Homo-Deus
Page 16
Both of them, then, saw the words: Julien de Vandeuvre is not dead.
His gaze malevolent, the député advanced abruptly toward Marc Vanel. “Do you know, Monsieur, what I’ve just read, at the same time as my wife?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” Vanel’s voice was cutting, and his attitude utterly disengaged.
Madame Vauclin did not lose her composure for long. Smiling, she held out the piece of paper to her friends. “How stupid we are! It’s a reflection of our thoughts that we read on the blank sheet. Nothing, of course, can really be written there.”
“You’re perfectly correct, Madame,” Vanel confirmed, with a diabolical smile. “What you read is merely a materialized translation of a grave preoccupation or”—he glanced at Simone d’Armez—“an agreeable memory.”
From all directions, hands reached out. “To me! Me, Master, I beg you!”
Marc Vanel declared: “Pardon me, Mesdames. The little experiment will conclude there today.”
He bowed to Madame Vauclin to take his leave.
“What a terrible man you are!” she said, looking him straight in the eyes.
But the glamour of those charming irises, the fluid of her gaze, collided with the steely arrow of the satanic eyes of Homo-Deus, who, leaning over respectfully, brushed her wrist with a kiss.
VIII. A Small Discreet House
Marc Vanel occupied a private house buried in verdure in the Rue d’Yvette, in the utmost depths of Passy. The garden was separated from the street by railings lined with a thick hedge of ivy. The house, white and cheerful, raised its silhouette in the midst of a grove of lindens and acacias.
Flowers dotted their bright colors in the bushes, and all along the enclosing wall lilacs were bowed down by enormous clusters of blooms, filling the surroundings with their scent. A perron of a few stone steps led up to the door. Above it, decorating the façade, the vigorous stems of superb wisterias ran. It was all lovely, in charming taste, like a love nest.
Marc Vanel only had two domestics: a Hindu maidservant and the chauffeur Mardruk, also Hindu, but very familiar with European mores. Vanel had once saved his life, and the man had attached himself to him, simultaneously fulfilling the functions of valet, mechanic and laboratory assistant—for if Mardruk’s intelligence was prodigious, his faculties of adaptation were surprising.
Such was the tranquil lair of the invisible satyr.
IX. A Hypnotized Quartet
The last sunbeams of a splendid afternoon were playing on a stained-glass window. Having traversed the panes, they put dazzling gems onto the bright carpet of the hallway leading to the drawing room, along with monstrous moving flowers, like magical insects, red, yellow, emerald and lilac.
The door opened, and Mardruk ushered in a man who came forward, his gait stiff, his gaze fixed and his lips taut. Without hesitation, he went straight to a leather armchair backed up against the wall, sat down without saying a word, placed a briefcase stuffed with papers on his knees, and remained fixed in the strange attitude of an automaton.
Mardruk closed the door, leaving the enigmatic individual alone, solemnized by a long frock coat like those worn by notaries, a few old physicians and a few magistrates. Gray sidewhiskers framed his thin-lipped face. His features seemed cold, reflecting no sensibility.
Soon, the door opened again, giving passage to a man who was still young, quite handsome, elegantly dressed, with a smiling face ornamented by a superb blond beard, slightly bleached. He was wearing a well-cut jacket; his hands, carefully gloved, were holding a top hat and a cane with a golden pommel. He advanced with the same stiffness as the first individual, with the same eyes empty of thought, the same jerky gait and the same indifference to his surroundings. A former drummer at the Chat Noir, he had once made numerous connections in that mixed artistic milieu. Thanks to successful protections, he had been able to get a job in the administration after the closure of the famous cabaret, and was presently the most Parisian of Commissaires de Police. In his spare time, he composed little ditties and amiable satires. He was also—although he had no suspicion of it—an auxiliary of Homo-Deus.
The second person did not sketch the slightest salute to the first; he did not even seem to have perceived his presence, and went to sit down beside him; the other remained immutably nailed to his seat, his hands placed on the black briefcase.
