He said no more.
It would have been better, alas, had it happened later, while he was asleep, but it did not happen not later; it was at that exact moment, as he stood up after having tied the last knots at the back and the foot of the armchair, and as he turned toward the laboratory, from which bizarre grating and grinding sounds were coming, that…
A supple shadow bounded out of the laboratory, which was open and illuminated—and a youth with red hair soiled with soot appeared, standing in the full glare, aiming a stout Browning and shouting: “Hands up!”
Then there were 20 seconds of vertiginous and atrocious drama—for Grigoryi had the audacity and the savage temerity not to obey.
As he heard the cry, he raised his head abruptly, with sharp eyes, and threw himself to one side.
The Browning roared, but the bullet shattered the glass of a framed engraving on the wall.
From the table Grigoryi grabbed the knife that he had used during his meal, and another bound brought him face-to-face with Saint-Clair.
The Browning thundered again—and this time, Grigoryi was hit full in the chest. “Damnation!” he swore—and with a violent thrust of his right arm he buried the knife in Saint-Clair’s left side.
A third shot resounded. Grigoryi collapsed, with a hole in his forehead.
But Jean Degains, suddenly panic-stricken and desperate, saw both the knife in Leo Saint-Clair’s side and the supreme convulsion of his entire body, stiffening within its bonds. Moaning with terror, he looked at the other’s face and saw bloodless features, an open mouth, and eyes rolling back…
“My God! My God! Leo! Leo! You aren’t dead… Tell me you aren’t dead?”
Conclusion:
Doctor de Villiers-Pagan’s
Cardiorhythmy
Doctor Cheminska was not arrested, but was interrogated extensively, several times over, by the police and an Investigating Magistrate. She thought she was safe—and she would have been, if Leo Saint-Clair had been dead, for he alone could talk about her, and several other individuals, while knowing what he was talking about.
But Leo Saint-Clair was not dead. And he did not die!
After a minute of panic, Degains had run to a window, opened it, and, seeing the brick wall, presumably made up externally to look like the old wall, he had understood. With heavy blows of a massive oak stool, he had broken through the fake wall and leaned his upper body through the breach, shouting: “Saint-Clair is wounded! Telephone Villiers-Pagan immediately!”
In the courtyard were Champeau, Croqui, the Commissaire of the Special Police and several of his men. Others were keeping Madame Cheminska under surveillance in her own apartment. She had a telephone. It was Champeau who telephoned Doctor de Villiers-Pagan, not in Lausanne but in Geneva, where he had been for two days in order to attend all the sessions and soirées of an international surgical conference.
A quarter of an hour later, the policemen having broken down the false wall at the foot of the staircase—which Degains had easily discovered—in the meantime Doctor de Villiers-Pagan was beside the still-inanimate Saint-Clair, examining him minutely.
“He’s alive!” he said. “Don’t touch the knife. The extremity of the blade must be placed between the aorta and the pulmonary vein, which has caused the heart to stop suddenly. Get him to my clinic, quickly.”
His large and comfortable limousine was in the street. Without any shock to the knife, Leo Saint-Clair was carried down to and laid out in it, well-secured by numerous cushions. And 70 minutes later, at the clinic, the prodigious operation was carried out. It was the first time that the resurrection of the heart had been attempted on a human being.
Doctor de Villiers-Pagan was the inventor and experimenter, in the greatest secrecy, of an apparatus that he called an “artificial heart.” He had only tried it out, in order gradually to perfect it, in the breasts of dogs, monkeys and pigs anaesthetized by chloroform—which, on awakening, had lived on, not with their own natural organs, but with hearts of rubber and metal!
Only when he had opened Leo’s breast did the surgeon extract the murderous blade, and he fitted to the arteries—in which he had made the necessary incisions—the glass tubes of the artificial and mechanical organ. An electric current and a magnet, immediately activating the alternating movement of the supplementary heart, gradually regulated the afflux and reflux of the still-warm blood within the fortunately-intact heart of the wounded man.
