The Nyctalope Steps In

by Jean de La Hire

  “No, I have not signed with any other film company.”

  “Mr. Nyctalope, please avoid simooms, earthquakes, and other Acts of God, and hurry back as quick as you can once you do decide to sign with Superba-Llewellyn!”

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” inserted Arnaud, “I think that you can be reassured that M. Saint-Clair has not signed away any rights to his life and adventures, and I’m sure that he’ll be in touch the moment he decides to do so.”

  “Oh.” The mogul seems non-plussed. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. Perhaps he had never had this experience before, a celebrity who had no interest in being taken up by Hollywood. “Oh,” he said again. “Well, thanks for your time at least, and it’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Ivor Llewellyn handed Saint-Clair two calling cards: “My New York office and my personal number back in Hollywood.” He nodded to them both and ambled quietly away.

  “If not to get into the movies,” drawled Arnaud, “what brings you to Baghdad-on-the-Subways?” He liked Saint-Clair, who projected a dazzling fascination that could feel. Was this an aspect of his hypnotic powers or just the consequence of the great self-confidence of a true hero? he wondered.

  “The official reason was an invitation from Dr. Orestes Preson, Curator of Fossil Mammals at the Bradley Institute of Paleontology and Natural History...”

  “…on Central Park West,” interjected Arnaud.

  “We met years ago, during one of my explorations in Central Asia, and he wants me to inaugurate a new series of lectures sponsored by the Institute. Preson is one of those rare men who combine a mastery of science with the type of literary touch that converts research into bestsellers. The lectures are being underwritten by his publishers.” He took a sip of his sparkling tonic water.

  “And the unofficial reason?” Arnaud’s face was friendly, but it was like being stared down by a hawk.

  “Some time ago, a friend of mine, Judge Coméliau, an investigating magistrate, received a jaunty little death trap in the post in the form of a tear-gas-trapped packet of gourmet sausage. He was in the midst of an investigation at the time of a cosmopolitan criminal calling himself Zigomar.”

  “After the hooded criminal mastermind of 20 years ago?”

  “Yes, the King of Thieves himself. Presumably this new Zigomar wants to capitalize on his namesake’s notorious and mystique to control his own sinister phalanxes. How many times did the policeman Broquet think he had slain the original? But this new Zigomar is a modern criminal, with diversified interests and international scope...” Saint-Clair finished his glass of tonic water and put it aside. He looked at Arnaud and concentrated his hypnotic powers. His eyed shifted colors subtly. “Who are you really? You are no mere businessman.”

  “I suspect that you will get a headache concentrating like that, my friend,” said Arnaud. “You can’t compel me to speak like that. I am but a shadow...”

  The commercial airships used Naval Air Station at Lakehurst, New Jersey, for their landings. Some had had high hopes for the mooring mast proposed for Manhattan skyscrapers like the Empire State Building, but the city’s updrafts made them unworkable. The passengers viewed Bartholdi’s statue of Liberty along with the fine collection of steel towers as the French airship followed its route north along the Hudson River. Eventually, it struck east, high over the steel arch of Hell Gate Bridge, over the “Hell Gate” itself to Long Island Sound and its destination. Far below were the gothic towers at each end of the bridge, standing 220 feet high.

  The French line had shunned the New Jersey facility and preferred to use the new North Beach Airport on Flushing Bay. The mooring masts and their cluster of floating blue and silver dirigibles looked to one driver at the taxi stand like one of cartoonist Jay Irving’s comical blimp-like Cops in Collier’s Weekly.

  There was a taxi waiting for Henry Arnaud outside the Embarkation Building, a worn but shining Model A Ford with a rapidly ticking taximeter and engine that might have needed a tune-up. He knew the waiting driver well: Moe Shrevnitz.

  Arnaud signaled with a wave of his hand. Shrevnitz's cab wheeled from across the street. It had trim lines with a more streamlined look than previous models, looking more modern with the grille pushed forward and made more prominent by de-emphasized and more-integrated fenders.

  “We’re dropping M. Saint-Clair at the Churchill,” he instructed Shrevnitz as the two men entered the vehicle. “You know where that is.”

  Moe Shrevnitz shook his head subtly and hunched his leather jacketed shoulders.

  It proved to be a quick trip into Manhattan through Long Island City and onto the 59th Street Bridge over the East River. Saint-Clair seemed to hear a cheery little ditty from the vibration of the metal roadbed as they drove over the river.

  “I am starting on a journey tomorrow,” said the Shadow, in Arnaud's tones. “I have some private business to transact. A friend of mine may look after you—a gentleman named Lamont Cranston. Should he visit you, you may speak to him as confidentially as you would to me. I’ll leave you with his telephone number in case of an emergency. And of course, I will arrange for this cab and driver to be available to you.” Shrevnitz looked nonplussed at this.

  “Very kind of you and Mr. Shrevnitz” said the Nyctalope.

  The immense and impressive Churchill Hotel occupied the whole block from 49th to 50th streets, and Madison to Park Avenues. It had two towers, 42 stories, and 1850 rooms. In the main lobby was an 8-sided bronze clock made in 1893 for the original hotel by Goldsmith’s of London. It was the height of luxury by New York standards.

  It’s a rather nice hostelry, thought Saint-Clair. A uniformed Field Marshal came forward with a detachment of well-drilled bell boys in their monkey suits to open the cab door and receive the Frenchman’s luggage. With a wave of thank you to Arnaud, the Nyctalope entered the lobby.