For a third time, Mardruk opened the door. The visitor who advanced was dressed in a velvet suit of an indefinable color. A bowler hat with a very narrow border partially concealed black hair, strongly pomaded. His nose was long, hooked over a mocking mouth, from which a cigarette end was hanging. He was limping slightly, his hands in his wainscot pockets. He went to sit down in a third armchair beside the previous arrival, set against the same wall, and waited, with the jaundiced cigarette end still dangling from his violet-tinted lip, to which it appeared to be stuck.
Finally, Mardruk ushered in a short and stout individual, very red in the face, his calves in leather leggings. He was holding a flat cap in his hands. He also took his place against the wall, on the fourth and last vacant armchair, next to the apache. The four individuals sat motionless, like statues, looking straight ahead of them with strange, haggard eyes.
Brought together mysteriously under the effect of inexplicable causes and unknown forces, they were a notary, a police Commissaire, an apache and a taxi-driver.
Without a line of their faces twitching, they remained there, as if asleep with their eyes open, rigorously aligned against the wall, mute and indifferent. They gave the impression of marionettes devoid of thought or will, inert, moved by a singular and obscure power.
After a few minutes, Marc Vanel came in. He considered the immobile individuals momentarily. A smile of satisfaction appeared on his lips; then he sat down at a desk, facing his four visitors. His steely eyes darted singular gleams, which seemed to penetrate the eyes of the marionettes, who shivered.
Homo-Deus addressed the driver first.
“Have you followed my instructions, Claude Chamot?”
“Yes, Master.”
“What information did you collect at the wine marchant’s?”
“Madame Vauclin is the mistress of Albert Baruyer, the advocate. She also had a young man who disappeared mysteriously, Julien de Vandeuvre.”
“I know all that. I need precise, vigorous and, above all, little-known details concerning the Vauclin household.”
“That’s not easy, Master. The domestics with whom I’ve clinked glasses, who are well-paid, don’t say much. I can tell you, however, that the husband is certainly not unaware of his wife’s affair with Baruyer any more than he was unaware of her relationship with Julien de Vandeuvre.”
“What is the Vauclins’ financial situation?”
“Hum! They gave the impression of people who have their ups and downs, but for some time it seems that money has been abundant in the house.”
“Is Albert Baruyer genuinely rich?”
“An advocate who’ll do anything, a spendthrift and a gambler.”
“And what do you know about the dancer Alexane?”
“She leads a very regular life. No entitled protector for a year, but she’s playing at true love with a young foreigner, as handsome as a god. She’s madly smitten and hides him away as if she were afraid of losing him.”
“What is his name?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“I need precise and detailed information about him. You can go.”
The driver went out, without paying any attention to the remaining visitors, and without departing from his strange stiffness, giving the grotesque impression of a strolling marionette.
“Your turn,” said Homo-Deus, addressing the notary. “You know, Maître Gaderne, what I instructed you to do?”
“Yes. The Vauclin inheritance is a pure legend. The household was living, until recently, on the député’s salary and Vandeuvre’s largesse. Although I haven’t discovered any trace of an inheritance justifying the sud
den fortune of the Vauclin household, I have discovered that young Vandeuvre had inherited four million immediately before his disappearance. He had entered into that sum at the moment of his abrupt plunge into the unknown. It’s that coincidence that makes the young man’s family believe that he’s been murdered in order to rob him, unless he’s sequestered somewhere.”
“That’s possible. Try to tell me, next time, on what day Vandeuvre collected his legacy.”
That won’t be difficult. Maître Parisay, the family notary, is one of my best friends.”
“All right, go. Do you need money?”
“No, Master. Business is picking up. The gap in my finances will soon be filled in, and I’ll be able to pay you back the sum that you’ve advanced me. My clientele, momentarily anxious, has confidence in me again.”
With that, the notary left at the same automatic pace and with the same grave and cold expression that he had had when he came in.
