The Nyctalope on Mars 1: The Mystery of the Fifteen

by Jean de La Hire

The retirement of the young women to their respective bedrooms on the evening of September 17 was uniformly established by their relatives.

  No concierges were woken up by nocturnal exits.

  All the doors and windows were closed from the inside on the following morning; in Admiral de Ciserat’s establishment, there was no trace of suspicious footprints in the grounds, on the paths or in the garden.

  Thus, the young women had not gone out, nor had they been kidnapped by ordinary ways and means.

  As the mysterious points were in perfect concordance, and everything had occurred within an interval of time too narrow for a single abductor, even one of superhuman vigor and incalculable speed, to have kidnapped the young women by himself, it was necessary to admit that the abductions were the work of an association of individuals—and that the association in question comprised 15 members, as indicated by the inscription engraved on the dagger.

  Saint-Clair demonstrated, by means of evidence and clues that there is no need to reproduce here, since the fact is now established, that the 15 young women had been abducted while asleep, by way of skillfully-opened windows or hinged door-panels that had then been closed, and that the abductors had used aircraft of an unknown type, capable of hovering motionless in the air and of disembarking one or two passengers without needing to land.

  Who were the abductors? Where were they? What was the motive for the abductions? There, public opinion was left in the dark.

  Only Leo Saint-Clair, an intimate friend of the Ciserat family and fiancé of one of the missing young women, put on the trail by a bizarre paragraph in the Brussels Petit Bleu, could say, not that he knew who the kidnappers were or the motive for their amazing action, but that he had reason to suspect the exact location of their headquarters—for the news-item in the Petit Bleu combined, in Saint-Clair’s mind, with a myriad other clues without any apparent interconnection, but which a powerful deductive intelligence could link together.

  And that was why seven men—Admiral de Ciserat, having resigned as the Minister of Marine; Leo Saint-Clair, the famous explorer of Central Africa; the naval Ensign Damprich; Monsieur Bastien, personal secretary to Monsieur Sanglier, chief of the Sûreté; young Maximilien Jolivet, the brother of one of the missing women; Quartermaster Bontemps; and the valet Tory—met up at 11 in the morning of October 9 at the embarkation-point of the dirigible La Gironde, which was due to leave for the Congo at noon.

  III. The First Skirmish

  Two men within the group standing motionless on the dock were particularly remarkable. One of them, aged about 50, was tall and vigorous, with a fine martial bearing. His florid face was framed by trimmed side-whiskers, still black on color. His eyes had a glint of steel, and his upper lip, closely-shaven, long and fleshy, expressed a benevolent energy as well as the sensuality of a bon vivant. This was Admiral de Ciserat.

  The other, shorter than the first, was slender, but with a capacious chest and a very powerful neck. He gave an immediate impression of athleticism and vigor. He might have been 33 at the most. His clean-shaven face, square-jawed with prominent cheek-bones, thin lips unshaded by any moustache, and a manly chin, was strangely illuminated by extraordinary eyes. They were immense, very widely separated, and the dilated irises, of a peculiar golden yellow color, surrounded large circular black pupils, as profound, dark and disturbing as the eyes of a sphinx: a bizarre caprice of nature. This man, who was very handsome and very seductive in the splendor of his energetic masculinity, had the eyes of a hypnotist, like those of the predatory birds that are, in the sky, the kings of the night. He was Leo Saint-Clair, the fiancé of Mademoiselle Xavière de Ciserat, the celebrated explorer who had torn away the veil of mystic Tibet and ploughed through the virgin forests of Central Africa. He was nicknamed the Nyctalope, because of the rare faculty his eyes had of seeing as much and better at night than in broad daylight.

  Like the other members of the expedition, Ciserat and Saint-Clair were dressed in khaki costumes, shod in boots that extended half way up their calves, and wore colonial helmets on their heads. Each held a little valise in his hand, their luggage having being stowed in the large hold that the great dirigibles of the line carried underneath the compartment with conical extremities reserved for the passengers. The roof of this compartment was occupied toward the front by the machinery and the different controls for steering and elevation, while the rear served as a promenade deck for the passengers. Glass sheets, established at an acute angle to the direction of travel so as to block the wind, permitted the passengers to spend time on the promenade deck even when traveling at high speed, without being unbalanced by the formidable displacement of air. This carriage was visible, dominated by the enormous yet elegant mass of the spindle-shaped balloon, moored to the dock, the promenade deck having been established flush with the platform on which the passengers were waiting.

