Raoul saw greed struggle with hatred in Josephine’s eyes. The hatred of the woman scorned won once again.
“We’ll find the treasure without him,” she spat.
Without a word, the three figures disappeared into the darkness. Raoul knew the trap was about to turn deadly. He waited for a sign, all his senses on alert. Suddenly, he heard the sound of trickling water. Water from above, from the sewers perhaps. They intended to drown him.
Quickly, Raoul took off his shirt. On his back was taped the disassembled segments of a metal-tipped walking stick. He put them together and struck the glass, repeatedly, with all his strength. Water now reached his knees, then his waist, but he continued to strike the glass methodically, without panic. Finally, a fissure appeared and shards flew. Water began to flow out through the hole. Seconds later, the entire shattered pane fell to the floor.
Raoul was free.
He searched the catacombs until he reached an ancient chapel. It was small, no more than a crypt, guarded by the statues of the dead. Over its entrance, he noticed the same coat of arms engraved in the stone. There were the arms of Guilhem VI. Raoul pressed the metal point of his cane to the center of the shield. The clover moved slightly, starting a mechanism, causing a roman column to rotate and reveal... the Ancient Majesty!
The delicate Black Madonna sat on a throne, a child in her arm. Raoul lifted the statue carefully and underneath, he saw a niche containing the Three Horsemen... Three horsemen of the finest gold riding horses once made by the Jewish goldsmiths of Sauve as a present to the Bishop of Maguelonne... Waiting eight centuries to be found by–Arsène Lupin.
Suddenly, a man jumped up from behind a tomb, trying to stab Raoul. He would have succeeded had not the Black Madonna at that very moment tipped from her pedestal, causing him to move forward to catch her, thus escaping the fatal bow.
“I knew you would escape and lead me to the treasure,” said Sir Baskerville. “The others are gone. I’ll kill you. I won’t have to share with them.”
“How English of you. Always ready to betray your associates, eh? Worthy of the Perfidious Albion, indeed!” joked Raoul.
Better men than Baskerville had tried to kill Lupin; none had succeeded. Soon, the villain lie disarmed on the ground, tied with ribbons made out of Raoul’s shirt.
Then, Raoul thought he heard a strange music, a majestic and sad melody, coming from deep within the catacombs. A pure, crystalline voice accompanied a funereal Requiem like a silver filigree on a black curtain. Lupin rushed down a corridor, pushed aside a heavy tapestry and saw Erik, hunched over an organ, playing madly, sobbing, as if wracked by some tremendous grief. Next to him was a beautiful, blonde girl, singing.
Raoul pounced on the Phantom, but his hands only grappled empty air. The music continued for a short time, then stopped and did not start again. The image of Erik and the girl vanished, melting away into nothingness like morning dew.
Raoul looked around and, in a corner, found what he knew had to be there: an ingenious device combining crystal prisms and phonographic records. He recognized it at once. “Orfanik’s machine... A recording of both sights and sounds... Wherever he goes, he carries her image and voice with him... Poor Erik...”
That next morning, two men in Montpellier found their heart’s desire at the foot of their beds when they got up: for the Prefect of Police, it was the bound and gagged body of Sir Lionel Baskerville, the assassin who had terrorized the city, and for the priest of Notre Dame des Tables, it was the Ancient Majesty, the Black Madonna of Guilhem VI.
Those in the know claim that a skeletal phantom still haunts the catacombs under the old city; others believe that Arsène Lupin himself has made it his new refuge; the more romantic souls say that he shares his underground throne with a lady with scarlet hair, forever young... Let the reader beware and believe what he will!
[translated by Joan Bingham & J.-M. Lofficier.]
When Greg Gick first pitched the concept of The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange, it was so ambitious, and yet so fascinating, that we decided to make an exception and publish it as a serialized novella, of which this is the first installment. This can also be construed as an homage to the old serials; one can easily imagine Louis Feuillade at the helm of the camera filming the adventures of a young Harry Dickson (the German-Dutch-Belgian-French Holmesian pastiche) as he prepares to face…
G.L. Gick: The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange
Surrey, 1911
Looking back, I am glad I never entrusted this tale to paper before now.