“Your turn, Molard,” said Vanel, addressing the Commissaire de Police. “My congratulations on the elegant manner in which you buried the affair of the cadaver found in the Avenue Henri-Martin the other day.”
“Oh, Master, I have no great merit in having obeyed you on that occasion. You told me that my agents had had a spring night’s dream. But I believed it, since my subordinate’s report was more like a hoax. Then again, I remembered that Shakespeare had written a delightful fantasy called A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I composed a Montmartrean song called The Mystery of a Spring Night on the theme furnished by the two merry agents. Thanks to my friends in the Sûreté, I know that no one is getting steamed up about the matter. It’s not worth the trouble, is it, since the newspapers aren’t talking about it? As the press wasn’t interested in the young cretin’s probable flight, in spite of the family’s persistence, the investigation was only continuing as a matter of form. In those conditions, one can consider the case as closed. All the more so as the police have discovered an intrigue between Vandeuvre and Madame Vauclin.”
“I know that.”
“Yes, but as Vauclin doesn’t want that to be spread around, he’s approached the magistracy in order to prevent the annoyances that an indiscretion might occasion him. One more reason for the affair to be buried.”
“Very good. Now, what do you know about the relationship between Georges Baruyer and the American Walesport?
“Walesport is a rather enigmatic individual, whose past is lost in an obscurity impenetrable to us. It would be necessary to go to America to be better informed. All that is known is that his origins were modest, perhaps wretched. Former cowboy, probably, then gold prospector, he must have committed a crime that made him rich and obliged him to quit his country. Very intelligent and very strong, he’s an interesting figure. One finds him mixed up, since the beginning of the exploitation of the bank he created, with a mysterious affair of Rumanian mining shares, in the course of which the prime mover, a certain Baron Rodock, died suddenly, seemingly not of natural causes.”
“And Georges Baruyer is in the life of that bandit?”
“He’s his associate! The bank is a partnership—but because of the political situation, Baruyer can’t put his name to it. That doesn’t prevent the député from lending the most active collaboration to the enterprise, for he’s a remarkable financier. Furthermore, as he’s admirably placed, thanks to his connections with Claude Barsac, the President of the Council, he’s been able to benefit before anyone else from reliable information about exchange rates, by means of which the bank has succeeded in bringing off several nice coups on the Bourse in the past year. Vauclin is also involved in the affairs of Walesport and Baruyer.”
“Keep watch on the whole clique, and try to discover their plans. Inform me about this Rodock, who died at the outset of the Baruyer-Walesport enterprise.”
“Understood, Master.”
“Here’s a thousand francs, Molard. Be generous with the Sûreté agents you employ.”
Stiffly, the police Commissaire went away, and Marc Vanel finally addressed the picturesque criminal.
“Your turn, Merluche,” he said. “You haven’t been much use to me thus far.”
“Not my fault. Give me jobs that are in my area of specialty.”
“Let’s see—I instructed you to introduce yourself, by the means habitual to people of your species, into the unoccupied apartment of Julien de Vandeuvre and bring me all the tenant’s papers. Do you have them?”
“Yes, Boss. Here they are.”
Merluche unbuttoned his dirty jacket and then his shirt, and Vanel saw the wads of paper wedged against the burglar’s dirty skin. The criminal placed them on the desk.”
“That’s good,” said Marc. “I’ll look at them later. Is that all?”
“Y…es, Boss...”
Merluche’s voice seemed uncertain. Moreover, his gaze avoided Vanel. The latter stared at him.
“You’re lying! Merluche, when I give you a mission, it must be executed scrupulously. If I send you to burgle an apartment in order to procure me useful documents, I don’t want you to profit from it to work on your own account. Come on, out with it—what have you stolen?”
The burglar trembled like a leaf, without making any reply, but Homo-Deus never stopped fixing him harshly with his eyes that seemed to be emitting flashes; he ended up extracting a packet of bonds from a hiding-place situated between his belly and the belt of his trousers, which he set down before the Master. Then he rummaged in his trouser pockets and took out some gold coins, which he set beside the bonds.