  Suddenly, the barrier that separated the platform from the promenade deck was opened by a crewman, and the travelers embarked. Among the 20 or so passengers that followed the Admiral’s party was an old man with a long white beard, bowed down by age, walking awkwardly. He was the last to board.

  Five minutes later, La Gironde’s siren released a strident signal. The dock supervisor blew on his whistle, and the dirigible moved off majestically at its slow starting speed. It crossed the river, on the north bank of which, near to the large railway bridge, the embarkation dock—a tower 100 meters tall—had been built.

  While the passengers were being installed in their cabins before reuniting in the dining-room for the first meal of the voyage, La Gironde, gradually accelerating her speed, went along the Garonne, which she soon left over Langon to steer south-westwards. She had to pass over the republic of Andorra, Barcelona and the Balearics, cross the Mediterranean to Algiers, where she would put down and take on a bag of dispatches, then go due to south to Timbuktu, where she would bear east by an eighth of the compass to reach Brazzaville. It was a journey of about 6000 kilometers—which, at an average speed of 90 kilometers per hour, the dirigible would complete in 66 hours. Having left Bordeaux at noon on October 9, La Gironde would therefore set down at Brazzaville on the October 12 at about 6 a.m.

  In the dining-room, where the members of the Ciserat expedition were clustered at the end of the table, Saint-Clair made these calculations in a low voice and concluded: “At Brazzaville, 24 hours will suffice for us to organize the aerial flotilla, comprising the aircraft that are waiting for us and the four we’re carrying. A few hours more and we’ll be at the Leopoldville lake. There’s I’ll take charge of finding the trail.”

  Seated to Saint-Clair’s right, but separated from him by two place-settings, an old man with a large white beard was eating slowly. He was apparently indifferent to what was said around him, whether to his left, where de Ciserat’s companions were talking in low voices, or to his right, where the other passengers were informing one another on aeronautical matters. While eating, however, the old man darted glances towards Saint-Clair, and—a strange thing—Bastien, who was sitting on the other side of the table, facing the Nyctalope, often met the old man’s eyes with his own. Only one member of the company happened to see this interplay, and that was Ensign Damprich, the Admiral’s orderly.

  The afternoon passed without the slightest incident. Most of the passengers—there were 32 in all—remained on the promenade deck, not neglecting to admire the panorama that was unrolling beneath them. They crossed the Pyrenees at an altitude of 3000 meters, almost brushing the summit of Montcalm, which is 3,080 meters high. Muffled by their furs—for the thermometer marked 30 degrees below zero—the passengers released cries of admiration, so prodigious was the spectacle of the snowy peaks set afire by oblique sunlight, and the gulfs in which darkness was climbing.

  When the Pyrenees had been crossed, they descended again to 1500 meters. Before dinner, as the Sun set, Barcelona was sighted. Soon afterwards, La Gironde was over the sea.

  As they left the table, at about 9 p.m., Ensign Dam
prich contrived to let Bastien pass ahead of him and to hold back Saint-Clair, in whose ear he murmured: “I need to talk to you on the deck. Leave Bastien to chat with the Admiral. We’ve been betrayed!”

  Saint-Clair quivered, and a vivid redness colored his pale cheeks.

  Three minutes later, the explorer and the Ensign were elbow-to-elbow at the dirigible’s stern, in a corner of the promenade deck that was utterly deserted. The deck was steeped in darkness, alleviated solely the luminous beam projected by an electric navigation-light. They were taking in low voices, and the wind carried their words away into the night.

  “Well?” the Nyctalope had said.

  “Have you noticed anything strange about Bastien?” the Ensign had immediately asked.

  “Bastien? Anything strange? No.”

  “I have.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “First of all, do you remember how insistent he was, in Paris, to be made part of the expedition.”

  “That could be zeal, curiosity, or the spirit of adventure.”

  “It could—but it could be espionage.”

  “Oh!”

