The calm, slow, sublime struggle proceeded: one man against the law of gravity, the inhospitability of perpendicularity and the natural non-adherence of a human body to the side of a rocky crag, in the dark. Except that it was not entirely in the dark, for Pilou knew that the Nyctalope’s lynx-like eyes were watching him, following him and judging him.
With his fingers, fingernails, armpits, elbows, knees, breast, belly, thighs and every other part of his body, simultaneously reptilian and angular, supple and hard, Pilou searched, groped before gripping, set himself flat, suspended himself, swayed, hauled himself up, stretched himself out and repeated the process, slowly and prudently, breathing evenly and in a calculated fashion.
And he climbed.
He climbed.
An hour went by, then two.
Pilou resumed his tranquil monologue. “Good! There’s the flat section he mentioned, about 38 meters up: the spiral stairway. Mustn’t lean, with any part of the body, on any of those steps hollowed from the rock. If that step were one of those that had been transformed into a circuit-breaker! One encounters such hazards. What am I saying? These nasty hazards are all around. I could do with five minutes rest, though. Ah, there’s a ledge. A bit of a slope, it’s true, extending diagonally beneath four, five, six steps. Large enough for me to lie down on my back, for a start, then... Let’s see. It’s a matter of combination. Then I’ll stand up and grope overhead. If I can’t find anything to hook myself on and get over the flat section without touching any of the steps, I’ll have to... Oof! It’s good to breathe lying one one’s back. If I could only find somewhere to attach the lasso, this ledge would serve as an excellent first base; the boss and Corsat would be perfectly able to sit down on it and rest. But where should I attach the lasso? It’s only 60 meters long, and I have 105 to climb. It ought to be at least halfway. I’m not yet high enough, since I’ve got about 67 meters still above me–and once it’s attached, the lasso won’t give me more than 58 or 59 at the most. Well, I won’t be supping bouillabaisse in a hour... There’s isn’t any, anyway, since we’re in the holy land of... That’s enough! Jump to it!”
He stood up. He groped about. Above his head, the rock overhung, forming a vault over the stairway. Standing on the narrow ledge at the edge of the stairway–which had neither parapet nor guard-rail–he moved his arms, searching with his fingers to the right and the left for a crevice or a projection from which to suspend himself. Then he froze, petrified.
A luminous square had abruptly appeared in the rock beneath the vault, directly in front of him. His face was only separated from that unexpected peep-hole by the width of the stairway.
Pilou remained petrified for no more than ten seconds. The sight of the head of a living man within the peep-hole brought him to his senses. He thought of the silent Browning. He reached for his belt, seized it, took aim...
In the meantime, the man in the lighted window had made a movement of his head and gestured with his arms; a noose shot out from the square hole, which passed over Pilou’s head, slid down over of his shoulders and was pulled taut at the very moment when he pressed the trigger.
The man in the peephole opened his eyes and his mouth wide, vomited up a gush of blood and disappeared, collapsing like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
For his part, though, Pilou lost his balance and toppled backwards. He tried in vain to grab hold of something... and fell. He dragged with him the cord whose tightened slipknot pinned his arms to his torso–the cord that slid over the sill of the peep-hole and the lip of narrow ledge on which he had rested.
I’m dead! Pilou thought. Adieu!
Doubtless, in one of those seconds that seems to take years to elapse, he knew the infinite despair of one who is young and strong, and yet is about to die.
The Nyctalope, from where he was sitting with Corsat, could not see the peep-hole, but he could see the luminosity projected therefrom. He saw the noose fall over Pilou’s shoulders and torso, and he saw Pilou fall.
“Stand up, Corsat! Give me your hands! Pilou’s falling!”
The Burgundian obeyed instantly, although he only understood the last two words.
Pilou, at the end of a fall of some 37 meters, was received by an elastic trampoline formed by four arms, linked in two pairs. The arms flexed, and the bodies to which they belonged leaned towards one another, buckling into a kneeling position. Pilou lay between them like a cadaver.
