“Maybe he did.”
“You’re right, Gno. His departure towards the Forges might just have been a feint. Once he had seen us rush towards the ravine, he pretended to go in that direction, then he must have stopped and spied on us, watching our every movement. While we went back up to the farm, he backtracked and fled to Spain. He is a powerful and careful foe...”
“But I’m certain you’ll get the best of him, my dear Saint-Clair.”
“I hope so. But for now, the only thing we can do is wait for the outcome of the notary’s advertisement.”
But two days later, they received the following message from Maître Loureille:
The advertisement that you suggested has become unnecessary. We have been forestalled. Read the attached text of an announcement that appeared this morning in several newspapers.
The Nyctalope and Gno Mitang read:
Anyone able to provide information about Madame Lise Andrézieux and young Yves Marécourt, her ward, 12 years-old, are invited to contact the Argos Agency, Boulevard Magenta, Paris. All expenses will be reimbursed. The persons in question left Folambray in June 1940 and were traveling by car on the road from Paris to Orleans.
“Let’s go and pay a visit to the Argos Agency,” Saint-Clair decided.
When they entered the Agency’s offices, which looked rather shabby, the Nyctalope and Gno Mitang were immediately certain that it was one of those shady private detective agencies that usually catered to questionable customers.
The director was a small man, sly and furtive, who jumped when Leo Saint-Clair announced his name.
“Saint-Clair? The Nyctalope? What an honor!” he stammered, wriggling and snapping the knuckles of his long and dirty fingers. “And you’re here to provide me with information about...?”
“First, I want to the name and relationship of the person who is interested in the fate of the Marécourt boy,” said the Nyctalope abruptly. “I personally witnessed the death of Madame Andrézieux and I do have fairly accurate information about the fate of young Yves Marécourt. What I have to tell you is important enough that I can only do so carefully and with certain assurances.”
“Certainly… Certainly... I understand what you’re saying,” stammered the director, visibly worried. “If you were anyone else, Monsieur Saint-Clair, I would say that I am mandated to gather the evidence and judge its value first, but of course, I would never dream of saying that you. You are the Nyctalope. Besides, my client is a perfectly honorable man, and I don’t think he’ll mind at all if I refer you directly to him. His name is Monsieur Philogène Porcien. He told me he is the cousin of the Marécourt boy. Here is his address...”
“Tell him to expect my visit tomorrow,” said Saint-Clair.
After exchanging a handshake, he left, followed by Gno Mitang.
“Naturally,” said the Japanese, “you’re not going to wait and you plan to see Monsieur Porcien immediately?
“Yes, but I also think that it might be interesting to monitor his actions after I’ve seen him and he believes I’ve truly left. I count on you to carry out a discreet surveillance.”
Chapter IV
The Eyes of a Tiger
Leo Saint-Clair left the metro at the Alesia station, walked down the Avenue du Maine and turned into the Rue du Chateau, where Monsieur Philogène Porcien lived, according to the address the Director of the Argos Agency had given him.
After finding the number of the house he wanted, Saint-Clair climbed to the fourth floor and rang the bell. The door remained closed for several minutes until an ageless, ordinary maid opened it, staring at the visitor with empty eyes.
“May I see Monsieur Porcien?” asked the Nyctalope.
The maid let Saint-Clair into a dark, cramped hallway and left. She returned almost immediately.
“Monsieur is coming,” she said.
Saint-Clair did not sit down, but instead went to the single window to look out. On the other side of the street, which, at that hour, was full of women with shopping bags, was a small hotel. Looking down, he saw a small, recognizable silhouette cross its threshold.
It was Gno Mitang, but a Gno Mitang unrecognizable under a disguise that had erased all his class and style.
The Nyctalope smiled and turned around. Monsieur Porcien had just arrived.
“What do you want, Monsieur?” he inquired.
