Homo-Deus

by Félicien Champsaur

  “You’re much younger than me, Monsieur Aubert. I hope that I’ll never have to fulfill that mission.”

  “Who knows? Today, the flywheel gate was open, just as...”

  “Oh,” said Lafon, swiftly, “an accident like that never happens twice.”

  “Yes, it’s possible.” And I don’t have a son yet, he thought.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur Aubert. I have a few instructions to give.”

  “Go, go, my friend. I have an important meeting at the Ministry myself. If I succeed in that adjudication, you can hire a hundred workers.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  The director of personnel and materiel left in order to go to the workshops. When he reached Albaret’s bench, he said to the worker in a low voice: “We made a mistake, yesterday, with Ouchy, in telling the Commissaire what you know. I’ll explain it to you. The Factory above all.”

  “No,” said Albaret. “One can’t keep that on one’s conscience. What will be, will be. I can’t hold onto it any longer. Ouchy feels the same.”

  VII. A Masterstroke

  Baudard had reflected, in his bed, on the means of arriving at his goal. The next day, he was due to begin his work as an electrician. Although he was not precisely in the trade, a machine worker is not without some notion of all the métiers adjacent to his own. He had already installed lamps or bells for mates on numerous occasions, and since he had been living at Sans-Liquette’s expense he had made a special study of electrical systems with operations of burglary in mind. In that sense, therefore, everything ought to go smoothly. To get close to little Antoine was more difficult; he was rarely left alone. When the child was asleep, however, his mother or old Madeleine sometimes absented herself for a quarter of an hour; it would be sufficient not to waste those few minutes. Once the blow was struck, he could flee on his repaired bicycle—but that would be awkward if a crime was suspected and an investigation opened.

  In five days his beard had grown again, and his former facial appearance might recall him to the memory of the children. He would go to Cannes on his repaired bicycle in order to get electrical supplies, and come back with his chin shaven. There still remained the question of departure, which was the most embarrassing one. He could not, however, wait for the development and aftermath of a virulent typhoid fever. All things considered, though, the sum to be earned was well worth a few risks. Given that, his plan was made, and he resolved to put it into operation as soon as possible.

  Two days later he had not yet been able find himself alone with little Antoine for a minute. A kind of cold rage was beginning to gnaw at him. In the afternoon, he was in the first floor corridor, installing the conduits to provide Madame Aubert’s bedroom with electric lighting. The corridor served several rooms; it was the ideal post. So he worked slowly, watching out for an opportunity.

  Madame Aubert had been breast-feeding the child. Suddenly, the door opened and the mother emerged with old Madeleine, holding armfuls of dirty linen.

  “Let’s take advantage of Antoine sleeping to get on with this washing,” said Madame Aubert. “While you take this load down to the laundry I’ll go to Madame Ossola’s room to tell her that we’re only waiting for her linen, Simone’s and Robert’s.

  The two women disappeared.

  Damn! Now’s the moment!

  And Baudard descended rapidly from his ladder. In three cat-like bounds he was in the bedroom. He took the stopper out of the tube that he believed to be full of microbes capable of causing a natural death, without him being the murderer, since that would be the typhoid fever.

  A hand fell upon his shoulder. Her turned round, livid. The painter was standing there with a Browning in his hand.

  “Hands up and walk. We’re going to my room for a chat. Don’t forget that, at the slightest suspect movement, I’ll kill you.”

  Petrified, Baudard obeyed.

  Once in his own room, with the door closed, the Browning still in his hand and the electrician’s hands still in the air, Fabio Canti said: “Thomas Keysar and his accomplice are under lock and key at the present moment. You know that whoever confesses first will profit from attenuating circumstances.”

  The danger had fallen upon him like a thunderbolt. Bewildered, Baudard stammered: “I’m not the most guilty. I was only obeying orders.”

  “I know that, but your chief, a clever man, will put both crimes on your back. Reply quickly, and truthfully. How much were you given to inoculate the baby with typhoid fever?”

  “What! You know about that? A hundred thousand francs.”