“Put him on the ground!” whispered the Nyctalope. “Look up. If you see a light, warn me. I’ll take care of Pilou, if he’s not dead–but listen, to reassure you a little, Pilou is attached to a rope. The rope, doubtless extended by something from which it unwound, opposed by some resistance, extended relatively slowly–but for that, the shock would have broken our arms and would have killed Pilou instantly. I think, therefore, that he’s only fainted. Ah! Good man! He held on to his Browning so tightly that he didn’t let go even when he fainted. And it was all done, in the end, without any noise... He’s alive. Corsat! He’s alive! Get the rum!”
Corsat took an object from one of the pockets suspended from his belt. It was a small screw-topped aluminum flask covered in felt. Pilou absorbed half of its contents in a single gulp, opened his eyes, shivered, and propped himself up on his elbows before springing abruptly to his knees.
“Careful, Pilou!” Saint-Clair said. “No noise! Yes, I’ve put your pistol to one side, and the rope that seized you was able to support you during your fall, fortunately, slowing it down and deadening it.”
“Then I’m alive, boss!”
“So it seems.”
“Good God, three times over, and God’s blood!”
It only needed five minutes for Pilou to recover himself entirely, to tell his story, and to conclude: “Since the whole of the knotted rope did not fall with me, because the impulsion provided was not sufficient to draw all of it through the peep-hole, it must be fixed up there!”
“Perhaps firmly enough,” Corsat said, “to bear the weight of a man climbing up.”
“Right!”
“We’ll have to pull on it first to make sure.”
“Naturally!”
Saint-Clair did not say a word, so his approval was taken for granted. Consequently, the Burgundian and the Provençal groped for the slipknot, found it and drew out a few meters of rope between their hands. Having drawn it taut again, they hauled on it; it resisted. They made more effort; it still held firm.
“I’ll climb up,” Corsat said.
“No, that’s my job,” Pilou replied. “I’ve partly failed in my mission. My honor’s at stake.”
“It’s not a matter of honor,” the Burgundian retorted, ardently but still in the customary whisper. “There’s danger up there. It’s a matter of strength, which is my province.”
“No, damn it, it’s mine! Climbing 38 meters up a slippery rope is a matter of skill.”
“Let’s go, then!”
“Right!”
“Stand aside!”
“No, you stand aside!”
“Come on, boys!” the Nyctalope said. “It’s matter of strength, skill and initiative, all at the same time. Up there, it will be necessary to choose, decide, command and act in new circumstances–so I’ll go up first. You’ll both hold the rope down here. Then Corsat will come up, because I might need his strength right away, while Pilou holds the rope taut. Then, when Corsat has arrived, Pilou will climb up last, because he’ll need all his skill to climb a loose rope that no one is holding still. That way, each of us will make the most of his abilities.”
When the Nyctalope spoke, one did not debate; one obeyed. Holding the rope in both hands, Pilou and Corsat pulled it taut. In order to resist their traction, it must indeed be very firmly attached within the redoubt, cellar or room behind the peep-hole.
With one bound, Saint-Clair leapt upon the shoulders of his two men. He grabbed the rope and began to climb, moving his arms and legs rhythmically in a slow and measured fashion. His ascent would have been
easier if he had braced his feet against the rock, but he thought that he might risk dislodging fragments of stone, so he climbed like a gymnast.
When he found himself immediately below the platform provided by the stairway, he remained immobile for a moment to catch his breath and recover all of his usual calmness; then, pulling himself up by his elbows, he performed a somersault, facilitated by the rope, and found himself standing on the narrow ledge on which Pilou had lost his balance.
The little window was still illuminated. It was wide and deep enough for a man of ordinary corpulence to pass through it. No noise was coming from it. The Nyctalope cold not see anyone or anything between the angle of the opening and the masonry wall at the back of what seemed to be some sort of bunker–a grotto hollowed out by human hands.