“There,” he said, “minus three ten-franc pieces.”
“Good. You can keep the gold, but leave the bonds there; you can put them back from where you got them tomorrow evening, with the papers I haven’t kept. You must be careful to work neatly, so that no one will suspect the clandestine visit to the young man’s apartment.”
“Yes, Boss.”
While the apache took back the louis with evident satisfaction, Vanel darted a glance over the bonds that Merluche had stolen.
“Damn!” he exclaimed. “There’s one for seven thousand francs. It’s hard, eh, to be obliged to surrender that? Well, old chap, thank me. You have no suspicion of the favor I’m doing you.”
“What do you mean, Boss?”
“These are bearer bonds, of course, but they’re shares in a great industrial enterprise constituted by only half a dozen individuals. If you sold them, they wouldn’t have any difficulty, thereafter, in finding you.”
“So?”
“And as Julien de Vandeuvre was murdered, who could the murderer have been except the possessor of these bonds? You could struggle all you liked, my poor old chap, but you wouldn’t get out of it, and you’d be espousing the Widow one morning.”
The burglar’s teeth chattered at the idea of a brush with the guillotine. Homo-Deus burst into laughter: the singular, slightly nervous laughter that he emitted in moments when the spectacle of life took on interesting aspects.
How that unexpected solution would have suited the Vauclin household’s affairs, he thought. Yes, it would have settled everything. This sinister brigand taken for Vandeuvre’s murderer—for he’s doubtless committed murder—would have explained the crime. The Vauclins would have breathed easy, tranquil for the rest of their lives. The police would be glad to close a troublesome case, and the Vandeuvre family would declare themselves satisfied, having avenged the death. I would have contrived the entire comedy, and it would only have cost the life of an uninteresting individual who is doubtless already a criminal.
He uttered another bust of nervous and mocking laughter, and studied the apache pityingly.
“You don’t know how much you owe me,” he said. “Go on, get lost—and come back tomorrow evening to take what I give you. Everything must be back in place as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Boss—tomorrow evening.”
Merluche left, slightly less stiffly than the other collaborators, but with the same fixed gaze—in which, how
ever, a certain dread or submission was fuming.
Left alone, Homo-Deus examined the booty brought by the apache. As he went along, an expression of contentment was painted on his face. Soon, he had finished. Everything was placed in a safe, and after having closed it, Marc Vanel rubbed his hands together.
“That’s it!” he said. “Tomorrow, the Fortins will be up to date, and when Vandeuvre wakes up, he’ll have nothing to tell us.” Once again he uttered his nervous, staccato laughter, and his face took on a curious expression reminiscent of a misanthropic Mephisto contemplating life as a humorist.
X. Entr’acte
Dinnertime had arrived. Marc Vanel went into the dining room, adjacent to the hallway, sat down at the table and rang. Mardruk appeared.
“I’ll be going out this evening at nine o’clock.”
Mardruk bowed and disappeared. And Vanel, while waiting for the Hindu servant to bring his soup, meditated.
XI. !?! Homo-Deus !?!
Marc Vanel, alias Homo-Deus, was a bizarre and complex being whose life surpassed the most fabulous novels. He was the son of an admirably beautiful creature whose nationality remained as dubious as her social status. She was living in a luxurious apartment in the Rue Marbeuf when she brought into the world the child whose father was unknown to anyone. Calling herself Princess Nadinska, French and Russian were as perfectly familiar to her as German, Turkish, English and all the Latin languages. She only received individuals of note in her much sought-after salon, especially scientists, litterateurs, artists and many diplomats. The insistence that she put into making connections with the latter ended up causing her to be accused of espionage, at least in jealous conversation, and that version was supported by the obvious luxury and the expensive lifestyle—inexplicable things, given that she was not known to have any protector, in spite of the army of exceedingly rich suitors ready to throw their fortunes at her feet.