  “Listen to this. On the night of October 8, in Bordeaux, Bastien left the hotel at 1 a.m., secretly. He came back at 5 a.m., without making a sound, with his cap pulled down over his eyes and the collar of his overcoat lifted up. He had left the door of his room ajar. He never mentioned that excursion to us. Why?”

  Saint-Clair shook his head. “Go on,” he said. “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No, that’s not all. Here, in his cabin, this afternoon, Bastien had a meeting with a passenger.”

  “What passenger?”

  “The old man who was sitting to your right at table.”

  “Ah! Is that all?”

  “No. Bastien and the old man, during the meeting that I discovered, arranged to meet again tonight, here on the deck.”

  “Oh!”

  “Wait! Just now while you were admiring the Pyrenees, Bastien went into your cabin and made a careful search of your portmanteau.”

  “Damn!” Saint-Clair shivered. There was a pause. “Thank you, Damprich. That’s enough for me to keep a close watch on the fellow. But how were you led to spy on him? I never would have thought of it; I got him from that chap Sanglier, and Sanglier isn’t a trusting man.”

  “I’m extremely nervous, Monsieur Saint-Clair, and nervous people, in addition to being more suspicious than other people, have a sort of warning instinct that puts them on their guard against a potential enemy. This Bastien has been antipathetic to me since I first saw him—and I’ve looked at him hard.”

  “More and better than I have myself. Thanks again. One more thing.”

  “Speak.”

  “You weren’t able to overhear their conversation, during their meeting?”

  “No,” the Ensign replied. “They were taking in whispers. I heard the fixing of the rendezvous because one of them dropped something at that point, and was obliged, doubtless in order to pick it up, to come closer to the partition-wall behind which I was stationed.”

  “Damn! Damn! This Bastien takes a lot of precautions to talk to an individual we don’t know. Have you told the Admiral about all this?”

  “No, not a word.”

  “That’s good. No need to worry him until we no everything. I’ll bring the matter into the light before much longer.” Saint-Clair took a box of cigars from his pocket and an automatic cotton-lighter insensible to the wind. He took a cigar, cut it in two, put one half between his teeth and gave the other half to Damprich. Then he lit them. “Let’s rejoin the Admiral,” he said. “He must be in the billiard-room. If Bastien is there, our half-consumed cigars will make him think that we’ve simply been taking an after-dinner stroll in the open air.”

  Two minutes later, cigars in mouth, Saint-Clair and Damprich went into the little billiard-room, adroitly accommodated in the middle of the dirigible, arranged so that La Gironde would not disturb its horizontal disposition.

  The Admiral, Bastien and young Maximilien Jolivet, who also had cigars in their mouths, were watching Bontemps and Tory, who were competing in a skillful game of billiards. A few passengers, arranged in a semicircle, were following the contest interestedly. Without any formality, Saint-Clair and Damprich stopped by the billiard-table, at an equal distance from the group formed by the Admiral, Bastien and Jolivet and he semicircle of other spectators.

  The old man was standing in the middle of the semicircle, attentive to the progress of the red and white balls.

  Moving with the most innocent casualness, Saint-Clair paced back and forth for a while, then let himself fall into an armchair as if he were tired—but sat in such a manner as not to be seen by Bastien, and to have a perfect view of the face of the suspect old man.

  He was a man evidently bowed down by age, his beard, moustache and hair sparkling with whiteness. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a large traveling cap. Doubtless sensitive to cold, he was wearing a fur-lined cloak fastened behind his beard. He was leaning on a stout walking-stick with a silver pommel, and he appeared to be following the billiard game excitedly.

  Saint-Clair had concentrated all the radiance of his eyes and the efforts of his intelligence on the well-to-do old man, but he saw nothing except the appearance the stranger presented to everyone’s eyes. Oh! he said to himself. Is Damprich mistaken? In any case, if he’s right and Bastien is complicit with this man in some treachery, I’ll have to play a strong hand, for this old fellow seems too innocent not to have considerable intelligence and physical strength. Is he actually an old man, though? The hair, the moustache and the beard might all be false. Tall men can easily give the impression of being bent over by advanced age, and a fur-lined cloak might serve admirably to conceal a fine and solid figure...