  “Damn—that’s a tidy sum. And for the father?”

  The murderer, stupefied and frightened, rolled his bewildered eyes like lotto balls.

  “Come on, swine, you’re in the bag. Charge your mates.”

  “Thomas Keysar and the seeress organized everything.”

  “On account of Etienne Aubert, that’s as clear as crystal. Sit down there and write my dictation.”

  “And if I refuse?” said Baudard, pulling himself together somewhat.

  “If you refuse, I’ll shoot you, and say that I killed you in legitimate self-defense. If you accept, I, Fabio Canti, the celebrated artist, the Painter of the Sun, will testify to your repentance at the court of assizes, to obtain the maximum indulgence for you.”

  Without replying, the murderer wrote what the painter dictated.

  I, the undersigned, Armand Baudard, admit to having received from Thomas Keysar the sum of one hundred thousand francs for having murdered, by means of a premeditated accident, Monsieur Antoine Aubert, factory-owner of the Quai de Javel, Paris, acting on behalf of Etienne Aubert, the victim’s son; and to having been promised a further sum of one hundred thousand francs by the same Keysar, in return for making young Antoine Aubert swallow a tube of bacilli of typhoid fever, which was given to me with that objective by Thomas Keysar and his accomplice, Berthe Jafaux.

  Believing that the painter already knew it, Badaud wrote the latter name, of which Fabio Canti was unaware, without paying any attention to it.

  “That’s perfect,” said the painter. “Now the date: twenty-seventh of March 1924. And sign it...”

  With his left hand, Fabio put the piece of paper into the right inside pocket of his jacket, and took out a pair of handcuffs, which he had bought in Cannes.

  “Hold out your wrists.”

  As if dazed, the electrician, still under the threat of the revolver, said: “Well, if you’re as good a painter as you are a policeman, you must be one hell of an artist.”

  “At any rate, I can confess to you that neither of your accomplices has been arrested, and that I wasn’t sure of any of what you’ve just confessed in writing.”

  “Impossible! Bloody hell! Camel!”

  “Go ahead of me, my lad. I’m going to lock you in the cellar and telephone the gendarmerie in Cannes.”

  VIII. Accomplices in Distress and Dementia

  Meanwhile, Thomas Keysar, anxious at not having had any news of Armand Baudard, had put Souriah, the Seeress, to sleep and had instructed her to see everything that was happening in Théoule at the Villa Bellarosa.

  When he had awoken her from magnetic sleep, he had told her what had happened.

  In haste, they had leapt onto the first express train for Paris, where they arrived the following day at about ten o’clock in the Rue Huysmans. Leaving Berthe Jafaux, alias Souriah, there, he went to the Boulevard Raspail in order to take the Metro to go and warn Etienne Aubert.

  An automobile driven by a Hindu chauffeur swept into the Rue Huysmans like a whirlwind, and he only just had time to jump out of the way. His mind absorbed, he headed for the Notre-Dame-des-Champs station, without recognizing the powerful car as that of Dr. Marc Vanel, Homo-Deus.

  An empty taxi went past, and he changed his mind, flagged it down and gave the address of the Quai de Javel.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning when the magician presented himself at Etienne Aubert’s home.

  As soon as
they were alone, the factory owner demanded: “What is it? You look devastated.”

  “There’s good reason. We’re stuffed.”

  “Eh? What to you mean?”

  Briefly, Keysar related the recent events and the dangers that threatened them.

  Etienne listened, livid, his features contracted and his fists convulsively clenched.

  “Then I’m finished!” he cried. “And it’s your fault!”

  “How is it my fault? Wasn’t it in my own interest to succeed?”

  “Why did you employ an imbecile, then?”

  “But he’d succeeded in…the first affair. Anyway, it’s not a time for arguing. We need to take the situation as it is. What are you going to do? Try to flee with us? Berthe, asleep, with her second sight, will help us to avoid the pursuit. Or are you going to let yourself be arrested as the murderer of your father and your brother? Remember that the minutes are counted. They think we’re in Nice, or we’d already be locked up. You want to hear my escape plan? Get to the frontier as quickly as possible and flee to Russia, where there’s no extradition.”