Was this the same man who had been behind the wheel of the infamous sports car they had glimpsed in June 1940 on the Orleans road? The same car they had seen driving towards Somport shortly after the murder of the gypsy? It was possible, but not certain. Something baffled Saint-Clair, who was endowed with a powerful sense of physiognomy and an excellent memory for faces. It was the other man’s eyes, which were now visible, but which bad been hidden behind driving goggles the first two times they had seen him.
The eyes of a tiger, thought Saint-Clair.
The Nyctalope introduced himself, but his name did not elicit any reaction from Monsieur Porcien.
“Why do I have the honor…?”
In a calm and perfectly neutral tone, Saint-Clair stated the reason for his visit:
“Monsieur, I have been sent to you by the Director of the Argos Agency, whom I went to see in response to an advertisement that he claimed you asked him to place. He felt that the information which I have in my possession should be brought and disclosed to you without delay.
“I see. And what do you have to tell me?” asked Monsieur Porcien blandly.
“I understand that you are looking for a lady, Madame Andrézieux, and a young boy named Yves Marécourt, who both disappeared during the Exodus?”
Monsieur Porcien raised his eyes towards Heaven and sighed deeply.
“I’m not the only one in France who’s worried about a missing relative!” he replied in a long-suffering voice.
“So you’re related to these two people?” said Saint-Clair.
“Only to the boy, yes, Monsieur. His grandfather was the uncle of my poor mother. Not a close relation perhaps, but I believe that the poor child has no other relative beside myself. It is, therefore, natural that I am concerned about his fate. As for Madame Andrézieux, we’re not related, but I do know of her devotion to the family…”
“Then I can inform you of her death without it causing too much grief,” said the Nyctalope.
The man with the tiger’s eyes stared at him for a moment.
“Are you sure she’s dead?”
“I witnessed it myself. She died in the explosion of the bridge of Orleans.”
The eyes again became hooded. Monsieur Porcien heaved another sigh.
“The poor woman... What about young Yves?”
Watching the man closely, without seeming to, Saint-Clair said:
“I have every reason to believe that he was kidnapped by some gypsies. I found his trail recently, near the Spanish border. Do you know the Forges d’Abel?”
“No, Monsieur,” replied Monsieur Porcien without hesitation.
“You’ve never been in that region... A fortnight ago, for instance?”
“I haven’t left Paris for a month. My housekeeper will attest to it.”
Saint-Clair tried to deal a decisive blow.
“Do you own a sports car?”
“Alas! I had one, but it was stolen at around the same time you mentioned. I reported it to the police. Is that all you had to tell me?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Saint-Clair. Might I ask you to inform Maître Loureille, notary at Folembray, of Madame Andrézieux’s death?”
“I shall gladly do so,” said Saint-Clair in his best poker face.
Then, the Nyctalope bowed before leaving.
“And on your end, if you learn something regarding the boy...”
“I shall not fail to let you know.”
Saint-Clair heaved a sigh of relief. He was finally free from the presence of the heinous character. Once outside, he walked away purposefully without looking back, without
checking the windows. Yet, on the fourth floor, a single hand raised a curtain. Two tigerish eyes full of hatred followed the Nyctalope.
Pretending he was unaware, Leo Saint-Clair disappeared at the end of the street, walking towards the bridge across the railway from Montparnasse Station.
At the end of the day, after returning to his house in the Rue du Commandeur, Leo Saint-Clair finally received the telephone call he had been expecting. The familiar voice he heard was that of Gno Mitang.
“Very well,” said the Nyctalope, after listening to his friend’s report. “Your observation post is good, right in front of the building we want to monitor—perfect. Yes, I noticed that hotel. I’ll meet you tonight.”
At the appointed hour, the two friends, installed near the window of their modest hotel room, exchanged their first impressions.