For a long, interminable quarter of an hour, Leo Saint-Clair remained inanimate—but finally, almost imperceptibly at first, then very slowly, the reflexes reappeared and functioned. Although he was under the influence of the chloroform, Leo Saint-Clair presented all the phenomena of sanguinary circulation and respiration—and hence of life!
He had been quite literally brought back to life!
A week later, he was able to talk.
He talked.
Only the nihilist Helena, however, better-known by the title and name of Doctor Olga Cheminska, remained in the hands of the police, because she alone had been kept under surveillance since the tragic night of the twenty-first of March. As for the other spies and nihilists mixed up in the affair of Radiant Z that Saint-Clair was able to identify, they had disappeared. Alexis Roudine’s villa was empty. So were Doctor Serge Ivanov’s house and the shady café where the subaltern agents of the criminal association met.
The balance-sheet of the affair was as follows:
The documents and apparatus related to Radiant Z were returned to the engineer Pierre Saint-Clair. Alas, though, struck by general paralysis, he was never able to resume his work, and his inventions in that instance were never realized. Leo Saint-Clair knew nothing! It was out of courage, and in order not to turn back the anger and desires of Sadi Khan and his gang on to his father that the sublime fellow had let Grigoryi believe that he was party to the secret!
Sadi Khan was not seen again, nor even identified. Doubtless he must have been, at a later date, among the companions of Lenin during the great revolution that turned Russia upside-down and orientated his destiny toward indiscernible ends.
Wenceslas Polki was never found, his abductors having killed him and thrown his heavily-weighed body into the deepest part of the lake.
As for Mademoiselle Aurora Malianova, when she learned about Jean Degains’ cunning via the narrative of the exploit recounted at the clinic, she retired discreetly to her room, in the most natural possible fashion. The next day she was found dead. She had taken a fatal dose of Veronal11 in an infusion of lime-flowers. It was believed to be a mistake.
And Leo Saint-Clair, who wept for her during long nocturnal hours, never revealed to anyone, save for his historiographer, that the nurse Aurora Malianova was the famous Katia Garcheva, the nihilist. Because she had almost caused his death, and because she had been his first love, he would never forget her, and never found within himself the cruel strength to detest her. For a very long time he must have been convinced that he would never love as profoundly, as sweetly or as desperately as he did in the unique week in which he became the Nyctalope, and in which he experienced passion, death and resurrection.
THE END
BLACK AND GOLD
by Emmanuel Gorlier
January 15, 1919. 10:25 p.m. The Paris-Barcelona express train rushed through the darkness. The storm above was about to burst; the clouds were speared by sporadic flashes of lightning, while deafening bursts of thunder filled the horizon.
In the berth of a first-class compartment, a man was vainly trying to sleep. His excitement was too great, and he could not keep his eyes from constantly returning to his briefcase. IT was at long last in his possession. IT: the precious document he had finally succeeded in acquiring. It was, of course, encoded, but he had bribed a corrupt officer of the French Deuxième Bureau and now possessed the key to the cipher used by the Black Corsair.
Once again the man reviewed the events of the past few days; in particular, the suspicious behavior of two guests who had
suddenly arrived at the hotel where he had been staying and seemed to be spying on him. Some of the staff, too, had seemed much too inquisitive… He had wondered if he was becoming paranoid! Still, he felt he had made the right decision by leaving suddenly without notifying anyone. There was too much at stake! He had left Spain on the first express train to Paris.
Outside, the storm finally burst and heavy drops of water began to fall on the sleeping car in a deluge. Soothed by the sound of the rain and the rhythm of the train, the Man finally fell asleep.
