“Very good. Now, if we can attain a practical means of rematerializing objects wholly intact, but at a much smaller size, why the possibilities for surgery, engineering–”
“Doctors, Doctors, please!” interjected Maigret. “There will be plenty of time later for these discussions. Right now I must insist that you all accompany me to headquarters, where I must take your statements and file a report on the kidnappings.”
Ruefully, the three scientists agreed, and started to move toward Maigret’s vehicle.
The call box on the Rue Mouffetard jangled again.
Doc raced back and picked up the phone.
“Doc, Doc, is that you?” a high-pitched male voice squeaked.
“Yes, you’ve tracked me down.”
“Well,” the squeaky voice continued, “it wasn’t tough with that phone-tracker thing you invented. Lissen, anyway, Doc, you’ve got to get back here, quick! Somethin’s up in Port City, just up the coast from Innsmouth. Some kinda creature washed ashore, complete with gills and scales and webbed feet and bulging eyes. Johnny’s up there now, and even he can’t identify it for sure. Best he can say is it’s some kinda amphibian frog-thing.”
“All right, Mo–”
“Hang on, Doc, there’s more! There’s some nutjob up there, calling himself Doctor Ariosto! He’s stirring up the local Chinese immigrants with stories about this frog-boy, and it ain’t helpin’ that some of them are starting to disappear without a trace. Me and the boys are heading up there now! Lissen, Doc, where are you, anyway?”
“Go up to Port City to check it out. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can,” Doc said, and he hung up.
The distraction, Doc thought. He turned to Maigret. “I need to get back to Villacoublay airfield right away. Can you drive me, Inspector?”
Epilogue: Honan, 1951
Doctor Natas’ eyes were heavy-lidded and opaque in the darkness of his reception chamber, which was only dimly lit by a few inadequate flickering sconces. The room was redolent with the fragrance of jasmine from a single cone of incense burning in a jade brazier.
Pao Tcheou’s light footsteps padded quietly across the stone-tiled floor and stopped in front of Natas. He waited patiently for Natas to acknowledge his presence.
Natas’ green-flecked eyes glistened as their nictitating membranes slid back. “Well?”
“Success, Master. As you know, after instigating the growth of a clone from the cultures and samples we took from Mademoiselle Ducharme in Paris, that madman Caresco was able to stimulate the clone’s rapid growth to child-bearing age.”
“Yes,” Doctor Natas reflected, “Doctor Caresco may be mad, and his resistance is growing, but he remains under my control, for the time being. We shall dispense with him shortly. And the clone… That magnificent example of the female of the species has been scientifically selected from all the women of the world. And not only selected, but bred, by me. These Westerners are so charmingly predictable. It was frightfully easy to place her parents together in a situation which caused them to gravitate toward each other, so many years ago. Going back generations, Justine Ducharme had better breeding than one could have hoped for, even through a purposeful eugenics program. Justine Ducharme is among the most perfect women, both intellectually and physically, in the entire world. And so is her clone.”
“It was a stroke of genius to cause Ardan to believe that once he had rescued the two women the matter was concluded,” Pao Tcheou said.
“Yes,” Natas agreed, “despite the vast resources at my disposal, I had no wish to suffer the ongoing distraction of making a permanent enemy of Ardan by kidnapping his daughter. His daughter’s clone is more than sufficient, and Ardan need never know the truth.”
Doctor Caresco entered the far end of the chamber and approached Doctor Natas and Pao Tcheou.
“Speak!” Natas commanded.
Doctor Caresco’s face gleamed with dementia and the strain of continually trying to fend off Natas’ controlling drugs. “As you know, Pao Tcheou successfully impregnated the clone of Mademoiselle Ducharme. The pregnancy has come to term successfully. The baby girl is strong and healthy.”
“I am pleased,” said Natas. “The girl will be called Ducharme, in honor of her ‘mother’ and ‘grandmother.’ She shall be prepared for a life in my service.”
“Yes,” replied Caresco, his voice thick with resistance, “the experiment has been a complete success. Justine’s clone will be ready for you after she has recovered.”
