Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “Have you mentioned that to the Count and his harem?” the cross-dressing brother retorted. “They have been starved too long to be moderate in circumstances like these. And I’ve been hunting alone for far too long not to enjoy the company. You should come with us tonight, you know–you’re supposed to be a great white hunter, aren’t you? Stalking Irish colleens is so much more fun than stalking elephants, and one can take so much more pleasure from them, even before one drains them dry.”

  “Chacun a son goût,” said the false Quatermain. “I am the Chevalier Ténèbre; I treat courtship in a very different fashion.”

  “More fool you. Given that the count’s ladies are spoken for and Lillie Langtry’s past it, there’s nothing in first-class worth making your kind of effort for, but the lower decks are full of girls who fondly imagine that there’s something better awaiting them in New York but whoredom. Think of the disillusionment I’m saving them! Anyway, it’s the swordplay that attracts you to the knightly life, not chaste courtly love. You must be aching for a good fight. You might try picking one with one of those frightful writers–the world could do with a few less of their kind.”

  “Once we’re in Manhattan,” the pretended Quatermain said, “you can gorge yourself to your heart’s content. It won’t do you any harm to go easy for a couple of nights.”

  “It’s a couple now, is it? And I expect you want me to talk to the Count and his brides, vampire to vampire?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. If we stir up a hornet’s nest here, it’ll be that much more difficult to lay our hands on the loot, and I’m sure that the Count would rather not advertise his arrival in New York too loudly. I know that we’re not much given to virtues, but a little patience might help our cause here. If you explain it to the count, he’ll keep his brides in line. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience.”

  “Neither do I,” said Ayesha, reverting momentarily to her role. “I’ll do it–but only on the understanding that we take every last penny of whatever Hearst, Carnegie and Rockefeller have stashed away. If Edison’s machine is heavy, it goes on to your share of the load, not mine.”

  “Agreed,” said Allan Quatermain.

  The fake white hunter turned over on the bunk then, intending to go to sleep–but five minutes after Ayesha had left, there was a knock on his cabin door.

  At first, Quatermain did not recognize the man who entered in response to his invitation, but after a few moments, he remembered where he had seen the other before. “Mr. Rocambole,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I came to see you, Mr. Quatermain, because I don’t trust that drunken fool of a Captain,” Rocambole said. “It seems to me that you’re one of the few men on this damned boat with a head on his shoulders. I’ve been carrying out some investigations down below, and I’d like to share my findings with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” said Quatermain. “I’d be interested to hear what you’ve found out. You decided to inquire into the murders despite the Captain’s rude refusal of your help, I presume?”

  “I did. I’ve conducted more than a hundred interviews with relatives and friends of the murdered individuals, and people who were close to the locations in which they were killed. I’ve got some pretty good descriptions of characters who had no reason to be around on the nights in question. I’d have taken the information to the Captain in spite of the way he treated me, but... well, they’re first-class passengers, you see.”

  “Ah,” said Quatermain. “That would make the matter rather delicate.”

  “They’re not British, though,” Rocambole added. “Or French, of course. Would that make a difference, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know. Who are we talking about?”

  “Count Lugard and his three daughters, and a man I haven’t been able to identify–short, slim and fair-haired. I’ve asked Féval and Apollinaire to see if they can spot him in the first-class dining room, but they both said that the description doesn’t ring a bell. The Count doesn’t have anyone else traveling with him, I suppose, except for his daughters.”

  “I don’t believe so. Are you actually alleging that the Count and his three daughters are vampires?”

  “Of course not–that would be preposterous. My grandfather told me some tall tales, but he always told me to leave the impossible out and stick to real possibilities, however unlikely. I suppose they might be members of some secret society of assassins, but I think it far more likely that they’re gathering blood for some kind of medical research. I think they’re experimenting with blood transfusions–or, rather, preparing to carry out such experiments when they reach New York. Surgeons are attempting to use the technique to compensate for blood loss during amputations, I believe.”

