Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  Finally, they spied Whateley, escorted by a Rakasha, barely ahead of them despite his considerable advance. The “shortcut” had paid off. He was making his way towards the beam that was the Heart of Time.

  “It looks like we’re still in time,” said Robur.

  Whateley was only a few hundred feet away from the beam when he saw Robur and Green. The face of the archeologist, or rather the thing that had been the archeologist, became contorted with rage.

  “You?! This time, you won’t stop us, Robur! Not when we’re so close.”

  Whateley sent the Rakasha to attack the two men, thinking it would dispose of them easily. But the Mi-go who, at Robur’s instructions, had remained hidden to encourage Whateley to waste his strongest weapon, sprang out of the jungle and met the challenge head on. Roaring his defiance, the ape-man savagely fought the demon statue.

  Realizing that he had been tricked, Whateley shook his fist angrily. When he opened it, he released a blast of energy that hit Green, who was the closest to him.

  Robur seized the opportunity to jump on the former archeologist and, wrestling with him, tried to wrest the crown from his head.

  Whateley grabbed Robur by the neck and stared into his face as energy poured from his fiery eyes.

  The Master of the Albatross collapsed screaming to the ground, smoke drifting from his face.

  Then, Whateley blasted the Mi-Go who had just defeated the Rakasha.

  “And now there is no one left to stand in the way of destiny,” he said as he stepped into the beam.

  The crown... Whateley’s entire figure... began radiating a shimmer of strange energies, and coruscating waves of unearthly power that mingled with the beam. The column of light began pulsating to the rhythm of an alien song that the archeologist started to sing–a song written before the birth of galaxies, that no human larynx could possibly utter, and yet which fed the phenomenon.

  Above, a black tear opened up in the very structure of space itself.

  Darkness began to fill the cavern. Inside the fracture, one could see the phantoms of alien stars, bizarre shapes, other worlds and other galaxies... Horrible abysses of radiance... Yog-Sothoth.

  Outside, the phenomenon spilled out over the mountain peak. The tear in space was weirdly omnipresent throughout the celestial axis that the beam followed.

  In the hidden valley, the remaining Mi-Go howled in terror.

  Plowing through the snows of the icy canyon, just outside the secret passages under the mountain, Dahoor, too, saw the fracture and addressed another, more fervent, prayer to the gods..

  Aboard the Albatross, Tom Turner by his side, Sâr Dubnotal had been using his own mysterious powers to monitor the events and his face grew somber.

  “Chaos is rising, Mr. Turner. Stand by to release the Void That Consumes, but not yet. The plan that Meldrum Strange and I designed still has one last chance to succeed. But if not...”

  His hand moved ominously near a red switch.

  In the cavern, near the Heart of Time, Green stood up, battered and bruised, and prepared to step forward into the beam where Whateley was still chanting.

  Lying on the ground, Robur, his face badly burned and charred, shouted after him: “Don’t do it! He’ll fry you alive!”

  “Like he tried to do to you?”

  “I have protection against that kind of thing–you don’t!”

  “I’ve got something better...”

  Green boldly stepped into the beam.

  As he embraced Whateley and held him close with his left arm, he pulled a blood-red jewel from his pocket.

  Immediately, the Crown changed colors, turning from its white-gold radiance to a sickly reddish-brown shade. Whateley screamed as the metal liquefied on his head, leaving charred marks on his forehead and dripping into his eye sockets, burning his eyes to cinders.

  Above, Chaos flickered.

  The loss of his eyes and the pain that would have incapacitated any human did not seem to stop the archeologist. “Where did you get that jewel? Who are you?” he snarled, looking with sightless orbits at the man who had defeated him.

  “My name is James Schuyler Grim. In this part of the world, they call me JimGrim. Meldrum Strange hired me to keep an eye on you and he was right. And he gave me this trinket–the Heart of Ahriman–or of Azathoth–for just such an occasion.”