  “That’s one way,” said Etienne Aubert, who pulled a face at the idea of Russia. “I have a splendid fifty horsepower, and I’m a good driver…but I have an account to settle. Blow for blow, I want to avenge myself!”

  “On whom? For what? Our bad luck? You’ll doom us.”

  “I’m not holding you back, if you’ve got a head of steam. Go wherever you want. All the same, it was a good move on your part to warn me.”

  “Have you got funds available?” Thomas asked. “I’ve very little myself—three thousand at the most.”

  “What about the money I gave you—the five hundred thousand bullets?”

  “First I had to pay Baudard. The rest I put into Coutan’s business deals, persuaded by him and Josette. But let’s act quickly. Every minute counts.”

  “I can get together, immediately, what I have in my current accounts with various banks—about eight hundred thousand. But I’ll need time to withdraw it.”

  “What if I help you? If you write me checks...”

  Etienne looked at him suspiciously. “No,” he said, dryly. “I’ll get it myself.”

  “As you wish. But I repeat: remember that at any moment an arrest warrant might be issued against us. Then, to the East, and Russia?”

  “No, to Théoule. Afterwards we’ll see.”

  “After what?”

  “After I do what I need to do. Do you believe that I’m going to run away like that, leaving behind the woman I love, that I desire, that I intend to have…? It’s bad enough to abandon the factory, which I can’t take with me, but the woman I must have.”

  “Are you crazy? You’re insane! You’re thinking about love at such a moment—an impossible love? It’ll get you nailed. Yes, decidedly, you’re off your head, insane!”

  “Well, I have the right to be a little crazy. I have the right to my crime of passion! I’m a hero, a liberator of the fatherland, with a red ribbon, five citations and a croix de guerre. I’ve risked my skin enough for others; I can risk my head on my own account, and for a woman.”

  “Your stepmother!”

  “So what? I adore her!”

  “Oh, it’s insane!”

  “In that case, swindler, I’m not keeping you. Go, and bon voyage.”

  During that exchange Thomas Keysar reflected; he was not lacking in the desire to flee, as quickly as possible, but truly, he did not have enough money. For the moment, Etienne was the master of the situation.

  Meanwhile Etienne was pacing back and forth in the drawing room, where the bronze bust of his father, on the mantelpiece, was gazing at them.

  “I’ll have that woman, willingly or by force. The brutal desires of primitive humans are stirring within me: the wild animals of prehistory, when man was still half-gorilla. So be it. We’ve known ancestral mores for nearly five years, hiding in the depths of caves, under the rain of iron and fire, like them and worse than them, who were only living under the menace of storms and wild beasts. It’s necessary not to play with the human beast. They wanted to make murderers of us, and they succeeded. Conscience—what’s that? Sagacity, morality? Did anyone think of those stupidities out there? Did anyone even remember that they’d once existed? The beast is unleashed now; it’s howling and it wants its prey. I want it! I want it! I want it!”

  “Come on, calm down. You’ll have it, and I’ll do my best to help you. But I beg you, let’s not lose a second. You have to get moving, and so have I.”

  “You’re right,” said Etienne, passing his hand over his forehead. “It isn’t a moment to mouth off; it’s necessary to take action. It’s already half past eleven. I have to withdraw eight hundred thousand francs before three o’clock.”

  He consulted a ledger, and began to write checks made out to himself, Etienne Aubert. Behind him, Thomas added the numbers up as he went along.”

  “That’s the lot,” said Etienne. “How much?”

  “Seven hundred and sixty-five thousand,” said Thomas.

  “Good. Go home. At half past four, at the latest, perhaps before, I’ll come to fetch the two of you and we’ll leave by car.”

  “Don’t worry. With Berthe, we’ll avoid the search.”

  “You believe in that, do you? That’s only good for others.”

  “You’ll have the proof of it.”

  The accomplices separated, Etienne to go to the various banks before they closed for lunch, and Thomas to go back to the Rue Huysmans, to the Seeress.

