Freed from the presence of two children, Miarka and Monsieur Porcien had first glared at each other in silence.
They did not need to speak to understand one another. They shared the same natural ferocity, and an equal lack of scruples bound them together more tightly than the most explicit of contracts.
“So—what are we going to do with the boy?” said the gypsy at last.
“You know as much as I do now,” said Porcien. “If the boy dies, I’ll get the inheritance that has been denied to me.”
“If he dies…” repeated Miarka slowly.
“But only in circumstances that cannot incriminate either of us,” hastened to add the monster. “His death needs to be natural. I mean, it can’t look like the result of a crime. The police would wonder who would profit from such a crime, and I would immediately become their prime suspect. Once they investiage me, they’ll quickly find you...”
“And you’d lose the inheritance,” said Miarka thoughtfully. “I understand perfectly. How much are we talking about?”
“Several million,” said Porcien, whose eyes sparkled with cupidity. “At least, ten. Maybe even twenty. Anyway, there’s more than enough for both of us…”
“How much would I get?”
“How much do you want?”
“I want an equal split,” said the gypsy boldly. “My risk is just as great as yours, and my job far more demanding, because I expect that you’re going to ask me to carry out your plan. And I don’t need to guess what that is. You already saidit: the child has to die.”
“But only under the circumstances I’ve described.”
“We’ll discuss the details. But you can see how difficult my task is. So I’m not asking too much by wanting an equal share. Fifty-fifty. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I agree,” replied Porcien, after a slight hesitation. “You’re greedy, but I accept that if you do everything that you promise, you’ll have earned your share.” And quietly, the horrible man added: “Since we can’t control disease, the boy must die a violent death. It has to look like an accident. A harsh blow of Fate. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course,” replied the gypsy, shrugging. “You’re thinking of an accident that could be arranged beforehand… Something going wrong…”
“And that would happen right in front of an audience. That’s essential to prevent suspicion.”
“During one of our performances…”
She said no more, but had made a gesture to indicate that that she understood Philogène Porcien perfectly.
Nodding his head, he approved:
“Yes, during a public performance… Quite right,” he murmured. “And the girl too. The accident will be two-fold. It will seem more natural and will divert suspicion away from your family. So we’re in agreement. See you soon.”
In the trailer next door, Phoena, terrified, stepped down from her box and backed away in fear.
“They want to kill my friend Yves,” she moaned. “And me too. But I won’t let them!... I won’t!”
A week later, at nightfall, a poor-looking trailer arrived on the outskirts of Bordeaux and stopped in a vacant lot.
Inside, Miarka watched over Yves Marécourt, rendered silent by his gag and reduced to immobility by the straps which imprisoned his arms and chest.
Seated on a bundle of rags, Phoena wept silently.
Outside, Dorr was keeping watch and protected the occupants of the trailer from any intruders.
Later that evening, the door opened.
“This is the gentleman you were expecting,” Dorr announced.
And he showed in Philogène Porcien, who wore a false beard that made him unrecognizable. Under his arm, he carried several packages which he laid on the floor of the trailer.
“Here’s enough to make you all look nice and presentable,” he said.
“So you found us an engagement?”
“Yes! A splendid one! And unexpected too! You start in two days at the World Circus with a sensational new act.”
“I expected no less of you,” said Miarka. “You’ll have to give me some idea as to what kind of act we’re supposed to perform.”
“I had to pay a good price,” said Porcien, “to buy the equipment and the right to continue doing the act under the name as its previous owner. It would have been impossible to get you the engagement without it. But now it’s all confirmed. Starting tonight, you’ll present to the public the most terrifying circus act ever, something called the ‘sphere of death.’ It’s a metal ball that’s launched from the top of the tent onto the rim of a giant, vertical wheel. An ingenious mechanism keeps the ball in contact with the rim, so that it makes a full circle before returning to its starting point, where it automatically locks. At that moment, there is a twist that tightens the throats of the public and even draws cries of horror from the most impressionable spectators. The sphere opens and two children, who’d been locked inside, appear to fall to the ground. In reality, they’re held by invisible wires which stop them in mid-fall. They then seem to float gracefully through the air, sending kisses to the audience, before being slowly lowered to the sand of the ring, where they receive a storm of applause.