  Whateley’s entire body had begun to liquefy and melt away, forming a putrescent puddle at Grim’s feet.

  Grim cast his eyes above. Chaos, while still flickering, was not gone–and showed signs of breaking through.

  The adventurer extended his hand to Robur, inviting him to join him inside the Beam.

  “The rift needs to be repaired but I can’t do it alone,” he said. “I don’t have your expertise.”

  “I’ve done this before,” said Robur with a wry smile. “Let me show you.”

  They held hands, both grasping the blood-red jewel. Sweat, tears, pain, even thin rivulets of blood seeped from their faces as they strained to repair the damage, close the breach…

  “It’s too strong,” said Robur.

  “No, we can win. We must win!” said JimGrim.

  Aboard the Albatross, Dubnotal’s hand rested on the red switch. The time had almost come. Only a few seconds remained before he would do what had to be done.

  Suddenly, a third, bronzed hand joined Robur and Grim’s.

  “Maybe even great heroes can occasionally use simple souls such as me,” said Dahoor.

  And on that day, Chaos rested.

  Robur, Dubnotal, JimGrim and Dahoor stood on the bridge of the Albatross, watching the snowy peaks of the Himalayas below them.

  “You and Meldrum Strange cut it rather close this time, didn’t you?” said Grim to Dubnotal. “The Heart of Ahriman... My role in all this...”

  “We didn’t know exactly what the Kun Yin plan was... If Robur had managed to get to the Crown before their pawn–Whateley–got his hands on it... You were there mostly as a back-up precaution, Mr. Grim. One that turned out to have been a bit of enlightened forethought, I’m happy to say.”

  “I haven’t thanked you enough for coming back,” said Robur to Dahoor.

  “The orichalcum from the K’n-yan are thanks enough, My Prince. I’ll be the richest man in Gezing.”

  “But you will keep the location of the Hidden Valley a secret?”

  “My lips are forever sealed. After all, I am but a simple soul...”

  Samuel T. Payne hails from England and is a great fan of Doctor Who; hence, unsurprisingly, he decided to feature in his story a remarkably similar cosmic traveler, whose origins remain steadfastly mysterious… but I should not spoil Samuel’s story, which also features Edgar Allan Poe’s first fictional detective, Chevalier Auguste Dupin…

  Samuel T. Payne: Lacunal Visions

  Paris, 1845

  C. Auguste Dupin clasped his watch together and carefully pocketed it in his waistcoat. “If I’m correct, it cannot be much longer,” he whispered gently into my ear. I turned myself as quietly and discreetly as possible to meet his gaze.

  “The sooner the better. This is quite possibly the most uncomfortable position I’ve ever been persuaded to adopt. My ankles–”

  “Your ankles, my dear Monsieur Picard, can take another ten minutes, I am sure.”

  My poor feet, swollen from a prolonged crouch in the confines of a small wooden chest, were expanding in circumference by the minute. A man of my particular age, and girth– thanks to a healthy appetite–should not have to suffer such things.

  “Outrageous,” I hissed, glaring at his faint outline, highlighted by the firelight which penetrated our box. “This is hardly the investigative methodology I expected from the great Dupin!”

  “May I remind you, Picard, of the absolute essentiality for silence? Furthermore, it was you who requested my services; as such, I would expect you to at least honor my instinct and tact.”

  I agreed and shifted my balance, providing somewhat more comfort for my
nether regions. Peering through the slit in the chest which shrouded our presence, I saw that the empty workshop remained completely still. Nothing could be heard, save the crumbling embers of the fire, collapsing lazily upon themselves.

  Fatigue clawed at my every joint and muscle, and as I gazed into the orange fragments cooling in the fire-grate, I thought of my vacant, inviting armchair at home. I could feel the lids riding lazily over my eyes as I recalled the events of the past two days.

  It was on a bitter, chilly, Thursday morning, as I was departing from a small Parisian watchmaker’s boutique, that I held the door open for an arriving customer.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll find no service in this shop today.”