January 16. 2:15 a.m. Suddenly, the man woke up,. The rain had stopped. The air should have felt lighter, purer, but it was quite the opposite, the man felt sick, his chest burned. He was finding it difficult to breathe. His eyes were tearing. Seized with panic, he rushed to his briefcase, opened it and pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper, covered with figures. The lines seemed blurred. He staggered backward and fell onto his berth. The pains in his chest increased. He thought that if he lie down, he might be able to breathe easier…. But no! Everything grew dark. His hand dropped the precious document for which he had given so much. Seconds later, he was unconscious.
The same day. 9:50 a.m. Two men were sharing a copious continental breakfast in a plush residential house on rue Nansouty in Paris’ 14th arrondissement. They both shared a similar, aquiline profile, but one of them had gold-speckled eyes with the acuity of a hawk. His hair was cut short and his face was devoid of facial hair; his companion, however, looked more bohemian and sported a handlebar mustache. The man with the gold-speckled eyes was Leo Saint-Clair, the prodigious explorer known as the Nyctalope because of his uncanny ability to see in complete darkness. His guest was his biographer, the popular novelist Jean de La Hire. They both remained silent, enjoying the warm coffee, the buttered tartines, the croissants and jam that had been laid out for them by Corsat, the Nyctalope’s butler. Breakfast was not a time for talking, but for communing with food.
Twenty minutes later, comfortably installed in leather armchairs, they finally began to discuss their business.
“I had a meeting with Férenczi,” said La Hire. “He’s thrilled at the idea of publishing my novelization of your Martian expedition. I’m still waiting for the contract, but I think the book might come out as early as next year.”
“That is good news, Jean,” replied Leo gravely. “This publication is important to me; I want the public to learn that the benefits of our French civilization have now been exported to other celestial bodies. I plan to return to Mars someday. There is still much to be done there.” Then, after a pause: “Weren’t you supposed to introduce me to two of your colleagues?”
“Yes. Captain Cazal and a young writer named Alexandre Zorca; they should be here soon.”
Just then, Corsat entered and said:
“Sorry to disturb you, Monsieur, but Monsieur le Président is here and asks to see you at once.”
The Nyctalope stood up and offered his hand to Jean de La Hire.
“My dear Jean, I’m sorry to have to cut this meeting short, but pressing matters of state demand my attention. I’ll have to meet your friends another time.”
La Hire nodded.
“Yes, of course. I know they very much want to make your acquaintance.”
“I’ll talk to you soon. Good bye!”
As La Hire stepped out of the salon, he politely saluted the Président du Conseil who was rushing in, a grave expression of concern painted on his aristocratic face.
“Monsieur Valenglay, how can I be of service to France?” said the Nyctalope modestly.
“Monsieur Saint-Clair, my car is waiting. You must come with me. It is a matter of the greatest urgency. I will brief you in detail en route.”
10:30 a.m. A biting, icy wind was blowing through the halls of the Austerlitz Railway station on Paris’s left bank. An entire platform had been cordoned off by the police; Leo noticed that the Paris-Barcelona express was stopped there.
At the sight of Monsieur Valenglay and Leo Saint-Clair, the gendarmes saluted and let the two men through.
“Has Doctor Yersin arrived yet?” asked Valenglay.
The Nyctalope was acquainted with Alexandre Yersin, the French physician from the Institut Pasteur who, in 1895, had discovered the bacillus responsible for the dreaded bubonic plague and prepared the first serum. He had met him at his hospital in Hanoi during one of his journeys to the Far East.
“I thought Doctor Yersin as in Indochine?” he remarked.
“Luckily for us he is here on one of his regular visits to the Institut,” replied Valenglay.
“He’s examining the body,” answered the gendarme whom the Président had first addressed. “It’s through there.”
The Nyctalope and the politician stepped into the sleeping car. They quickly reached the compartment where Doctor Yersin was completing his examination of a dead man.
He turned round when he saw the two men.
“Monsieur Saint-Clair,” he said, recognizing the face of the brave, young explorer with pleasure. “What a surprise!”
“Monsieur Saint-Clair has agreed to help us with our investigation,” said Valenglay.