“How long?”
“Most likely, in a few weeks.”
“Excellent. For 24 years, ever since I brought together Ardan and Louise Ducharme, two of the finest physical and mental examples of humanity who have ever lived, I have worked toward this moment. The result of their breeding, combined with my own mental perfection, shall culminate in the greatest living weapon ever created! The finest genetic background, combined with my eugenics expertise… My son will be a great avenger, whose spirit shall rise and advance over the West, striking without warning, and executing my will and vengeance wherever and whenever I see fit.
“And then…” Doctor Natas smiled diabolically, “the world shall hear from me again!”
A book like Tales of the Shadowmen would not be complete without an Arsène Lupin adventure, and Viviane Etrivert, a talented French novelist, supplies it with the necessary verve and panache, combined with her first-hand knowledge of the city of Montpellier where she resides…
Viviane Etrivert: The Three Jewish Horsemen
Montpellier, 1912
“Baskerville! You fool! You weren’t supposed to kill him. I wanted him to talk first.”
The woman whipped her riding crop through the air. She was stunningly beautiful. Strands of copper hair encircled her Madonna-like face. Her eyes were a flamboyant, emerald green.
“He was about to, Countess, but his heart just gave out.” The man was gaunt, in his 20s and spoke with a British accent. “I had no way to know...” He turned his head, looked at the dislocated body which lay grotesquely twisted on the floor of the small Parisian apartment. “In any event, we still have the parchment.”
“Don’t make me regret having taken pity on you at the Conclave of the Black Coats in Sartene, last year,” snapped the woman. “You were nothing but the bastard child of a discredited family traipsing aimlessly across Europe...”
“As opposed to a criminal hunted by the police forces of five countries, you mean?”
“Enough, you two. I’m not altogether sure that the Italian held the key to the mystery,” said a third man, in a deep and perfectly modulated voice. He stood in the shadows, a haughty silhouette hiding his features beneath a black mask.
“My information was accurate,” said the woman, still smoldering in anger. “That fool Perugia wouldn’t have lied to me. I never fail! I always succeed in everything I undertake.”
“Yet, if I recall, there was one man who...” interjected Baskerville.
“Don’t mention him! Ever!” said the woman in an icy-cold tone that was even more frightening than her previous display of emotion.
“You must learn to let go of your hatred, my sweet Josephine,” said the masked man., “as I once let go of the angel I worshipped, my beautiful Christine... Come, proud daughter of Cagliostro,” he continued, gallantly kissing her hand, “let us concentrate on deciphering this ancient document together... You too, Sir Baskerville...”
The long, bony finger traced the contours of a coat of arms engraved on an ancient parchment covered with Latin writing.
They read:
“Today, as Death at last nears, I live in fear that soon the Heavenly Judge will weigh my sinful soul. No one in this town knows who I truly am, Bernardin de Ganges, Knight of Malta, murderer of the beautiful Diane, my own brother’s wife who spurned my advances. I am a miserable sinner and must unburden my soul before I depart this Earthly realm. I have hidden in the town of Mont Pelier, a treasure given by the Jews of Sauve to the Bishop of Maguelonne i
n 1246, entrusted to Diane and which I stole after committing my heinous crime. I have never dared spend that cursed gold. It stands as a witness to my crime. May the Black Madonna forgive me!
Sub antiquae majestatis pedibus
Ac in scutuli gurgite
Tres equites jacent.”
The woman stretched, looking more than ever like some beautiful, feline creature, unveiling sharp, white teeth under her full, purple lips.
“My carriage awaits. Let’s ride to Montpellier then.”
A few weeks later:
“Where did you get this document, Béchoux?”
Jim Barnett traced the contours of a coat of arms engraved on an ancient parchment covered with Latin writing. It was a copy, of course, but executed with a style and assurance that indicated a genuine artist.
“From an Italian artist who shared a studio with Vincenzo Perugia, a man we questioned in connection with the theft of the Mona Lisa last August. We cleared Perugia of any suspicion. We found his friend murdered in his lodgings a few days ago, and I discovered this drawing when I rifled though his papers. I wondered if it could have any connection with his murder?”