Frankly, I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to forget the incident. But, after our recent experience against the Germans, with that mysterious French Duke and his allies, Tom Wills had issue to take me aside and ask me again whether, after all we’ve encountered over the years, I’ve ever really believed in such a thing as the supernatural.
I looked at this young man I had once taken under my wing, now with a family and agency of his own, and had to reply I still just didn’t know.
And it is that not knowing that makes me so damn uncomfortable.
My name is Harry Dickson. By trade, I am a private detective, although now I consider myself retired. Indeed, if I keep my hand in at all, it is for my own amusement or by the request of the Government, as in my recent case mentioned above. Still, I am glad to say I have had some little success in my chosen career, to the extent that the press once dubbed me “the American Sherlock Holmes.” Although proud of the moniker at first, as the years go by, I find the title more and more noisome. While I was indeed born in America, the son of a stage magician, I was educated in Britain, live in Britain and, in all ways, view myself as a full citizen of that sceptered isle. I enjoy regular tea-times, speak with an Oxford accent (put on, I admit, at first, but now such a part of me I cannot speak “normally” without it), and am far more concerned about who’s going to be my local MP than who the President is. I haven’t set foot in the country of my birth in years. No, British I am and British I will be ’til the end of my days. To call me American does me a disservice.
But further, the title is an offense against my mentor. To even begin to consider myself an equal to the Master Detective, who so kindly took an interest in me and guided my early career despite my arrogance and youth, is an affront I would never dare to take. Even S.P., an even more dedicated student of the Master than I (and with whom I have never gotten along), would balk at being described as such. I owe the Master nothing less than my career, talent and whatever little fame I have achieved. I will not tolerate the lowering of his genius so someone as unworthy as I can be placed above him.
Not that many of my adventures over the years wouldn’t have caused him to raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Professor Flax. Cric-Croc. Gurrhu and the Temple of Iron. Strange cases, with even stranger criminals. But in just about every instance, even when I was fighting self-styled Babylonian “gods,” in the end, I discovered a motive and an explanation that, while perhaps sometimes stretching the boundaries of the laws of science, nevertheless did not break them.
But then, there was the case, so early in my career.
Just as my mentor had the woman, so I have the case. The case that showed me that, perhaps, just perhaps, there were things that could not be explained by Rationality alone.
For years, I have shoved the incident to the back of my mind, trying not to think about it, but now, all these years later, I am forced to put it to paper, to try, one last time, to make sense of it all. I doubt I shall. That is why, when this is over, I shall place this manuscript into a safe-deposit box I have rented and promptly try to forget it ever existed. For all my adventures, this is the one that disturbed me the most. The adventures where I learned that there might, just might, be more to the world than mere Reason could define. The adventure where I met the man who, while never my mentor and perhaps not even my friend, gave me my first glimpse into a world that, despite my best efforts, I still cannot explain.
I still wish he hadn’t.
>
It was the summer of 1911. King George V had just ascended the throne. The House of Lords would soon give up its power of veto, making the House of Commons dominant in Parliament. The White Star shipping lines were putting the finishing touches on a new ship called the Titanic, offering a sparkling new future in comfort and speed on the oceans. And in a tiny room in London, a crass youth of 21 named Harry Dickson had just completed his third year at university, and was preparing to go to work.
Oh, he was an impatient, arrogant youth, this young Dickson. Full of himself and his dreams of the future. True, such could be said of any young person in any era. But this young man particularly thought the world was his for the taking. And why shouldn’t he–I–have? For unlike so many of those other youths, my path was already set. I was going to become a private detective, and a great one. Oh, yes. There was no doubt of it. Like my fellow countryman Sherman, my march was inexorable. Had I not already a dozen successes to my credit? Small cases, yes; amateur cases, but each one brought to a successful conclusion, and by none other than myself. And there was more. Had I not met and worked with the Master Detective, who pronounced me “promising” and become my own guide into the world of detection? Had I not, through his offices, met several others famed in the same line of work–Triggs, Hewitt, the late Mrs. Dene, that unassuming country priest–and each one declared me the same? There could be no veering from the path. As the Commandments, my future was set in stone. I was going to be a detective.