  “It seems rather far-fetched,” Quatermain observed, “but it does have the virtue of avoiding the supernatural. Where do you suppose the Count and his assistants are storing the blood?”

  “In the refrigerated hold. It’s the logical place. I bribed one of the cooks to let me check out the food storage units, and I couldn’t see anything suspicious there, but I’m certain there’s a secret compartment or two behind one of the bulkheads. If I could get hold of a plan of the ship, I might be able to figure out where they are.”

  “And you think that I might be able to obtain one from the Captain or one of the mates?”

  “The purser, Kitchener, might be your best bet–but you’ll have to be careful. I don’t want to arouse the suspicions of whichever crewman is in on the conspiracy.”

  “Are you sure that one of them is?” Quatermain asked.

  “Yes. Someone’s responsible for the Captain’s churlish attitude to my offer of help. He’s just a drunken dupe, of course, but one of the two mates must be pulling the strings. That Hodgson’s a rum chap–has a camera, you know, takes pictures up on deck when there’s no one there to take pictures of. Scribbles, too. On the other hand, Black’s got political ideas. I never trust a man with political ideas. I like a straightforward man like yourself, sir–a man who faces his problems squarely, with an elephant gun. Grandfather would have approved of you.”

  “The feeling would have been mutual, I’m sure,” Quatermain said. “Very well, Mr. Rocambole–I’ll try to get you your plan, and I’ll make some inquiries of my own. Can’t let a gang of blood-runners operate unchecked on one of Her Majesty’s merchant ships, can we? You can depend on me.”

  “Do you know who the other man might be, Mr. Quatermain? The short one, I mean.”

  “I’ll inquire into that too,” Quatermain assured him. “Can’t say I’ve noticed him, but he may be a crewmen or a second-class passenger. Villains of the count’s type always have minions, in my experience.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Quatermain,” Edward Rocambole said, stepping forward to shake the hunter’s hand before withdrawing.

  “If I were you,” Quatermain said, “I’d keep a very careful lookout tonight.”

  “I will,” Rocambole promised. “Not a wink of sleep for me. If I catch a glimpse of any one of them, I’ll find out what they’re up to.”

  By the time the Captain was woken by his cabin boy on the 29th, the Sun was over the horizon and his hangover had taken so strong a hold that he had to quaff half a bottle of cognac to bring it under control.

  “Nobody died, then?” he said, as soon as his tongue was unfurred.

  “Nobody drained of blood, sir,” the cabin boy reported. “Last night’s only casualties were two old men who died of hypothermia for lack of decent overcoats. Nobody’s panicking over that, sir.”

  “Excellent! Tell Black to heave the bodies over the side forthwith, and let’s hope for a day’s plain steaming. How’s the weather?”

  “There’s a lull at the moment, sir, but the bosun says that there’s another storm-front visible in the southwest, heading our way. Going to be a rough afternoon.”

  “Damn. Passengers are always in a better mood when they’ve chucked a few deck quoits around. I suppose it’ll sti
ll be blowing this evening, so the orchestra in the ballroom will be playing so many extra notes that every waltz will turn into the Gay Gordons. Never mind–there’s still the casino.”

  By the time the Captain had refreshed himself and climbed up to the bridge, the storm-front was almost upon the vessel, and the sky in the southwest was very dark indeed.

  “Wouldn’t have fancied that in the old days, Hodgson,” Rowland said to the first mate. “Enough to put a sailing ship’s schedule back two days, and fill the bilges with vomit. Nothing to fear here, though: the Titan’s unshakable and unstoppable as well as unsinkable. No icebergs in sight, I hope?”

  “None, sir,” Hodgson confirmed. “May I take my camera out on deck to photograph the storm?”

  “If you like. Silly idea, mind. Where’s the fun in looking at postcards of clouds and corposants when you can have French whores in any pose you fancy?”

  “It’s a hobby, sir,” the mate said.