“I don’t need to belabor the point. Tonight, and for several other performances, Dorr and Phoena will be inside the ball. Then, when it’s clear to everyone that this is a perfectly safe act, you’ll replace Dorr with my young cousin. On that night, the invisible wires, presumably worn out by friction, will break. And that will be the accident we need. Yves and Phoena will fall and crash onto the ring. It’s a fifty foot fall; I don’t think we need to be concerned that they’ll survive it. As you can see, I’ve arranged for Phoena to share Yves’ fate. First, we are thus assured of her silence and, second, it’ll be harder to accuse you of having engineered an accident, when one of the victims is your own daughter.”
“It’s perfect,” agreed Miarka coldly.
The following week, when everything had so far gone exactly to Monsieur Porcien’s plan, Miarka decided to move on to the final act.
She did, however, make the mistake of whispering a few words to José, which caught the ear of the attentive Phoena.
“Tonight is the night!”
It was, therefore, in a mad state of anguish that the girl left for the night’s performance. As for Yves Marécourt, rendered mute by the gag, he had no idea that the evening would be any different from any of the previous ones.
Once backstage at the circus, he let José drag him to the rafters of the tent, and the small gangway that gave access to the sphere of death, immobilized on the rim of the giant wheel.
José stood behind the boy. Suddenly, just as Miarka entered the ring, followed by Dorr and Phoena, the gypsy hit the back of Yves’ head with a truncheon. Stunned, the boy immediately collapsed. José then grabbed his body and placed him, unconscious, inside the open sphere.
In the middle of the ring, the trio had stopped and was greeted by applause from spectators. Near the two young performers were two ropes that hung down from the rafters and which they would climb to reach the sphere above.
In response to the applause, Miarka and Dorr bowed, smiled and waved to the crowd.
But, in a box opposite the one where Monsieur Porcien sat, Leo Saint-Clair and his friend Gno Mitang also watched the show attentively.
There are several events to explain, which will enable the reader to better understand the respective positions of all the participants of this unfolding drama.
First, we return to June 28, when the Nyctalope was the victim of an aggression by Philogène Porcien’s two henchmen.
Seized by the throat, grabbed by two powerful arms, Saint-Clair appeared to be helpless. He gave the impression that he had accepted his defeat and was giving up all resistance. Fooled by his attitude, more apparent than real, the two assailants felt triumphant and slightly eased their grips.
Suddenly, Saint-Clair acted. With a superhuman effort, he broke the hold of the arms that kept him prisoner. Then he stepped back three p
aces and faced his enemies. He sank to the ground, head first, performing a masterful somersault. Then his legs and feet arced through the air and violently struck his opponent’s diaphragm.
The gangster collapsed, groaning. Immediately, Saint-Clair stood up, leapt upon him, and snatched the revolver that the man was still holding. He then hit the man with its butt, rendering him unconscious. The other gangster was taken by surprise, having barely had time to register the scene.
Saint-Clair shot twice, with his usual precision. His first shot broke the gangster’s right wrist, the second lodged itself in his left forearm.
“Bull’s eye,” said the Nyctalope coldly. “You’re finished. If you don’t want the next shot through your head, you’ll answer my questions... Who told you to attack me?”
“Some guy we met in Etampes, who gave us the car. After we’d taken care of you, we were to drive to Orleans and leave the car in a garage. He gave us the address. We’re also supposed to report to him by phone.”
“What number?”
“A restaurant in Etampes… I’m to ask for Denis.”
The Nyctalope forced the two men, now manacled, into his car and quickly drove back to Etampes. His next moves were already clear in his mind.