The grisly vision of the murder scene came back to Béchoux in all its horror. The policeman shivered, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“What about Perugia?” asked Barnett.
“Disappeared. A few months ago. But he’s got nothing to do with the Mona Lisa. I’d stake my reputation on it. The concierge reported seeing a beautiful red-head with an Italian accent, a tall Englishman and a third man who sulked in the shadows. Does that tell you anything?”
Barnett smiled a secret smile, as if enjoying a joke he shared with no one. He read the Latin inscription, translating it as he went:
“Sous les pieds de la Majesté Antique
Dans l’abîme de l’écusson
Les trois cavaliers gisent.”
[Under the Feet of the Ancient Majesty
In the Abyss of the Shield
Lie the Three Horsemen .]
“I’m sorry, Béchoux, but this means nothing to me at all... This time, you’re on your own.”
The Vicomte Raoul de Cherisy walked up the new boulevard that led from the royal square of the Peyrou, in the ancient center of the Southern city of Montpellier, to the neighborhood known as the Aiguillerie. His face was thoughtful; his steps slow. A recent visitor to Montpellier, he was, with his old mother, staying in a posh hotel located in the heart of the old town. The doctors had recommended she stay in a warm climate, he had told the concierge.
The hackney carriages, their white Camargue horses stamping their feet, red bobbles hanging around their necks, drove by at leisurely speed; there were very few motorcars outside of Paris. Passers-by stopped to chat, exchanging news in a sing-song blend of Occitan and Provençal French. The pure blue sky, hardly smeared by a few bright, white clouds, lifted Raoul’s spirits.
Raoul stopped briefly in front of the Prefecture, admiring the classical balance of its architecture–during the 16th century, it had been the noted Hotel de Ganges–and the superb Napoleon III-styled covered market nearby. A boy selling newspapers yelled: “Mysterious Gang Strikes Again! Another Murder Reported! Police On Alert!” Raoul bought a newspaper and started to read it, tapping on the sidewalk with the metal tip of his cane.
“Watch out,” he thought. “Don’t let this peaceful, serene setting of the perfect provincial life distract you. That she-devil is out there, sharpening her claws...”
Back in his suite, Raoul grabbed the hands of a middle-aged woman who sat on a sofa and dragged her into an impromptu waltz. Then, after he let her go and she sat back down, out of breath, he exclaimed:
“Victoire! My dear old Victoire! I’m near my goal! I can feel it! The Abyss of the Shield is the district de l’écusson, the center of Montpellier, the heart of the old town. From above, the old town does resemble a shield, or a coat-of-arms. The new boulevards follow the path of the old city walls. The inner part of a coat-of-arms is called the ‘abyss.’ The abyss of this shield is, therefore, the Prefecture and the covered market. The treasure is right under our noses, or rather, I should say, our feet. It’s been buried there for centuries, waiting for me, Victoire! For me. But now I need to figure out who the Three Horsemen are... And who is the Ancient Majesty?”
Still out of breath, Victoire sighed: “I don’t know, Raoul, but don’t forget that you’ve invited the priest of Notre Dame des Tables for dinner tonight.”
Raoul burst out laughing.
“The man who might have the answers I seek! Victoire, remind me to order a bottle of that excellent Bourgueil wine which has gathered dust for far too long in the magnificent cave of this hotel...”
The aged priest cheerfully surrendered his empty glass to the young waiter. The hotel dining-room was decorated with red velvet curtains and a grandfather clock, ponderously beating time. Its chandeliers glittered, their light sparkling on the gold cutlery used by the guests.
“You are a marvelous host, my dear Vicomte.” The priest took a sip of the wine and lightly clicked his tongue against his palate, savoring the subtlety of its prestigious bouquet. “The identity of the murderers who are plaguing our benighted city has proved most elusive. The Prefect of Police himself hasn’t got a clue. It’s all Greek to him.”
“Speaking of dead languages,” said Raoul, “I read a Latin inscription recently that referred to a Magesta Antiqua. Would you know what it meant?”