But first, I was told, I would have to pay my dues.
It seemed my mentor was concerned with me. I was “promising,” yes, but in his view a far too tempestuous and impatient youth to strike out on my own just yet. The art of criminal detection was an exacting one, demanding great sacrifices in time and attention, he said. But I was obviously still under the impression most cases a detective handled were like those his chronicler had so romantically exaggerated in The Strand when nothing, he said, could be further from the truth. Detectives had bills to pay, just like everyone else, he informed me, and competition was fierce. For every case involving red-haired men and orange pips, there were ten cases accepted solely to put bread on the table and fire in the hearth. Everyone had them. Even in the early days, before he had made his name, my mentor explained sternly, he had been forced to take whatever he could get to keep the money coming in. Minor matters of blackmail. Dull divorce investigations Even simply looking into the prospects of a would-be suitor. What I needed, the Master said, was a lesson in the actual day-to-day drudgery and boredom most cases actually consisted of. And so he had arranged for me to spend my summer serving an apprenticeship with a Mr. Blake.
I had felt quite elated, at first. Not about the majority of the lecture, which I heard but did not listen to, but rather to the fact I was to work with Blake. He was second only to the Master in fame and talent, and would prove to be one of the kindest and most encouraging of men. Looking back, I find that I did indeed learn much from him. But he had listened to the Master more closely than I, and, as a consequence, what he had me doing for him was, as my countrymen might say, as “dull as watching paint dry.”
The stipulation of my working with Mr. Blake was simple: at no time was I to be permitted to work directly on a case of any import. I was solely to be used to assist in gathering whatever background research he might need, or to do legwork in whatever small, negligible cases Mr. Blake might have accepted to kill time in between the next big one. And so I did: for the past two months I had spent most of my time muddling through dusty old books in the British Museum or engaged in chemical experiments while Blake was off on his own adventures. While he fought a notorious Devil Doctor in Limehouse, I examined mushy fingerprints gathered after a clumsy burglary. While he sloshed through the sewers of Paris searching for the secret hideout of a black-coated conspiracy, I followed a husband through the seedier parts of Soho to see which brothels he frequented. While Blake hung upside-down trying to free himself from a runaway balloon, I spent long hours searching through Burke’s Peerage to discover the supposed birthright of an obscure chimney sweep. I also fed and walked the dog. It was incredibly frustrating. Here I was, declared one of the most promising (that word again) would-be investigators of the 20th century, and I was wasting my talents on discovering the spousal possibilities of the local butcher instead of being on the scene of master crimes looking for clues. And, although I never said as much, my feelings were obvious to all who worked with me.
This particular day, however, I was in rather high spirits. Mr. Blake had just praised me for some research I had done on the secret meanings of orghum which had cracked a puzzling case for him, with the implicit promise I should be rewarded somehow. It was a pleasant summer morning, the Sun was out, the sky a deep sapphire blue and I decided to forego the expense of a cab and walk to work. The streets were busy, even at this hour, but almost all had a smile on their face and many nodded pleasantly to my greeting. I saw only one thing that disturbed my bonhomie: in a new storefront, someone had placed the sign: “Dr. Tin Zen: Spiritualist–Make Contact with Your Loved Ones Beyond the Veil! Prices negotiable.” Beneath was a picture of a fat, balding, middle-aged “Chinese” man–obviously in makeup–wearing a turban, hovering with what he evidently thought was a “mysterious” air over a crystal ball. In point of fact, it looked as if he was about to fall over on it.
