyr;8 the two girls, much younger than their brother, since they were only 12 and 10 years old, were taught at home by their mother and a qualified governess.

  Having left Corsat and Pilou at Mulhouse with the car, Saint-Clair was able to take a train almost immediately to arrive in Colmar at 7 p.m. on May 11. At Mulhouse, to avoid detection by the enemy, he had taken the trouble to pass through several hotels, changing his appearance every time and making his exit through another door than the one by which he had entered–or via a window, when that was feasible. In such cases, he paid in advance for a room for 24 hours, and carried no luggage except for a light overnight bag containing the wigs, clothing and accessories necessary to his transformations. By the time he caught the train to Colmar, even his Burgundian and his Provençal would no longer have been able to recognize him. He had the physiognomy, the appearance, the gait and the stiff elegance of a lean Pomeranian junker-turned-commercial-traveler.9

  Saint-Clair would scarcely be noticed in this guise in Alsace, where men of that sort passed too frequently through the towns to attract any attention, unless they were possessed of some particular eccentricity. He would be able to go anywhere in Germany, if it became necessary, and encounter nothing en route but sympathy. On the other hand, he would cause a certain sensation at The Willows, where the Nortmunds were not accustomed to receive pure-bred Prussians.

  To the porter who opened the little gate within the main gate giving access to the villa’s gardens, Saint-Clair gave a business card engraved with the words Heinz von Kraft, Commercial Representative, Berlin, London, Paris, Rome. In a secret compartment of his overnight bag, the Nyctalope kept an assortment of business cards bearing various names, professions and nationalities, as well as half a dozen blank passports, duly stamped and authorized.

  “Please will you give my card to Monsieur Nortmund and tell him that I need to talk to him about serious and urgent matters–serious and urgent, I emphasize–of personal concern.” This was proffered in German, in an appropriately arrogant manner.

  The porter pouted, read the name on the card for a second time, looked his visitor up and down disapprovingly, and finally pointed to a central pathway furnished with rustic benches, which le
d directly across the lawn at a slight upward slope, to the steps of the villa. “Wait there,” he muttered, “on one of those benches. I’ll give the card to the footman. I don’t know whether Monsieur Louis is receiving visitors today, especially at this hour, when the dinner-bell will soon be rung.”

  While the pretended Heinz von Kraft went to sit down on a bench, the porter went into his lodge, pressed the button of an electric bell and came out again. A black silhouette appeared on the white steps at the far end of the path, came down and crossed the lawn, advancing rapidly. This was a footman, to whom the porter gave the card and repeated, in French, what the visitor had said. The valet darted an astonished glance at the impassive Heinz von Kraft and went back along the path at the same rapid pace.

  A few minutes went by; then an alarm bell trilled in the porter’s lodge. “Would you care to follow the path, Monsieur,” said the latter, bowing slightly in the visitor’s direction. “The footman will admit you.”

  “There we go!” Saint-Clair murmured, in satisfaction. “There’s organization here, order, discipline and alacrity. If Monsieur Nortmund’s physiognomy pleases me as much as the approach to his house, I’ll tell him everything; he’ll be an indispensable auxiliary, and his villa will be the comfortable headquarters necessary to my operations–which, I believe, will not be on a small scale.”

  The footman took his overnight bag and introduced him into a simply and economically furnished study. Saint-Clair was then confronted by a tall, broad-shouldered man of powerful appearance, with austere clean-shaven features. His calm eyes were a profound blue; his chestnut-colored hair was cut and brushed.

  “I am Louis Nortmund,” the man said, in French, in a voice that was clear and cold. “You had yourself announced in a singular fashion. What are these serious and urgent matters of which you speak, which concern me personally? Be brief and clear, please. I can only give you a few minutes.” He remained standing, and did not invite his visitor to sit down.

  “Perfect!” cried the fake Heinz von Kraft. “You are as good as I had hoped, Monsieur Nortmund, and we can talk constructively. But one question before anything else, to which I ask an immediate response: do you know the name Leo Saint-Clair, alias the Nyctalope?”

  Although he was extremely surprised to hear these words–in French, pronounced with the purest and most distinguished Parisian accent–emerging from the mouth of a junker with a military gait reborn as a commercial traveler, Monsieur Nortmund replied with a certain emphatic patriotic pride: “Who does not know, not merely the name, but also the features, reproduced a thousand times over in the newspapers, and the universally-admired exploits of the great Leo Saint-Clair, the Nyctalope?”

  Saint-Clair laughed lightly, assumed the expansive gaze that gave him an irresistible power of seduction, and said: “I am not Heinz von Kraft, Monsieur, and the manner in which you have just answered me obliges me to blush with elementary modesty in revealing to you that I am Leo Saint-Clair, the Nyctalope.”

  “You!” cried Nortmund.

  “Me. Would you care to show me to a bathroom and return my overnight bag, which the footman who admitted me very obligingly took away? I shall erase the von Kraft disguise and reveal my true face, with whose features the newspapers have familiarized you. Then I shall explain myself.”

  Without a word, Monsieur Nortmund led his strange visitor to his own bathroom. An instant later, he brought the overnight bag himself and withdrew again.

  It required a quarter of an hour for the Nyctalope to transform himself into his own self again. When that was done, he went out by the door through which he had entered, and found Monsieur Nortmund waiting for him in the corridor.

  “Let’s go downstairs, Monsieur,” said the businessman.

  They returned to the study, whose windows were now closed. It was brightly lit, not merely by the 12 electric bulbs of a chandelier but by six lamps set in three wall-brackets. Nortmund studied the Nyctalope in this intense light.