“The Ancient Majesty. You could hardly have found a better man to ask that question of, dear Vicomte. It’s a strange and mysterious local legend, that few know. It refers to a Madonna, a beautiful statue, made of finely carved ebony, brought back from the Crusades in the 12th century by Guilhem VI, Lord of Montpellier. A Black Virgin, as it was called, which attracted the pilgrims on their way to Compostelle. She was said to perform miracles, heal the sick, that sort of thing. The doctors from the old University treated those who weren’t worthy enough for her to cure.”
“Where is she now?”
“No one knows. She disappeared. She was in the oldest church in the town, Notre Dame des Tables, not the one where I serve today, but the first one which was destroyed, first by the Huguenots, then by the Revolution. It was a wonderful Gothic edifice erected on top of the original Roman church. All destroyed. How sad. They’ve built the covered market where it used to stand. That ugly Napoleon III building you can see from your windows.”
“Was there anything left of the old church?”
“Not as far as I know... Perhaps the cemetery... A boneyard... Who knows? It was such a long time ago. I’d give anything in the world to see that Black Virgin.”
“Maybe she rules the abyss,” said Raoul. “The Abyss of the Shield.”
But the priest did not hear him as he had started to nod off, snoring in time to the beat of the grandfather clock.
Raoul lifted the lamp high, lighting the stone wall that his workers had reached. They had labored for several days, digging through the yellow clay, in the cellar he had rented near the covered market. He had already mapped out the location of the catacombs by tapping on the sidewalks near the Prefecture with his cane and noticing where they sounded hollow.
Raoul grabbed a crow bar, pulled out a few stones, causing the others to crumble and fall. Before him was a room, small and circular, filled with a musty smell. He stepped inside and saw a hundred faces staring at him from dark, empty eye sockets. This was the ancient boneyard of Notre Dame des Tables. He was looking at hundreds of skulls, piled on top of the other.
He took a few steps forward. He had a strange feeling that something was moving in the shadows, watching his every move, but told himself it was only the product of his imagination. No one had been inside this room for centuries. He continued his exploration, probing the walls with the crowbar. Suddenly, he heard a noise and was felled by a violent blow to the head. He saw two hideous yellow eyes and the grinning face of death staring at him before blacking out.
Raoul awoke in the dark. He felt for his lamp. It was of no use to him, it was broken.
A light shone in front of him, lighting up a room draped in black and red material. He stepped forward and hit a thick, glass wall. He was in a prison. Three figures, wearing black Venetian Carnival masks, stared at him. Their dark cloaks blended into the darkness that was filled with ancient ivory bones. Raoul guessed that he was in a chamber hastily arranged, in the catacombs deep under the city.
One of the figures made an exclamation from her sensual mouth:
“Raoul!”
“I was hoping we’d never meet again, Josephine.”
The mask fell revealing the delicate oval face of Josephine Balsamo, Countess Cagliostro. “How can you say that, Raoul? You were 20. I was your first love – the one you never forget...”
“No, Josephine. Clarisse was my first love. And you killed her.”
“She took you away from me. She was nothing. She stopped you from being what you’ve become–Arsène Lupin! What you are today, you owe to me, Raoul. Together, we would have been unbeatable.”
“We’re wasting time,” said the man with the English accent, taking off his mask, as well. “It’s obvious he knows where the treasure is located. I’ll make him talk.”
“Like you tortured and murdered the others, all in vain, Sir Baskerville? And they call me a monster...” The third mask fell, revealing a hideous, skull-like face.
“So that was you watching me in the ossuary earlier?” said Raoul. “I’ve heard of you, You were the one who haunted the Opera? Still alive ? Or still undead?” When he was fighting for his very life, when danger was at its most pressing, he always felt the urge to mock, to scoff, as if to shout “I still live!” to the face of the world. This time was no different. “What a mismatched trio of rogues: a harpy, a rat and a scarecrow. Congratulations, you’ve kept the Prefect of Police awake for weeks now! I’m sure he’ll thank me when I deliver you bound and gagged, with a card in my name...”
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 10