First, he would entrust the two gangsters to the care of the local gendarmes. Then, he went to the post office and dialed the number that his prisoner had given him
“We’re in Orleans,” he lied brazenly, when he spoke to “Denis.” “You can go ahead with no problem. The job’s done. The guy won’t bother you again.”
The brief conversation ended, he went to lie in wait near the train station. His suspicions were justified. It wasn’t long before Monsieur Porcien arrived. The Nyctalope saw him walk into the station, buy a ticket and go to the platform. He took the next train, traveling in the direction of Orleans.
After the train had left, Saint-Clair went to find the station master, identified himself and easily obtained the information he sought: Monsieur Porcien had purchased a ticket to Artenay.
I have plenty of time to catch up with him, he thought.
And while he was going to meet Porcien, he met Gno Mitang on the road.
When Miarka had ordered the release of her panther, Gno Mitang, lurking in the woods, was already on his guard. He had waited until the last second to not signal his position, but once the danger he faced had become clear, he had set off through the woods at full speed.
Just as he was beginning to feel the blast of the panther’s fetid breath on his back, he heard a slight noise, a rustling of the branches and the hammering of the ground by four hoofed feet.
A deer had unexpectedly crossed their path!
The drama was brief. Gno Mitang heard the almost human death-cry that the poor beast uttered as it was attacked by the savage cat. There was a heavy fall, and the terrible sound of bones crushed between powerful jaws. The horrible feast had begun.
Certain that the panther would not abandon her meal to attack him, the Japanese slipped out of the woods and ran toward the road, where he was met by the Nyctalope a little later.
Having informed each other of their respective adventures, the two friends, comfortably installed in the car, drove to Orleans, where they spent the night.
The Nyctalope and Gno Mitang continued their investigation with renewed energy, but the gypsies had disappeared from the forest of Orleans and Monsieur Porcien seemed to have vanished off the face of the Earth. It was only several weeks later that one of the Nyctalope’s contacts in Bordeaux called him to report that a caravan of gypsies, which might be the one he was looking for, had been spotted on the outskirts of that town.
Leo Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang immediately rushed down to Bordeaux. As they were driving through the city, chance, if not a premonition, drew their attention to a circus set up on one of the city’s squares.
“Look!” said Gno Mitang suddenly, pointing at a man waiting in line to buy a ticket to the circus. “Don’t you recognize that silhouette? It’s Monsieur Porcien! What is he doing going to the circus? Maybe he has a stronger reason than merely wanting to be entertained. We should look into it.”
“You’re right,” replied Saint-Clair thoughtfully.
His eyes followed Monsieur Porcien, who was just then standing in front of a huge poster advertizing a death-defying attraction. The flamboyant title proclaimed in huge letters:
The Sphere of Death! Thrilling! Scary! Mysterious!
The poster showed, at the top of a huge wheel, an open sphere and two children, a boy and a girl, falling down to their seeming deaths.
The eyes of the Nyctalope widened.
“This is it!” he murmured. “Gno, let’s get box seats and watch Monsieur Porcien.”
Installed in the box opposite to that of Philogène Porcien, determined not to lose sight of him, they were distractedly following the show, until they watched Miarka, Dorr and Phoena make their entrance into the ring.
Gno recognized Miarka at once, but not the children, whom he had never seen. But he couldn’t help but notice the fear in the eyes of the little girl. He saw the tremor in her lips.
Suddenly, he shuddered.
“That little girl is making strange faces,” said Leo Saint-Clair, also surprised by the movements of Phoena’s lips.
“She is speaking,” said Gno. “Calling for help. I can understand her words…”
By lip-reading, he repeated what little Phoena wanted to shout out:
“Up there! They’re going to kill Yves! Yves is up there, with the wicked José! He’s going to kill him! Help!”
Having understood more than enough, the Nyctalope jumped into the ring, followed by Gno, who snatched the rope from Dorr’s hands and began to climb with such speed and agility that even Miarka, amazed, had no time to intervene.