  The gentleman halted, removed his hat and began to unwind his scarf. An expression of disappointment and mild irritation formed on his face.

  “Really? This is most inconvenient. I had hoped to have my wall clock repaired before the week’s end.”

  He indicated the small package under his arm. There was little I could say in response. “Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Sighing, the gentleman unbuttoned his long jacket, exposing his waistcoat. From it, he extracted a beautifully crafted pocket watch. He glanced up from it, raising an eyebrow.

  “Can you suggest another local watchmaker or similar, Monsieur…?”

  “Sergeant,” I interjected, tilting my head. “Sergeant Picard. No, I’m afraid I cannot. I have come in contact with several recently, thanks to my investigations these past two weeks, but not any single store who’ll be able to offer that kind of service.”

  “You are with the Parisian Police… investigating crime scenes,” he said curiously, more a statement than a question.

  “Indeed,” I replied with an air of resignation. “This outlet is one of the latest to succumb to a long line of queer robberies. We’re getting nowhere fast in terms of catching the culprit.”

  “Perhaps you can tell me more about it at lunch?” he said simply, pressing a card into my hand. I glanced at it. Printed on it in neat green letters were:

  C. A U G U S T E D U P I N

  The name was instantly familiar to me. It was a title synonymous with the solution of cryptic conundrums of the criminal kind; the moniker of an amateur sleuth renowned through Paris for his curious talent in unraveling the tightest knots of mystery. I cannot express the delight I felt in my heart at meeting this living legend, for it was immense. A brush with such a celebrity–for that was what he had become–filled me with great excitement, and here he was requesting my presence at table. My mind was racing and I quickly considered the prospect of inviting this gentleman to aid in my investigations, for he would be a great asset to depend upon. I decided to act quickly, to buy him into my affections.

  “You may be just the man we need, Monsieur Dupin. Please, let me pay,” I said, guiding him towards the cheapest restaurant at hand, where I began to explain fully the series of strange events that had been occurring.

  A bottle of house red was required to prepare myself for the lengthy discourse I was about to embark upon. Dupin, declining to drink, inadvertently forced me to drain the bottle single-handedly. He sat before me; his elbows reposed upon the table and his hands supporting his chin.

  “So, every single watchmaker in Paris has been broken into, in the space of a fortnight?” he said in reflection, his brow furrowed.

  “Yes,” I replied in a deep, thick tone. It was good claret. “Each time, parts were stolen. Small parts, bits of watches, components, tools…”

  “Do you have an inventory of the missing items?”

  I pushed the chair back from the table–I may have knocked into somebody seated behind me but it wasn’t of any importance–and pulled from my jacket pocket the list he requested. I slapped it on the table with vigor.

  “There! To the trade value of over hundreds of francs.”

  Dupin raised an eyebrow and ruminated over the tally of stolen pieces.

  “These items… they’re a strange selection of goods to covet. Very select components. One could only sell these to an engineer, as they’d be little use to the lay tradesman.”

  I leant back in my chair. “Perhaps it’s a rival watchmaker?” I said in deep consideration.

  “You said all Parisian stores were affected,” Dupin stated quickly, dismissing my conjecture. “If so, it would have to be an out-of-town establishment, in which case, it hardly seems worth their while.”

  I could see his point. Why bother to attack a rival who isn’t a threat to your local market? I looked to Dupin for his own theory, a razor-sharp deduction, but he simply handed the inventory back to me and cut a slice of cheese.

  “Well?” I asked dryly. He slowly chewed his food before answering.

  “It’s clearly a person, an intellectual, I’d say, who is accumulating these items for some reason we’re not as yet aware of. Someone who is well versed in mechanics and engineering, I suppose. But that’s just a guess. At the moment, we are merely looking at the crimes themselves, not the reasons why the person may want the clockwork components in the first place.”

  “What… do you suggest?” I said clumsily, attempting to mask a gastric eruption with my hand. Unfortunately, the reflex of my arm was too indolent to arrive at the vital moment, and Dupin was exposed to the release. He closed his eyes.