“I saw Monsieur Porcien,” said Saint-Clair. I have the feeling that we were correct in our suspicions and are on the right track. His interest is obvious. If the Marécourt boy dies, and if he can somehow prove that he had nothing to do with his death, he stands to inherit ten million francs, as the child’s only relative. He is one of the most abject and ferocious men I’ve ever met. His entire character is painted on his face. One thing surprises me, however; why did he wait two years without attempting anything against the boy’s life. He had to have him in his power, since he arranged his kidnapping. I am so certain of it that I would bet my life on it.”
“I’m sure we’ll find an explanation for it eventually,” said Gno Mitang.
“So am I.”
“Did he suspect you?”
“He certainly is on his guard and has already skillfully prepared his alibi. But he’s far too clever for his own good. The very speed with which he tried to meet my suspicions and defend himself, proves him guilty. He claims that his car was stolen shortly before the date of the gypsy’s murder. He even reported it to the police. And he cites the testimony of his loyal and devoted maid to establish his presence in Paris at the exact time. I repeat: it is all too clever, and feels like a well-rehearsed story.”
“He watched you leave, but has not left home since your visit,” said the Japanese.
“Again, he’s on his guard. He’s going to try to lull our suspicions, but we won’t give up. Sooner or later, he’ll lead us to the child. You can relax now, my friend. I’ll continue to watch his house. The night might be dark, but you know that darkness means nothing to me. Where did you leave your car?”
“In a nearby garage, Avenue du Maine. It’s available to us at any time, day or night.”
“Excellent! I’m sure we’ll need it, but probably not immediately. Besides, I doubt that Porcien will venture out after curfew. Sleep. You can take over from me in the morning.”
This program was faithfully followed for several days, during which nothing significant happened. Philogène Porcien did not put his nose outside and received no visits. Only his maid went out to buy food. When one of the hotel bellhops questioned the concierge of Porcien’s house, the man said that their target had not received any mail recently. The riddle remained unsolved.
One morning, Gno woke Saint-Clair, who had just lain down.
“Finally something new. I’ve just watched one of the gypsy women that we see hanging around the streets of Paris enter Porcien’s building. Could she be a messenger?”
“Since he killed one of their own, she might be delivering a message of vengeance… We need to know the purpose of her visit.”
“Do you want me to go down and follow her when she comes out?”
“Yes, why not? It might prove useful. Meanwhile I’ll continue to keep watch over Porcien.”
The two friends parted. From his window, the Nyctalope saw the Japanese stroll away, but careful to not lose sight of the entrance to Porcien’s building.
The gypsy woman came out soon after, and Gno Mitang followed her.
Then, following one of the hunches that made him the extraordinary individual he was, the Nyctalope rang the bellhop and asked him to fetch Gno’s car from the garage and bring it to the hotel’s entrance at once.
“I may need it soon,” he said. “Pay the garage and keep the rest for you.”
Richer by quite a few bank notes, the boy went running with great zeal, and discreetly followed the Nyctalope’s instructions.
Installed behind the curtains, Leo Saint-Clair kept watch. Soon, Gno’s car appeared and parked a few meters away from the hotel. The bellhop got out.
Meanwhile, a second car arrived and stopped exactly at the door of Porcien’s building.
He must have ordered it by phone, thought the Nyctalope. This is consistent with my predictions. The plot thickens.
Indeed, it did not take long until the man with tiger eyes came outside. Without appearing to notice the other car, he dismissed the driver, took his place behind the wheel and started the engine.
Saint-Clair had just enough time to leave his room, run down the stairs and rush behind the wheel of their own car.
Porcien’s car was already at the end of the street and turning into the Avenue du Maine, in the direction of the church of Montrouge. The Nyctalope strove to follow, while remaining at a sufficient distance so as not to be noticed.
He stood ready, his foot on the accelerator, to avert any eventuality of Porcien trying to escape.
But his target did not appear interested in doing so. Either Porcien didn’t realize he was followed, or he believed he would be able to lose any pursuer any time he wished. In any event, he continued driving at a steady but reasonable pace.
