“I swear to dedicate all my life’s strength to the mission that I accept today, March 3, 1912!”
And they gripped one another in a fraternal embrace. Ah, how young they were! And how beautiful their youth was!
Chapter III: On the Track
On the next day, March 4, having received permission from Doctor Champeau to listen and talk a little, Pierre Saint-Clair listened to his son Leo and talked to him. He gave the necessary instructions to a hastily-summoned notary, and signed a power of attorney. From then on, Leo Saint-Clair was free to dispose of his personal fortune and had his father’s authorization to act on his behalf.
Doctor Champeau and the parents of René Croqui and Jean Degains, who had also come to the house in Bourg-la-Reine, gave their own sons the same authorization that Monsieur and Madame Saint-Clair had given Leo.
That afternoon, Doctor Champeau and the four young men were granted an audience with Monsieur Matot de Passins, the senior assistant to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Very anxiously, he immediately made the necessary provisions for the four Frenchmen to be amicably received by the ambassadors and consuls of France, on the presentation of a special card that each of them was given, and to be provided with official support and aid.
After this interview, which was of capital importance, Doctor Champeau and the four friends had another, no less important, with the colonel in charge of the Counter-Espionage Service at the Ministry of War. With a very lively interest and evident anxiety, the Colonel listened to the account of events given to him by Leo Saint-Clair. He did not interrupt the young man once.
After a moment’s reflection, the Colonel smiled and said: “I’m happy for your family and France that we can count on the recovery, at least partial, of your father, whom we hold in the highest esteem, with great admiration. Furthermore, I congratulate you and your comrades on having conceived the mission to which you are devoting yourselves body and soul—and I can inform you straight away that I can help you in two ways.”
“Oh, Colonel!” exclaimed Leo Saint-Clair, slightly reassured for the first time in 24 hours.
“One of the two ways,” the officer went on, “is the one on which you counted in coming to my office with Doctor Champeau. Yes, I will give you an encoded list of my foreign secret agents. Yes, I shall give you the key to our secret alphabet and our special signals. Yes, finally, I will recommend you to all our attachés in our embassies and consulates.”
This time, the four young men manifested their joy and gratitude in unison, by the expression in their eyes and their entire physiognomy.
After a brief pause, however, the Colonel continued. “I’ll wager that the second manner in which I can help you is unexpected. Here it is—read this aloud, my young friend.” Swiftly opening a file that was on his desk-top, among others, the officer took out a sheet of paper, which he held out.
Trembling with curiosity, Leo Saint-Clair seized the piece of paper and, in a voice vibrant with emotion, read what was written on it, amid general attention.
“Confidential report of agent C88, March 3, 1912. This morning, at 7 a.m., as I chanced to be going through my neighborhood, the Porte d’Orléans, I suddenly found myself in the presence of a man whom I recognized as a spy and Russian nihilist of Mongol origin, known as Sadi Khan, who is believed sometimes to use a false passport in the name of Theodore Wallis, citizen of the United States residing in Chicago. He was in a limousine, which stopped momentarily and immediately moved off again. I was, however, able to see and note down the number of the car: 6810 HD. It disappeared along the Route d’Orléans in the direction of Arcueil-Cachan. I was unable to follow it immediately, but, Sadi Khan being considered dangerous, I left Paris as soon as possible, at 10 a.m. I made inquiries in the direction of Arcueil-Cachan, Bourg-la-Reine, etc., having learned from the Prefecture of Police that the hire-car 6810 HD belonged to a garage-owner from Antony recently arrived from Tours, where he had followed the same trade.
“My inquiries also took me to Antony. I saw the garage-owner, Monsieur Debalto, who informed me that the car had just been returned. The driver was still there. His name is Adrien Motte. On interrogation, Motte told me the following story, which I took down in shorthand:
“ ‘I picked up the client with the Chinese face on the Boulevard Brune, 200 meters from the crossroads at the Porte d’Orléans. He told me to take him to the Chemin des Fresnes in Bourg-la-Reine, to the house of the engineer Saint-Clair. I was familiar with the house, for Monsieur Pierre Saint-Clair is very well-known throughout the region. I therefore went to the address in question, and stopped outside the gate for about 20 minutes, waiting for my client, who seemed to be visiting Monsieur Saint-Clair.