  IX. Homo-Deus Abducts the Seeress

  On arriving in Paris, Thomas Keysar had not been without anxiety. To be sure, Berthe, when consulted, had not recognized any danger. The Rue Huysmans was not being watched by the police; obviously, they were looking in the riotous society—frightful, if one knew everything—of the winter residents of Nice and Monaco, and had not yet thought of setting up a mousetrap in Paris. Also, the capture of Baudard in Théoule had only occurred the day before, and the Law is not omnipotent, being far slower and lamer than is generally supposed.

  “Ah, you’ve come back!” the concierge had exclaimed. “Clients by the score are waiting for you, impatiently. They’ve read about your successes on the Côte d’Azur in the weeklies, and all that publicity has served you well.”

  “We’re only passing through Paris. We’ll be leaving again this evening.”

  As soon as they had gone upstairs, the concierge had picked up the telephone.

  “Hello Mademoiselle. Auteuil 14-108... Ah, is that you, Monsieur Vanel? It’s me, Madame Piver, Rue Huysmans... Yes, Doctor, they’ve just arrived... They’re leaving again this evening... Yes, Monsieur... Understood...”

  She hung up. And it was Marc Vanel, Homo-Deus, whose path Thomas had crossed in the automobile at the corner of the Rue Huysmans and the Boulevard Raspail.

  On passing by the lodge, he learned that the magician had gone out, slipped a hundred-franc bill into the concierge’s hand, smiling, and took the elevator.

  Having arrived on the fourth floor, the magnetizer placed himself at the threshold, and, seeming to concentrate all his will, he extended his arms.

  “Sleep,” he said. “I wish it.”

  Scarcely a minute had gone by before the sound of footsteps approached inside and the door opened.

  Pushing the young woman gently, Homo-Deus went in, sat her down in the studio that was normally employed for occult consultations, and considered her, devoting all his attention to the marvelous subject.

  “Well, do you still have your double personality? Reply to me, spirit from beyond the Earth. Have you made peace with the other?”

  “With that infamous creature? Never. Oh, if I could only find a means of quitting this wretch! I sense that you alone are capable of delivering me.”

  “Will you follow me with trust, then, Spirit?”

  “And with joy.”

  Come, then, without indicating in any way, in your attitude, your speech or your gestu
res, that you’re under magnetic influence. Be Berthe Jafaux for a few minutes, and read my thoughts.”

  “Good—I comprehend and I approve, Master. I’m all yours.”

  “In that case, get your coat and your cigarettes, put on your hat, and let’s go.”

  When they passed through the vestibule, Madame Piver bowed deeply to Marc Vanel, the man whose portrait she had seen in all the major newspapers with the caption Homo-Deus. And the Seeress, smiling, under the influence of a magnetism far more powerful than her own, said: “I’m leaving with Dr. Vanel. Tell my husband that he’ll never see me again.”

  X. The Flight by Automobile

  On returning from Aubert’s house, Thomas Keysar went straight up to his apartment, to which he had a key. He went through it, astonished not to find Berthe. Had she been arrested? A thought reassured the optimist: No, she’s gone to lunch. We haven’t had anything to eat since the restaurant car. That’s all right—I’ll do the same.

  This time, he went into the lodge. “Did my wife tell you where I could find her? I assume she’s gone to lunch in the vicinity.”

  “Not likely, Monsieur Keysar. She left with Dr. Vanel, and she seemed quite content.”

  “Oh! Dr. Vanel didn’t know we’d returned to Paris.”

  “It’s necessary to believe otherwise. He’s a sorcerer, so it’s said.”

  “And he’s abducted my mistress, my Seeress?”

  “Abducted, no. She seemed very happy and very proud.”

  Thomas Keysar, the so-called Caesar of the Chamber Pot, went away in distress. The optimist was no longer thinking about lunch; his saucepan had been overturned. Homo-Deus, as he had let him understand during his visit, coveted the marvelous physiological and psychological instrument that the young woman was, and had not wasted any time taking possession of the Seeress.