Is he trying to flee from the revenge of the gypsies? Or is he on his way to an appointment? Or perhaps he is being coerced into some kind of action? wondered St. Clair. If so, I have a chance of finding the gypsy woman and my friend Gno again at the end of that journey.
Welcoming this perspective, he was still sorry that he and Gno had parted without any way of contacting each other, should it become necessary. He didn’t even know which direction the Japanese had taken. If Gno, having lost the trail of the gypsy woman, or brought some important information, back to the hotel, he would find no instructions waiting for him there, and Saint-Clair berated himself for having left in such a hurry without making plans.
It was too late to entertain such regrets. He had to follow Porcien, who now required all of his concentration; Porcien remained the main character at the center of this drama, the one who held the key to solving the mystery.
We seem to be taking the road to Orleans, thought Saint-Clair after an hour. Does he intend to retrace the fateful path of the abductors of Yves Marécourt?
But in Etampes, Porcien, taking advantage of the passing of several trucks, suddenly increased his speed and disappeared from view.
The Nyctalope frowned. Was it a fortuitous incident, without premeditation or meaning? Or was it carefully anticipated and planned?
He hesitated a few seconds and rushed toward the exit for Etampes. Porcien’s car was no match for Gno Mitang’s. Putting his engine into a higher gear, Leo Saint-Clair knew that he could easily catch up with the other car if Porcien had simply wanted to get ahead. If, on the other hand, he did not see it after a few kilometers, having taken the precaution of jotting down the make and license number, he would backtrack and start look at the smaller roads which his target might have taken to escape him.
At first, he thought his fears had been unfounded, when, a few minutes, he saw a car in the distance that looked like Porcien’s. Increasing his speed, he got closer to it and verified that it was indeed the case.
But he scarcely had the time to wonder why it had taken so little time to catch up, when a new incident occurred. The other car suddenly slowed down.
Suspecting a ruse, but unwilling to betray himself by stopping too, Saint-Clair forced himself to continue, only at a slower speed.
But the other car had parked across the road, blocking passage, forcing the Nyctalope to brake and stop barely two meters away.
&
nbsp; Two men immediately got out. Neither of them was Monsieur Porcien, who also was no longer inside the car. Staring at it, Saint-Clair could clearly see that it was empty. He understood that Porcien had outsmarted him.
The two men approached his car and called out to him loudly.
“Why are you following us? Who are you? Come out now!”
Two revolvers were pointed at Saint-Clair who had no choice but to obey and step out.
He was immediately grabbed round the throat by one of the men, while the other one crushed him between two arms of steel.
“We’ll teach you to be curious!” they sneered.
Meanwhile, sitting quietly in a cafe in Etampes, Monsieur Philogène Porcien was enjoying his lunch—and the success of his ruse.
It had all been very simple. Before leaving, he had called the unscrupulous Director of the Argos Agency.
“Hello! Porcien here! I am leaving to take care of you-know-what. But that damn Nyctalope is bound to follow me. If he does, I can kiss success good-bye—and you can forget the commission I’ve promised to pay you. So it’s up to you to help me now. I’ll make sure I arrive in Etampes at exactly 11:45 a.m. You must have a truck parked at the entrance of the Rue Saint-Jacques, and another at Rue Saint-Martin to slow down Saint-Clair. The first truck will provide me with cover to stop and get away. Then, have two of your most trusted men wait for me, ready to take my place in the car. I will give them my instructions before disappearing.”
All had gone according to Porcien’s wishes. Now he only waited to hear the result of his ruse. He had told the waiter that someone would be calling for him on the telephone.
The bell rang. He rushed into the cabin.
“Hello! Denis, here. Did you succeed?”
“Completely, boss. You can go ahead with no problem. The job’s done. The guy won’t bother you again.”
“Excellent! May the Devil take the soul of the Nyctalope!”
And chuckling ominously, Monsieur Philogène Porcien returned to his interrupted lunch.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 4