“There can be no better choice, Monsieur le Président,” replied the scientist. “In Nha Trang, the natives call him Son Tinh, the Mountain Spirit.”
“Is this a case of Spanish flu, doctor?” inquired Leo.
“No, Monsieur Saint-Clair. It is the most devastating case of pulmonary plague I have ever come across. This poor man was dead in mere hours…” Then, more furtively, he added: “As Monsieur Valenglay will corroborate, there has been a small epidemic in Europe in recent months, which is why the Institut asked me to return to Paris. In order to avoid a panic, we have not told the public and have instead blamed the deaths on Influenza.” 12
“I see,” said Leo, then turning towards Valenglay, he asked: “But I’m not a doctor, Monsieur le Président. What can I do?”
Valenglay coughed, took a gum drop from a box in his pocket, then replied:
“Today’s case is somewhat different. Monsieur Saint-Clair, and right down your alley, if I may put it that way. You certainly remember a certain Léo de Malterre, a.k.a. The Black Corsair, who, in 1912, stole a prototype submarine of revolutionary design from our Military. That wasn’t the first time such a thing happened: the wretched Lupin did the same in 1902, but unlike him, de Malterre declared war upon society because of some ill-understood grievances. To further his anarchistic ambitions, he had assembled a vast, criminal organization that trafficked with other, similarly notorious villains from across the globe…”
“I remember that quite well, Monsieur Valenglay. In fact, I, myself, played a modest part in the man’s downfall.”
“Yes, of course,” said the politician. “Then you will recall that eventually, an armistice of sorts was reached with de Malterre and all his men were pardoned. Recently, they have all begun to die, one by one, from this very same strain of pulmonary plague!”
“That is indeed odd.”
“But for the first time, we appear to have a clue,” said Doctor Yersin. “I found this page, written in some kind of code, amongst the dead man’s effects.”
In his hand, he held the yellow sheet of paper which the dead man had dropped before succumbing to the fatal disease.
The Nyctalope took the document and studied it with attention. Then, he frowned, as if a thought had struck him. His eyes looked beyond the platform, with its squadron of uniformed men, and focused on the shadow-shrouded rail yard meant for storing, sorting, loading and unloading cars next to the station.
“Do you have any anti-plague serum with you?” he asked the doctor.
“Of course!”
“I’ll need an injection,” said the Nyctalope, as he pulled up his sleeve.
Later that day. 3:07 p.m. The room was brightly lit by an array of electric lights. Everything in it was made of gold: the table, the chairs, a man-sized safe, presently ajar, revealing its dazzling contents: a collection of gold
coins from various eras: doubloons, thalers, écus… Even the artworks hanging on the wall were made of painted gold.
In its center was a solid gold statue of a man, struck in a visionary pose, pointing at the horizon as if heralding the dawn of a better day. Next to the statue, sitting in a gold armchair, was a man lost in a reverie, contemplating dark thoughts known only to him; it was in fact the man portrayed in the statue: Doctor Fisturn.
Doctor Fisturn had only one overriding obsession: gold. A promising biologist, he had been recruited by the Black Corsair and worked on the deadly strain of plague for which de Malterre had traded with the enigmatic Asian mastermind known in some parts of the world as “Doctor Natas.” During his brief encounters with Natas on behalf of the Black Corsair, Fisturn had learned that the scientist held another secret: he could make gold!
But Natas’ secret had been handed over to de Malterre himself on a carefully encrypted sheet of paper!
For seven years, despite the turmoil of the Great War, Fisturn had labored to disentangle the careful network of associates the Black Corsair had gathered around him. One by one, he had hunted these men in the hopes of finally getting his hands on the secret formula that would make him the Gold Maker! The King of the World!
He had used Natas’ deadly bacillus to kill all those who refused or thwarted him, or even threatened to expose him. In so doing, innocents had also perished. But as the saying went, it was all about the omelet and not the eggs…
Enter the Nyctalope Page 13