I sighed and shook my head. Tin Zen was a ridiculous name. No self-respecting real Chinaman would have it. But more than that, I loathed the very premise of Spiritualism. I have never been a religious man. I have my own beliefs, of course, but if asked at what altar I primarily worship, I would have to answer at only two: those of the Twin Idols of Logic and Reasoning. My mentor taught me that. Everything could be explained if only one used his mind, he told me; there was no such thing as magic to a true detective. So you may imagine that the very idea that someone gazing cross-eyed into a crystal ball could somehow call up the spirit of your deceased Uncle Charlie, who would then tell you the secrets of Heaven in such a vague, nondescript way that you were even more puzzled when you went out than when you came, was anathema to me. But what appalled me most was how many otherwise normal, intelligent people believed in it. I had seen them; these were men (and women) who would smile indulgently at the thought of life on Mars and laugh aloud at anyone who claimed to see a sea serpent, but would spend hours in line to sit holding hands in a darkened room calling for their deceased mother. Perhaps I should not have been so biting toward people who simply wanted to see their loved ones again, but I was. As a magician’s son, I had seen all the tricks mediums used to fake “spirits” performed a hundred times. I knew them to be nothing more than illusions, and in my mind I expected everyone else to as well.
But enough of that. If the foolish and gullible had nothing else better to do with their money, then so be it. I had my future to think about. I turned my mind to fantasies of the reward Mr. Blake was to give me–a raise? A real case? Dare I say–a partnership?–and almost skipped up the steps of his Baker Street quarters. Nothing could destroy my mood this day!
So you may understand my surprise when I walked in to a chorus of angry voices issuing out of Blake’s private office.
“Damn it all, Blake, I don’t want one of your wretched men! I want you!”
“Sir Henry, I already told you–”
“I don’t care what you told me!”
I looked inquiringly over at T., Blake’s full-time assistant, sitting at his desk. He waved me to silence, a look of concern on his face. From behind the door, I could hear the patient voice of the detective himself:
“Sir Henry, I’m afraid it’s impossible for me to personally come to your home at this time. I’m already deeply involved in another case, and it looks as though the trail is leading to Geneva. I may have to leave for the continent at any moment. I simply cannot break away. My men are perfectly capable–”
The first voice, loud and tinged with arrogance: “If I wanted a second-rate constab
le in charge of this, Blake, I would have hired one. London is full of them! This conference is too important to my fu–to the future of England to trust to inferiors, and I promised the attendees a top man to ensure its safety!”
A third voice, much younger and quieter, but stiff: “Mr. Blake, perhaps you don’t comprehend the situation here. Security is of great importance to this conference, and–”
Mr. Blake’s voice, sounding very patient: “I comprehend the situation perfectly, Mr. Westenra. But as I understand it, your father has already hired agents from eight firms to help provide security. I know these men and they are all quite competent. Surely you do not need–”
“None of them are as good as you, Blake!” snarled the first voice.
“I appreciate the compliment, sir, but–”
“I never make compliments,” thundered the speaker. “I only speak facts. And in your case, that’s little enough, Blake. I don’t believe half the stuff that’s published about you. But you owe me, and–”
As the argument, whatever it was about, continued to rage, Blake’s assistant and I exchanged looks, then shrugged. I took out my pipe and began to light it. As I did, the door to Mr. Blake’s office opened and his dark, handsome face peered out.
“Ah, Master Dickson!” There was a smile on his face, but the cheerful tone behind it seemed distinctly false. “Good to see you! Would you be so kind as to step into my office a moment?”
I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. I glanced back at T., who shrugged again. There was nothing else for it. I put out my pipe, obediently chimed, “Yes, sir,” and went inside.
I had always liked Mr. Blake’s office. I wanted one just like it when I got out on my own. It was sumptuous, yet comfortable, with fine leather-backed chairs and an expensive mahogany desk. The walls were lined with bookcases, save for behind the desk, which was a full plate-glass window, offering him a fine view of the comings and goings of Baker Street. It was also unnaturally crowded. In addition to Mr. Blake and myself, two others stood in the room.
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 11