  The Captain’s excessive claim regarding the unshakability of the Titan proved woefully unfounded, especially when her second funnel was struck by lightning. The bolt burned out the wires of the ship’s internal telegraph, causing all kinds of problems in the transmission of orders. By the time he had to dress for dinner again, John Rowland felt that he had been run ragged, and he was direly in need of a stiff drink. When he descended to the dining room, the meal was in full flow, and he was forced to bolt his mock-turtle soup in order to catch up with the next course. It wasn’t until the halibut had been cleared away and his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding arrived that he began to relax, aided by his eighth glass of claret.

  By this time, Allan Quatermain was reaching the conclusion of yet another story. Popular demand seemed to have dragged him back to the subject of King Solomon’s Mines. “Yes,” he was saying, in answer to a question from the count. “Old Gagool was with me for a year or two after we got back from Kukuanaland. She was a fount of esoteric knowledge. It was she who told me where I could find Kôr, in fact, where I met Ayesha. It was a crying shame that she was immolated by that pillar of flame–but she was very old, you know, and she really did believe that it would rejuvenate her; that was the whole reason she guided me there. I admire the way that natives place such tremendous faith in their superstitions, though. Humans ought to live according to our beliefs, don’t you think? We need to be true to our nature, or we’re guilty of a terrible cowardice.”

  “Don’t like all this talk of true nature,” Carnegie said. “People decide for themselves what they want to be. I’m a self-made man, through and through.”

  “Me too,” said Rockefeller. “What about you, Hearst?”

  “Can’t see the difference,” Hearst growled. “If your nature’s to be a self-made man, that’s what you’ll be. If not, you’ll be what other people make of you.”

  “Sophistry,” said Carnegie.

  “Not at all,” said Count Lugard. “Mr. Hearst is right, and so is Mr. Quatermain. We do not come innocent into the world; we are what we are. Some are shaped to take destiny by the horns and transform themselves, thus entering the next phase of human progress. Others are shaped to submit, and thus to slide back towards the animal. Most people, thankfully, are cattle with delusions of grandeur.”

  “Thankfully, Count?” Edison queried.

  “But of course. Life is a struggle; for the few to succeed, it is necessary that the many must fail. Power is, by definition, power over others; the more one man has, the more his underlings must be deprived of it. Those of us who have it can only be glad that the majority of humankind is submissive, eager to be led... and bled.”

  “The man has a point,” Rockefeller admitted.

  “A very good point,” the Duke of Buccleuch agreed.

  “It’s a very harsh way of thinking,” Mrs. de Bathe objected.

  “It’s a very obsolete way of thinking,” Edison put in. “Power is no longer limited to the authority to command the muscles of animals and men. Power nowadays is oil and coal, electricity and steel. Power nowadays is machinery. In the 20th century, all men will be better able to remake themselves, by means of their technology. Nor will it be merely a matter of their material conditions; with the assistance of a vast array of instruments of discovery whose nature you can hardly imagine, men will become a great deal wiser. Knowledge is power too, and the 20th century will be an era of information. We ought to envy the generations that will come after us, gentlemen.”

  “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” Buccleuch muttered.

  “And too much is a truly terrible thing,” murmured Count Lugard. “Mankind cannot bear overmuch enlightenment.”

  “We invariably do envy the generations that will come after us, as we gradually grow older,” Carnegie said, in a louder voice. “And when we die... ah, how envious the dead must be of the living!”

  “We’ll have a chance to find that out, won’t we?” Hearst said. “This time tomorrow, eh, Mr. Edison? No further delays, I hope?”

  “Everything will be in order by the time we have dined tomorrow, Mr. Hearst,” Edison confirmed. “We shall give the dead yet another opportunity to envy our repast before we consult their wisdom.”

  “If this storm doesn’t let up,” Hearst muttered, “we’ll probably give them the chance to envy us queuing on deck to throw up over the side. Are you sure this beef hasn’t spoiled, Rowland?”

  “Perfectly sure, Mr. Hearst,” the Captain said. “We have excellent refrigeration facilities in the hold behind the galley. Nothing ever spoils aboard the Titan.”

  “The perfect place to store fresh blood,” Quatermain whispered in Ayesha’s ear, “if one were a clandestine medical researcher devoid of ethics.”