  “I suggest,” he sighed, “that we visit the scene which has been exposed to the most activity.”

  One store came to mind instantly, “Maître Zacharius - Horloger?”

  With that, I modestly tipped the waiter and made my way outside, where Dupin was heralding a carriage for our departure to Verdain Street, the home of Maître Zacharius.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but Verdain Street is a dull little strip, dotted with quirky houses each of utterly different heights and designs. It gives the street an inconsistent and frankly backward appearance, which is at odds with the rest of Parisian architecture. It is often a home to the homeless, who frequent the vestibules and crevices between the buildings as permanent lodgings from the cold. At the end of the street is Maître Zacharius - Horloger, and it was here where the driver deposited Dupin and my good self.

  “An intriguing building,” Dupin mused, looking over the shop’s little windows, which were cluttered with a variety of clocks and watches.

  “Quite so,” I said, brushing past him towards the entrance. A vicious headache of a severity I can scarcely describe had formed during the journey, and the biting winter breeze outside the confines of the carriage certainly wasn’t soothing the agony. I pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth. Dupin followed my lead.

  Master watchmaker Zacharius was behind the counter as usual. I’d met him several times previously during my inquiries and we were now on quite familiar terms with one another. He was a quiet, distinguished little man with neat grey hair and a very trim beard and was always clad in his leather apron. Zacharius’ store was easily one of the largest watchmakers in Paris and people would travel from miles around to employ the man’s talents.

  “Please come through to the parlor, gentlemen,” he said softly, indicating the little room behind the counter. “I’ll see to some coffee.”

  Dupin made himself comfortable at the table and I sat opposite, surveying the room. It had hardly changed from when I’d visited last week; the modest fire was well stoked and his tools were arranged on the workbench. Little else decorated the parlor apart from a large tool chest and some shelves which supported various reference books.

  Zacharius brought over three small cups brimming with the steaming black liquid. The vapors alone aroused me from my headache. One had to wonder how the man could possibly repair the delicate mechanisms of a pocket watch when he was dosed up with caffeine. He was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

  Dupin smiled, for the first time, I noticed. “A potent brew, Monsieur,” he said. “You must scarcely sleep at night with measures as s
trong as these.”

  Zacharius sat down with us and gave a resigned nod. His eyes were circled with dark arcs and the whites appeared bloodshot. Dupin was right; he looked exhausted.

  “I’ve waited, you know. I’ve waited up all night to catch it in the act, yet it still seems to conceal itself. I’m lost.”

  Dupin put down his cup and leant forward. “Tell me, Monsieur Zacharius… What exactly do you mean by ‘it’?”

  “That godforsaken thing that pilfers my shop. It only happens at night, see. It isn’t natural, I tell you. I’ve had bits and pieces stolen from the shop before but never like this. The things that go missing, they’re… they’re not of any use to anybody but a watchmaker. Why leave all of these valuable watches and clocks, yet run off with just mechanisms and parts?”

  “Indeed,” I said, draining the last of my coffee. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It will make perfect sense, Sergeant, once we discover the criminal’s motive,” Dupin said, tapping the surface of the table with his finger. Zacharius seemed agitated and brought his cup down heavily on its saucer.

  “It doesn’t have a motive! It isn’t natural, I tell you.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Dupin.

  “The weird noises... The way things move about the place. At first, I thought I was just forgetting where I’d put things but now I’ve seen it for myself. Bits and pieces move from one side of the table to the other, some disappear entirely. Doors once bolted are suddenly open, others that were open are closed.”

  This was news to me, as he hadn’t informed me of it in my earlier interviews. “When did this last happen?”

  “Last night and the night before. No doubt it’ll happen again tonight. That’s when it walks, see?”

  “You say ‘it’, Monsieur, but you haven’t seen anybody have you? Just items displaced throughout the night,” Dupin stated.