  Saint-Clair was reflecting thus when Quartermaster Bontemps, having contrived a particularly skillful cannon, cried: “Two hundred! I win, Tory. Until tomorrow, and the return match!”

  “Let’s go to bed,” said the Admiral.

  Saint-Clair’s eyes never left the old man. He saw him nod his head approvingly, without it being evident whether he was approving of Bontemps’ coup or the Admiral’s words. Separating himself from the other passengers, who were gathering together, the old man slowly made his way out of the room, leaning on his stick as if he had difficulty walking.

  At that moment, Bastien said to Admiral de Ciserat: “I’m going to finish my cigar on deck. Goodnight, Admiral.”

  “Goodnight, sir!”

  “Are you coming, Monsieur Damprich?” Bastien asked, as he passed the Ensign.

  “No—I have some work to do for the Admiral.”

  “And Monsieur Saint-Clair?” Bastien went on. “Where is he?”

  “Here, here, my dear Bastien—and I haven’t finished my cigar. I’ll come with you. Good evening, Admiral, Damprich… Until tomorrow, Jolivet.”

  “Take care, my dear friend,” Damprich murmured in his ear. “I have a bad feeling—take care!”

  “Don’t worry,” Saint-Clair replied, confidently, while Bastien went ahead. “And above all, don’t follow me—stay in your cabin. People bump into one another in every corner here—you’d alert them, and that mustn’t happen.”

  They exchanged one last glance, and Saint-Clair went out of the room with Bastien.

  On the promenade deck, they walked up and down, exchanging banal remarks and apparently thinking of nothing but finishing off their cigars and enjoying the mildness of the night. La Gironde must have been at a very low altitude, for the noise of the waves on the heavy sea was distinctly audible.

  The Nyctalope had studied Bastien carefully from the corner of his eye, without catching any evidence in his expression of impatience or irritation.

  Perhaps they haven’t arranged a meeting for tonight, he said to himself, or perhaps it’s for much later.

  Saint-Clair was the first to throw away his cigar-butt; extending two fingers, he said: “Until tomorrow, Bastien. I�
��m going to bed.”

  “I won’t be long in doing likewise, Monsieur, for my cigar is almost finished. Goodnight!”

  Saint-Clair went down the stairway that led to his cabin, but once he was out of Bastien’s sight, he went straight to the cabin that Bontemps and Tory were sharing. The two men, smoking pipes, were playing cards on one of the bunks. Sitting in front of them, Maximilien Jolivet was counting the tricks.

  “Quickly!” said Saint-Clair, after carefully closing the door. “Quickly, Tory—my old man disguise.” And while Tory, before the astonished Bontemps and Jolivet, opened a trunk and took out various packages, Saint-Clair went on: “Did you notice the old man with the large white beard who was watching you play billiards? I need to look like him—hurry up!”

  For five minutes, there was an uninterrupted succession of rapid and precise movements, by which Saint-Clair was transformed into a man bowed down by age, with a moustache, beard and hair glittering with whiteness. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a large traveling cap.

  “My fur-lined cloak! It isn’t exactly similar to the other one, but in the dark…” And he put on the large fur-lined coat that Tory presented to him.

  “Now the stick! Good, perfect! Hand me a dagger.”

  “There must be danger, sir,” Tory hazarded.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then I’ll follow you, sir.”

  “No! Stay here—resume your card game.”

  “But sir…”

  “Sit down, Tory!”

  “As sir wishes.”

  “As for you, my dear Bontemps, mouth shut, eh?”

  “Even for the Admiral, sir?”

  “Even for the Admiral. I’ll undertake to tell him everything myself if it becomes necessary—but for the moment, it’s in his interest not to know anything.”

  “All right, sir. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “Perfect.”

  And Saint-Clair left the cabin. With his right hand, he leaned on his stick; with the left, he clutched the hilt of a short and solid dagger in the pocket of his fur coat. Rapidly, he went up to the promenade deck, but one he had arrived there he walked slowly, bent over, apparently hesitating as to which direction to take. He was not really hesitating, though, for his Nyctalope’s eyes permitted him to distinguish the smallest details of the promenade deck in the darkness—and he shivered when he saw a man motionless in the shadows. It was Bastien.