  “Or any other kind of uncanny flesh,” Ayesha whispered in her turn, “if it so happened that all the blood had been quaffed by more scrupulous predators.”

  Coincidentally, the conversation at the writers’ table had reached exactly the same topic. “Searched the refrigeration hold, did he?” Monsieur Jarry said to Monsieur Apollinaire, while he contemplated a slice of Yorkshire pudding impaled on his fork.

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Apollinaire, “but he thinks there’s a secret compartment there, where the blood’s being carefully stocked up.”

  “For transfusion, you say?” Mr. Robertson asked.

  “We don’t say anything,” Monsieur Féval fils corrected him. “We’re merely repeating what he told us. According to him, it’s definitely a matter of transfusion. He might be right. He’s the detective, after all.”

  “It’s disgusting,” said Mr. Henley. “I don’t know how people come up with these ideas. I used to like horror stories when they had ghosts and natural monsters, but I don’t approve of this medical horror. It’s all mad scientists and gruesome violations of the body–practically pornographic.”

  “And Monsieur Rocambole thinks that Count Lugard and those three lovely girls of his are the blood-burglars?” Mr. Chambers asked, seemingly anxious to get back to the point.

  “Yes,” M. Apollinaire confirmed. “Transylvanian, you see. No reverence for the Hippocratic oath. Very amusing, isn’t it?”

  “He isn’t spreading this around the lower decks, I hope,” Mr. Twain put in. “We don’t want mobs of unruly peasants marching into the ballroom with torches and pitchforks, demanding that we hand the Count and his daughters over to them, do we?”

  “Don’t we?” said Monsieur Jarry. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re English gentlemen, you oaf,” said the man from the Telegraph. “We’d be obliged to defend the honor of the three young ladies–and their lives too of course–even if they are dagoes. We’d be obliged to wade in, even at the risk of our lives. By the way, do you mind my asking why you’re wearing bicycle shorts?”

  “Because I make 30 circuits of the promenade deck on my velocipede every day, Monsieur, even when it is raining,” Jarry informed him.

  “It’s all blown over now, anyhow,” the man from the Mail put in. “There mig
ht be a few more deaths from hypothermia tonight, and if another funnel gets struck by lightning, we could all wake up with a shock, but the vampire business seems to be over and done with, more’s the pity. If only the count’s daughters had been victims... that would have been a story.”

  “Not unless old Buccleuch turned out to be the vampire,” his colleague from the Telegraph put in.

  “Ayesha would make a far better vampire than the Duke,” Miss Lee suggested.

  “Except that female vampires don’t usually target female victims,” Mr. Henley observed.

  “They do in le Fanu’s story,” Mr. Huneker corrected him. “And there was that poem of Coleridge’s...”

  “Is there a secret compartment in the refrigeration hold?” Mr. Vane interrupted. His face was so drawn and haggard that he might have been intending to crawl into it and die.

  “Oddly enough,” said Apollinaire, “I believe that there’s more than one. After I’d talked to Rocambole, I took a look myself. There’s definitely one extra locker down there–he didn’t notice it because it’s behind a stack of herring-boxes. I couldn’t tell how big it might be just from looking at the door, but I bumped into Mr. Kitchener, who was taking a plan of the ship to Quatermain’s cabin, and he let me take a quick look at it. It’s there all right–and another one whose door I hadn’t spotted. Of course, they might be ice stores–but if so, why does the one I noticed have such a huge padlock on it?”

  “You don’t suppose it’s the safe where old Rockefeller’s bonds are stashed?” Mr. Huneker suggested.

  “Not unless the guys with guns are a bluff,” Mr. Twain said. “They certainly act as if the bonds and Carnegie’s bullion are exactly where you’d expect them to be, in the secure hold along with Hearst’s Egyptian loot.”

  “What did Quatermain want with a plan of the ship?” Mr. Robertson asked.

  “I think Rocambole asked him to get it,” Monsieur Féval answered. “Quatermain’s the man who can get things done, it seems. He has the Captain eating out of his hand.”