“ ‘When he returned to my car, my client shouted: “To Fresnes Prison, and quickly—I’m late.” I stepped on the gas and went straight there. A few minutes later, I was surprised to see a black airplane standing in the middle of a large field on the side of the by-road that goes from Fresnes to Villejuif by way of L’Hay-les-Roses. At the same time, my client opened the separation-glass and shouted: “Stop!”
“ ‘I took my foot off the gas, braked, declutched and stopped dead. The chap was already on the road. He threw me a 100-franc note and, without a word, started running across the field toward the airplane. At the same time, I heard the terrible racket of the motor. I was amazed, but I said to myself: That was waiting for the Chinky; what’s he up to? I saw the man leap into the airplane, which immediately started moving over the field, and took off steeply at the far end. It gained height right away and went north.
“ ‘I soon lost sight of it—but then, Monsieur, I heard loud bangs in the distance behind me. I got back on the road. Over there, where I knew the Saint-Clair house was, there were enormous clouds of black smoke. Damn! I said to myself. There’s been an explosion at the engineer’s place. And I drove off at 60 kilometers an hour,2 like a madman, to warn the firemen in Fresnes, which was the closest station. Then, as I had a meeting with my boss at 10 a.m., and it was nearly 11, I came here—and here I am, ready to tell the whole story to a policeman like you….’ ”
At this point Leo Saint-Clair interrupted his reading to turn the sheet over, for agent C88’s report continued on the other side. Firmly, but with increasing excitement, he continued reading.
“Such was the driver Motte’s story. I interrogated him in order to get as complete and exact a description of the airplane as possible. Fortunately, the plane had been close enough for him to get a good look at it during the two minutes that he had it before his eyes, and to make a mental note of numerous details of color, shape and construction.
“When I got back to the Ministry I coordinated the information furnished to me by Monsieur Motte, and I am prepared to affirm, with certainty, that the suspect aircraft is a single-engine monoplane of the type known as a Stagrad, made in America and imported into Russia in parts for militarized assembly in the Dorf-Dasky workshops in the Posen region, on the German/Russian frontier.
“Conclusion: the Stagrad aircraft came from Russia, doubtless carrying the nihilist spy Sadi Khan, of whom our services lost sight five months ago. It would have landed unnoticed, having taken care to set down in open country far from any important agglomeration. It must have deposited the spy somewhere north of Paris yesterday evening, and came to pick him up this morning in the vicinity of the Saint-Clair house—which, moreover, has been the scene of a ‘laboratory accident,’ which it might perhaps be important to investigate, for the presence of the Russo-Mongol spy and revolutionary is suggestive of a premeditated crime.
“Signed: Agent C88.”
Having finished reading this important report, Leo Saint-Clair looked at his three friends, who were sitting in an arc to his left, and said triumphantly: “Well, my friends, we’re already on the track!”
As he took back the piece of paper and replaced it in to file, however, the Colonel shook his head, and said:
“A very vague track, Saint-Clair! Sadi Khan is a pse
udonym of unknown origin. Furthermore, his face is similar to millions of Asiatic faces. Russia is vast, and Asia is immense! A resident of Chicago, eh? It’s not rare to find men of Chinese origin in America!”
“Well, Colonel,” said Saint-Clair, “there’s the scar on his forehead!”
“That’s true,” the officer conceded. “The criminal is marked by a recognizable sign. But let me tell you, my young friends, that the criminal isn’t the most important thing in this terrible adventure—that’s the invention, Radiant Z. Your duty to France, and your filial duty, my dear Leo, is primarily to recover the plants and models of the capto-projector, to get them back from the enemy, whoever that might be, and to bring them back to France. That’s the most urgent thing.”
“I know that perfectly well, Colonel,” said Leo, sadly. “For, as Doctor Champeau has told you and hasn’t concealed from me, it’s by no means certain that my father will soon recover his full intelligence and the ability to work, by means of his brain-power, on the reconstitution and construction of Radiant Z. Our duty—my friends’ and mine—is therefore to find and bring back the plans and the models before the enemy is able to study, understand and copy them. I know that a rather long and difficult preparatory study is necessary, even to make use of the models.”