He assured himself that his pistol was not wedged in its holster, and that the traction of his thumb and forefinger would suffice to draw it out. Then, holstering it again, he suspended himself from the rope and moved along it, folding his legs to make sure that they did not touch the steps. He shoved his head and shoulders into the hole with a single thrust of his back. He saw that the interior of the redoubt resembled a sentry-box, and that there was no one in it but a man lying on the floor beside a camp-bed. His chin, neck and shoulders were stained with dark red blood.
He crept forward, disengaged his arms and hands and let himself fall head-first upon his palms, then disengaged his feet and stood up straight.
“Here I am,” he murmured.
His photographic eyes rapidly surveyed the room’s four walls, floor and ceiling. It was square, with one door. There was a table and a chair to the left. Under the peep-hole, there was a windlass, to which the completely-unwound rope was secured. A camp-bed and a cupboard were located to the right, a bare wall at the back. The bloody corpse lay on the smooth stone floor; Pilou’s bullet had gone right through the neck, from one ear to the other, severing both carotid arteries. The dead man was dressed in the grey-blue uniform of a German infantry soldier, with boots and a round peak-less cap. An electric light was set in the middle of the ceiling. In the left-hand corner, between the wall with the door and the wall with the peep-hole, on a table fitted to the angle, was a simple telephone apparatus. On the table, there was a stout Browning, fully loaded, a pot of tobacco, a pipe, a lighter and an old hardbound book: Goethe’s Hermann und Dorothea. Under the table, there was an empty bucket and a tin-plate jug half full of water. The peephole was equipped with a little glazed casement, pulled back inwardly to the left, and a thick wooden shutter, pulled back to the right. At the foot of the bed were two washcloths, both dirty.
“A sentry post,” Saint-Clair murmured. “Why the windlass, the rope and the slipknot, when other, more scientific, means of attack and surprise are possible? We’ll find out, if it becomes necessary to know.13 Let’s wait for Corsat.”
While waiting, he inspected the door. “No lock and no bolt–just a simple catch. The sentry has neither the right nor the means to shut himself in. But does he stay here all night or is he relieved?”
Saint-Clair went to the cupboard fixed above the camp bed, opened it and made a swift inventory of its contents. “Four metal plates, two sets of cutlery, with knives, two goblets, two napkins and a dozen books! Ah, what’s this?”
It was a card on which numbers, names and figures were set in four triply-divided columns. The names were arranged in bracketed pairs. The figures were the days of the month. The first 13 numbers were crossed out in red pencil. The total number of pairs of names was 20, the list being replicated identically three times over, numbered one to ten, 11 to 20 and 21 to 30. Only the 31st had two bracketed names that had not previously been repeated in triplicate.
“Good!” said Saint-Clair. “Sentries are stationed here in pairs, three nights per month at ten-day intervals, and there’s an extra pair for months with 31 days. The first 13 nights of May have passed, crossed out in red pencil. This is a calendar; the numbers are the sentries’ identification numbers. From noon on May 14 to noon on May 15, the two sentries are Wolf and Ragh, Nos. 43 and 44.”
He leaned to one side. The left breast of the dead man’s tunic was marked with two fours, stamped on white cloth sewn on to the breast pocket.
“Here’s Ragh, No. 44,” said Saint-Clair. “Where’s Wolf?”
At that moment, he hard a slight sound outside. He turned towards the peep-hole, in which Corsat’s head was soon framed. Saint-Clair beckoned with his finger. The Burgundian entered in the same manner as his boss. He had scarcely had time to stand up when the noise of someone in heavy boots clattering down a flight of stone steps became audible on the far side of the door.
“Quickly!” said Saint-Clair. “Put the corpse on the bed, as if the man were sleeping with his back to the door. Pull up the covers to hide the bloodstains. Good! Come here! When I jump, you jump! The same as Kroon in the red house.”
When the door opened, Ragh seemed to be asleep. Saint-Clair and Corsat were standing in the corner, masked by the opened door.