  “Ah, Monsieur!” cried the Alsatian, with his arms outstretched, his eyes laughing and his whole face transformed by joy, “what great pleasure and happiness you give me! Leo Saint-Clair, the Nyctalope, under my own roof! Oh, I shall not question you; you shall speak when you wish. My father and I, our servants and our workmen, our friends and our fortune, are all at your service–for I assume that, to come into my home in the guise of a Prussian squire, you must be on some sort of expedition or exploration, a hunt or a war... Something difficult, delicate and perilous. But it’s dinner time–have you the time to join us?”

  “Certainly!” said Saint-Clair, shaking both the Alsatian’s hands, glad to find him so devoted and enthusiastic beneath his frosty and slightly egotistical exterior. “You delight me, my dear Monsieur! Yes, I have the time to dine. But first, a precaution, if you please. Are you absolutely sure of the discretion and fidelity of your servants–all your servants, or at least those who have seen Heinz von Kraft and will see Leo Saint-Clair?”

  “Yes, absolutely sure. What do you want me to do?”

  “Gather them here, show me to them, and tell them that–for reasons of the utmost gravity–Saint-Clair has been von Kraft and will become him again, and have them swear on oath not to tell a living soul, or talk among themselves, about von Kraft or Saint-Clair, for any reason whatsoever.”

  “That’s fine!” said Monsieur Nortmund. “Would you care to wait for me here. It will take five minutes–there’s no need to bring them here. I’ll assemble them and talk to them.”

  Five minutes later, he returned, not alone but with his father and his wife. Monsieur Charles and Madame Blanche Nortmund greeted the famous explorer with the utmost cordiality and the most delicate discretion. Saint-Clair was treated as a very dear friend welcomed after a long separation. Immediately afterwards, the butler announced that dinner was served, and everyone went into the dining-room.

  The conversation was entirely worldly, but a trifle earnest, for Saint-Clair could not set aside his troubles and preoccupations completely. After the meal, Madame Blanche retired and the three men went back to the study.

  The reliability and fidelity of the servants was so well established that there was no need to subject it to further proof, but Saint-Clair asked that the doors and windows should be firmly closed and the curtains drawn. He began talking in such a well-tuned voice that his companions immediately adopted a very quiet tone by way of imitation.

  “Messieurs,” he said, “First hear me out without interruption. Afterwards, you can reply and ask me questions as you please.” Briefly, clearly, and with the intense liveliness that he could give to the slightest anecdote, he recounted the fourfold story of Irène, La Païli, Mathias Narbonne and Henri Prillant. Then, he related the details of Edwige’s adventure, and afterwards fell silent.

  There was a long silence. While the Nortmunds reflected, the Nyctalope waited, studying the father and son with his sharp eye. They were similar in their build and their features, save that Louis’ chestnut-colored hair had become silvery white in his father, Charles.

  Finally, after exchanging a brief glance with his son, Charles Nortmund fixed his calm eyes on Saint-Clair’s and said, simply: “There’s little to add. Edwige, whose abrupt and seemingly-motiveless departure we could not explain, has been replaced–and that’s all we can say about her. As for ourselves, relative to this Lucifer, I repeat what Louis has said to you. My son and I, our servants and workmen, our friends and our fortune, are all at your disposal. You are the master here: give your orders!” Getting to his feet, Charles Nortmund offered both his hands to the Nyctalope. The latter shook them, smiling.

  They sat down in their armchairs again. “Thank you,” Saint-Clair said. “I accept, but I hope that I shall have little to ask of you. For tonight, this: my car and my usual assistants, my manservant Corsat and my chauffeur Pilou, are at Mulhouse; if they did not receive fresh instructions from me by telephone by 9 p.m., they were to come straight here.”

  “It’s 9:40 p.m.,�
� Louis said. “I’ll give orders for the main gate to be opened for them and a room with two beds to be prepared–and a place in the garage for the car.”

  He got up to leave, but Saint-Clair stopped him, saying: “Then, a room for me. Corsat and I will only sleep until 3 a.m.; Pilou will stay in bed because he needs more rest than Corsat. With the latter, I shall go to a little red house on the bank of the Lauch.”

  “May I come with you to act as guide?” Louis said, with avid enthusiasm.

  “Certainly!” the Nyctalope agreed, and added: “What we learn at the little red house will determine our next step.” He made a gesture, and Louis went out. Then, addressing Charles Nortmund, he continued: “Meanwhile, my dear Monsieur, I would like you, if I leave Colmar tomorrow, to coordinate matters here–to transmit to me, whenever and wherever it may be convenient, any information that arrives at the Central Commissariat of Colmar regarding the two women who are being followed by the Sûreté’s inspectors, and who left Paris heading for Strasbourg and Mulhouse. You must introduce yourself to the Commissaire with this card. It will accredit you, in accordance with instructions received from Monsieur Prillant.” From his wallet, he took a small red card marked with what looked like shorthand symbols.

  “When should I go to the Commissariat?” Monsieur Charles asked, as he took the card.

  “As soon as you hear from me, your son, Corsat or Pilou, that I am no longer in Colmar. Naturally, I shall let you know at an opportune moment when, where and how you should send me the information communicated to you by the Commissaire. You must always have a plausible public excuse for your twice daily visits to the Commissariat, of course.”

  “That’s easy enough,” said Monsieur Charles, with a smile.

  “And now, I must sleep.”

  “I’ll take you to your room. Will you need to be woken up?”