“Yes!” approved the officer, forcefully. “That’s your duty, first and foremost. Besides, the discovery and punishment of the criminal might be achieved at the same time, God willing!”
“We shall pray that God wills it, Colonel!” And Leo Saint-Clair got up. His friends did likewise, as did Doctor Champeau and the officer.
“This evening,” said the latter, “one of my agents will bring the documents I promised to you Bourg-la-Reine, and that agent will also bring you a great and useful surprise.” He extended his hands and added, very emotionally: “Now, courage, intelligence and self-composure!” After kissing the four young men on both cheeks he embraced them paternally—and, hardened soldier though he was, he had tears in his eyes.
Chapter IV: The First Adventure, The First Peril
That same evening—with the permission of their parents, who had been brought up to date by Doctor Champeau—René Croqui and Jean Degains, together with Robert Champeau, installed themselves for an overnight stay in the Saint-Clair house, in order to be in constant contact with their leader, Leo.
It was after dinner that they received the agent sent to them by the Colonel. The young man immediately made a good impression on the four friends—for he was indeed a young man, who looked even younger than he presumably was. He was short and slender, with an evident agility that did not exclude vigor, and had child-like bright blue eyes beneath his ruffled blond hair. If one studied those eyes closely, however, it was possible to divine that they were the focal points of a well-tempered soul. Received in the engineer’s study, which the four friends had made into their conference-room, he introduced himself frankly and handed Leo Saint-Clair a square white envelope.
The leader opened he envelope and took out a piece of paper, which he unfolded, and over which he silently ran his eyes:
My young friend.
This is to introduce my agent. His name is Wenceslas Polki, but we call him Polish Wen. His entire family was massacred in an outrage organized by Russian terrorists. In addition to his native tongue, he is fluent in French, Russian, English and German. He will be your interpreter, and will be precious. He is also a very well-connected agent and a devoted servant. I have explained to him what this is about. Take him for the entire duration of your mission. You could not wish for a more useful and dependable companion He is 23 years old, but, although he is your elder, he will never forget that you are his commander and that your three comrades are your lieutenants.
To begin with, he is bringing you precious information that I have just received via the counter-espionage brigade of the Sûreté Générale of the Eastern region.
Courage and good luck, my friends!
And the Colonel had signed it, underlining his illustrious name with a vigorous flourish.
Leo Saint-Clair passed the letter to his comrades, who were grouped behind him. “Read it,” he said. Then he went to Wen, who had stepped back discreetly, and offered him his hand, smiling amicably. “Be welcome among us, Wen,” he said. “The Colonel’s letter and your appearance suffice for us to see you from now on as a comrade, determined to brave the same perils and enjoy the same success as the four of us.”
Wenceslas Polki blushed with pleasure and pride. He shook the proffered hand, and, with as much dignity as modesty, replied in a firm and very warm voice: “Thank you, Monsieur Saint-Clair. As the Colonel must have told you, you can count on me. To you and your friends, though, I shall be an interpreter, a guide, a liaison officer and an orderly—in brief, a soldier! How should I address you?”
Leo smiled, and simply said: “My fellow rugby-players call me Chief.”
“Understood, Chief!” said Wen, standing to attention.
“As for my comrades,” Leo continued, still smiling, “I’m sure that they share my opinion regarding your reciprocal relationship. I’ll name them as I point them out to you: Robert Champeau, René Croqui, Jean Degains. You can call them by their first names, affectionately, and they’ll call you Wen, with cordial familiarity.”
“I beg your pardon,” said René Croqui, coming forward and offering his hand to the Pole, “but there’s one thing the Chief forgot to mention. As you can see, I’m the joker of the party. It’s my nature, and that’s why I’m nicknamed Croquignol. When you’re in a bad mood, my dear Wen, you can call me Croquignol. That will cheer you up.” And René Croqui broke into a smile. His good humor was, as always, contagious. Leo Saint-Clair laughed. Champeau and Degains laughed too, and Wen could not help doing likewise.