But then, recognizing the Japanese, and guessing his intentions, she uttered a cry of rage, and grabbed one of the daggers hanging from her waist. She raised it in the air, ready to throw it at Gno Mitang.
However, two strong arms suddenly grabbed her, and prevented her from completing her deadly gesture. The Nyctalope had stepped in!
“Call the police!” he shouted to the audience. “I’m the Nyctalope! This woman is charged with two attempted murders, and the kidnapping and sequestration of a child!”
In his box, Monsieur Philogène Porcien had turned green with terror.
Meanwhile, Gno Mitang had climbed up to the rafters and reached the gangway leading to the sphere.
Phoena, just hoisted up by José, was just standing there, petrified with fear. The gypsy was preparing to shove her into the sphere, near the body of young Yves Marécourt, who was still unconscious.
Occupied by this sinister task, he had not paid attention to what was happening below in the ring.
He was therefore completely surprised when, raising his head, he saw Gno Mitang pointing a gun at him.
Terrified, José realized that the game was up and that his only chance to save his skin was to surrender.
He obeyed Gno Mitang’s orders and reopened the sphere. He helped Phoena get out of the deadly object, and picked up Yves, who was still unconscious.
“Yves is your friend?” asked the Japanese to the girl. “The boy they wanted to kill?”
“Yes,” Phoena said, her eyes full of hope and gratitude. “But you’re going to stop them, aren’t you?”
“It’s already done,” said Gno Mitang, smiling. “And all thanks to you, my brave little girl.”
A few weeks later, back at the Manor of Folembray, Yves Marécourt, who seemed totally over his terrible adventure, was, for a few moments, playing the kind of games children of his age like to play. He was running merrily in the garden, pursued by Phoena, who was just as joyous as her young friend.
Three men watched the scene tenderly. They were Maître Loureille, the old notary of the late Monsieur Marécourt, the Nyctalope and Gno Mitang.
The two men had just been appointed by a family court as, respectiv
ely, the boy’s new guardian and surrogate guardian.
“We did good work, my friend,” said Leo Saint-Clair. “The rest is now in the hands of Fate. Time will tell if that child prodigy, miraculously rescued from death, will fulfill the hopes poor Lise Andrézieux had for him. Let’s hope so. And speaking of fate, have you found out what will be those of Porcien and his accomplices?”
“Yes,” replied the Japanese, “I’ve just learned that that Philogène Porcien was sentenced to death yesterday for the murder of Miarko. José and Miarka were both given life sentences and will remain in jail until the end of their days. As for that young rascal Dorr, he’s been sent to a reform institution.”
The Nyctalope nodded in approval.
In pulp literature, there is a respectable tradition of heroes who span multiple generations: the Phantom, the Slayers, the Eternal Champion, to name but a few. In this introductory story, previously published in Tales of the Shadowmen, French author Emmanuel Gorlier delves into the Nyctalope’s family tree and investigates whether Leo Saint-Clair might not have had some equally remarkable predecessors—and why…
Emmanuel Gorlier: Fiat Lux!
Paris, 1639, 1641
Report prepared for the Watcher’s Council by Quentin Travers, Chief Librarian, June 22, 1965.
The following narrative has been translated and adapted from the diaries of Marquis Henri-Jean de Sainte Claire, who served as Lieutenant in the notorious Guard of Cardinal Armand du Plessis de Richelieu. Several events described therein might, at first glance, seem to stretch believability but I have attempted to make sense of them through logical extrapolations based on information already in our possession. This poem, allegedly composed by Cyrano de Bergerac, was found amongst the personal papers of Comte de Rochefort and, therefore, might not be authentic.
« Il convient de se dire, entre francs chevaliers,
Tout le bien qu’on retire d’une histoire, versifiée
Par une rouge Eminence à ce point inspirée,
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 7