A man came in. He pushed the door shut with his heel and the latch clicked home. He had a loaf of bread under his left arm, and his right hand was raised to deposit a mess-tin on the table. Two of the tin’s four compartments were full.
Good! thought Saint-Clair. I was right. Wolf had gone to fetch dinner. The bed is for the two guards to sleep on, in turn, during their 24-hour shift.
Having set down the bread and the mess-tin, Wolf turned to the bed. “That pig, Ragh!” he growled, in the purest German of Berlin. “He’d sleep his life away. If I were a bad comrade, I’d report him for shutting his eyes during my absence. Fortunately... Ach!”
While advancing towards the bed, still talking, to wake his companion, Wolf had turned his head slightly and seen the peep-hole, the rope and the naked windlass–but he had no time to reflect further on these unusual things. A large hand crushed his lips upon his teeth, while other hands immobilized his arms. Two bodies weighed upon his, and legs entwined with his, forcing him to his knees. He tried to fight, but he was lifted up, tipped backwards, stunned by a punch to the head. His jaws were forced open and something like a napkin was forced into his mouth, to serve as a gag, before he could utter a sound. His arms were secured to his body by his own belt and his legs were rolled up in a blanket.
Utterly bewildered, Wolf retained sufficient consciousness to see two men bending over him, one of them armed with a knife. He heard words pronounced in a low voice in French–a language he knew quite well, having spent five years working in a hotel in Nice before the war.
“If he struggles, I’ll stick the blade in his throat. Undress the other one, Corsat, and put on his uniform, including the cap and boots. Watch out for the blood on the breast and shoulder–wipe it off as best you can. We must be quick. Ah, here’s Pilou. Pass me the satchel that’s preventing you from buttoning the tunic. Good!”
Wolf almost fainted with terror, partly by virtue of the realization that his comrade was dead and partly on seeing a third person come through the peep-hole–but the man with the knife prevented him from falling unconscious by saying to him, in French: “Wolf! I can see in your eyes that you understand what I’m saying. You’ll understand this even better: I’m going to undress you, because I need your clothes. One suspect gesture and my second comrade–who has just come in–will put a bullet in your head like he one that killed Ragh: a bullet fired from a silent pistol. Silent, you understand? Watch him, Pilou. If he flinches, kill him!”
When such words are pronounced, with supportive gestures, by an individual with the Nyctalope’s features and eyes, one obeys them if one does not wish to die. Wolf did not wish to die. Not only did he remain meek when he was untied, but he hurried to undress himself to demonstrate his good intentions. In response to an order from Saint-Clair, he bundled up his clothes, including his cap and boots, and secured it with his belt.
“Pilou, put that on your back. If necessary, you can disguise yourself within a minute, as C
orsat is. I’ll hang on to the satchel. You, Wolf–answer me!”
“Yes, Mein Herr.”
“The steps behind that door–do they go further down?”
“No. This guard-post is in the deepest hollow in the rock.”
“Are there other hollows?”
“Yes.”
“What purpose do they serve?”
“As barracks and store-rooms.”
“Where does the staircase lead, exactly?”
“Firstly, to the central rotunda of the store-rooms. Secondly, to the landing of a circular corridor, which is the lowest floor of the castle. Thirdly, to the armory where all the other staircases and corridors leading to the castle terminate.”
“Are there guards stationed in the armory?”
“No, but all the doors are electrified.”
“What is the purpose of this sentry-post?”
“To capture anyone who passes by alive.”
“What if there are two, thee or four?”
“The first is to be taken alive and the others reported; if the Baron wishes, they can be struck down before reaching the top of the stairway.”
Saint-Clair laughed. “The most ingenious provisions are sometimes defeated, as you see. So there’s no way to get into the castle from here except by way of the armory?”
“Yes.”
“Are there patrols by night?”
“No, electricity protects everything.”
“Where had you come from with this food?”
“The troops’ kitchen, which is installed in a cellar like this one, in a corridor off the rotunda with the barracks and store-rooms.”
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 14