Thus the pact of solidarity was joyously concluded.
Immediately becoming serious again, though—for the circumstances were grave—the Chief said: “When you arrived, Wen, we were about to form a sort of Council of War, to take decisions regarding practical action. Let’s sit down. The session is open. First, it’s up to you to communicate the precious information that the colonel’s letter mentions.”
While speaking, Leo had indicated several chairs with his hand. Each of them took one. The four Frenchmen and the Pole sat down around the square table that stood in the middle of the room beneath an electric ceiling-light. There was a big atlas on the table, along with several road-maps, blank paper and propelling pencils.
All gazes turned to Wen’s face, and the Pole spoke unhesitatingly. “The information can be conveyed in a few words. The Stagrad airplane, which took off from the field bordering the Fresnes road, didn’t get as far as its occupants undoubtedly wished. A storm wind probably constrained it to set an eastward course, and a mechanical breakdown obliged it to set down in the Doubs valley, in a meadow near Montbéliard. A detachment of gendarmes is surrounding it but the aviators have disappeared. The colonel and the Sûreté Générale immediately telegraphed orders for the region’s railway stations and the Swiss frontier to be discreetly but closely watched—for it’s important that the operation be kept secret.
“The Colonel thinks that you, Chief, will doubtless want to get moving immediately and try to capture Sadi Khan before he can reach Germany—which is still possible for a clever and experienced man, in spite of all organized surveillance.”
“My God!” exclaimed Saint-Clair, getting to his feet. “If that’s the case, there’s no time to lose! Minutes are precious. Let’s go!”
That morning, after leaving the Ministry of War, Leo Saint-Clair had laid out the first considerable expense attributed to the mission’s budget. For years—even though he was not yet 21—he had been an automobile fanatic. Benefiting from an official exemption, he had already had a driving license for five years. He had passed successively from a little five-horsepower engine to the valve-less 18-horsepower engine that animated his present vehicle, the red cabriolet. Ever since the last Motor Sho
w, however, he had dreamed of trying out a 40-horsepower five-seater sports car, with steel-grey body-work, one of which was on show and on sale—already run in and ready to take to the road without delay—in a large garage on the Avenue Malakoff. And that very morning, Leo Saint-Clair had bought what he called “my Forty.” It had been delivered to him at about 3 p.m., and was presently in a garage situated in the Saint-Clair commons, completely kitted out, with its tanks full.
Having kissed the forehead of his sleeping father, and fervently embraced his mother—who was in tears, but fully determined to encourage her son and give him her approval—Leo rejoined his four companions, who had run to the garage following his “Let’s go!” They had been ready for an abrupt departure for hours.
Helmeted, gauntleted and wrapped up tightly, Leo installed himself at the Forty’s steering-wheel. Beside him was Jean Degains, a seasoned mechanic, whose hands were as skillful as his mind was adept. Robert Champeau, René Croqui, alias Croquignol, and Wenceslas Polki, alias Wen, sat side by side on the deep and broad padded rear seat.
With all the headlights on, the steel-grey roadster emerged from the garage, went through the grounds, and through the gate opened by Antoine. Once on the road it sped away, purring softly, rapidly cutting through the wind in the direction of the Croix-de-Berny. There it turned left, quickly reached Choisy-le-Roi and the crossroads at Bonneuil, and then went through Boissy-Saint Léger, Brie-Comte-Robert, Guignes-Rabutin, Nangis and Provins, eventually attaining a record speed—between 90 and 100 kilometers an hour—on the highway from Paris to Belfort, via Troyes, Chaumont and Langres.
At Belfort, the young driver went around the town and sped southwards toward Montbéliard.
When the Forty entered the little town, the kilometric indicator, set at zero at the point of departure, displayed the number 425, and the chronometer marked 3 a.m—in the morning on Thursday March 5, 1912. They had left Bourg-la-Reine at 9 p.m. the previous evening. They had, therefore, covered 425 kilometers in six nocturnal hours, at a mean speed of 70 kph.
Enter the Nyctalope Page 2