  A tall thirty-ish man with the manner of an amused grandee, a vibrant tan, and blue buccaneer eyes stood before the registration counter. He was immaculately dressed in a navy double-breasted suit and had his black hair brushed back. He seemed to having a dispute with the manager.

  “There should be a suite,” said the grandee in a posh trans-Atlantic accent, “under the name of Sebastian Tombs. My pyramid of leather goods is waiting along with my companion, and I’d like to move them out from vulgar gaze.”

  The manager seemed relieved to finish with him and move onto the radiant Saint-Clair, who went into the Presidential Suite.

  “Have I ever spoken to you, Archie,” asked Nero Wolfe, “of Monsieur Anatole?”

  I gave myself a few moments to mull over the question. He had seated his seventh of a ton firmly behind his massive desk, his yellow tie and shirting flashing forth from his dark suit. He had just descended after his morning up in the plant room, working with the orchids. At one elbow on the desk blotter, sat a new copy of Dr. H. Orestes Preson’s The Trumpets of the Forests: The Rise and Fall of the World’s Mastodonts and Elephants.

  “He’s one of those fancy French chefs who lives and works in what amounts to private practice for Thomas Travers and his wife. Travers is a Brit, who made his pile Out East somewhere. Their usual residence is in Worcestershire but they brought him over and keep him at the Churchill.”

  Wolfe was examining the three-foot globe made by Gouchard in the corner of the office, and contemplating a location in the British Isles.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Travers are said to have come to New York in order to unload the periodical edited by his wife on some unsuspecting publisher in Garden City,” I said. “He customarily renders the magazine’s title as Madame’s Nightshirt, but that’s not much improvement over the real title of Milady’s Boudoir.”

  “Pfui! Don’t act like a witling,” said Wolfe. “Archie, I will not rise to your bait. M. Anatole, if he practiced his art at some restaurant or hotel, would deserve to be regarded as one of the supreme creators of Gallic cuisine. In this world, as I have said, there are a few great chefs, a sprinkling of good ones, an
d a pestiferous host of bad ones. Anatole is a great one and should be counted among the Fifteen Masters. His Rognons des Montagnes and Selle d’Agneau à la Grècque, among other signature dishes, are supposed to be beyond compare. He is said to make Fritz’s culinary feats seem the merest roadhouse fry-up…”

  I sat down at my desk and swiveled back to him.

  “That seems unlikely. What’s the deal about Anatole and Travers anyway?” I asked.

  “A spectacular meal by Anatole is part of the contract offered us by Dahlia Travers. She wishes to see me soon in order to explain the matter further. The honor to be invited to a meal prepared by Monsieur Anatole, for whatever reason, is not to be belittled.”

  “So,” I said, “this is on the order of excitement of your getting the recipe for saucisse minuit from Jacques Berin?”

  “Very close to that sublime pleasure, Archie. It is a very tempting a remuneration, but this agency does not lower itself to retrieving antique silver cow creamers, even when they are Georgian and highly collectible.”

  The telephone rang and I went to answer it.

  “Goodwin?” said the hurried and authoritative voice before I could even say hello, “this is Cramer. I’m sending your boss an important package.”

  “It’s Inspector Cramer, he’s sending us a gift,” I told Wolfe in an aside. I could hear Cramer’s cigar-chomping through the receiver. “Good afternoon, Inspector. What’s new on the Rialto?”

  “It’s an important Frenchie who was passed along to me by my superiors,” Cramer growled. “He needs the type of help that comes easier to Wolfe than New York’s Finest. Stebbins is escorting him over and then he is all yours.”

  “A client is on the way,” I signaled to the great detective, signaling cash in a hand signal. This was unusual as New York’s Finest seldom referred someone to us. The inspector gave me a few more details: the famous European hero trying to find the criminal behind a murderous assault of his friend, a French investigating judge, room at the Churchill, special handling.

  “…And make sure that Wolfe knows that I don’t want this to come back and bite me in the posterior!” He rang off.

  I recited the conversation from memory in detail for Wolfe.

  “The Nyctalope?” mused Wolfe. “This case may have elements of interest. Give me your notebook, Archie.” I handed it over and he wrote swiftly on a page. “This is the number for Colonel Dubois of the Deuxième Bureau in Paris. I will need to speak with him as soon as possible, preferably before Sgt. Stebbins arrives with the Monsieur Saint-Clair. Also give Saul Panzer a call to come in as soon as possible.”

  I immediately sat down at my desk with the telephone and did this, starting with Saul since I knew that would be a quick connection. He agreed to be over within 15 minutes.

  It took a little maneuvering with my high school French to get past Colonel Dubois’s protective perimeter, but once he heard Wolfe’s name, he emitted a broadcast of Gallic syllables that overwhelmed my knowledge of the language. I passed him back to Wolfe, and distracted myself by updating the plant room books. I heard the name of “avocat Prosper Lepicq” in clear, but that was all.

  I was brought back to the world by Wolfe replacing the receiver. “Satisfactory! Have Saul come in when he arrives, Archie.”

  The doorbell rang. I presumed that it was Saul, but peeked around the curtain just in case. There was no one there, but parked across the street there was a Ford taxi cab with a driver, a small man in a leather cap and sporting a big beezer, who looked close enough to Saul Panzer without actually being him. I knew it was not Saul because I could see him walking swiftly up West 35th Street, so I opened the door for him and escorted him to the office.

  I paused outside the office where I could hear voices murmuring within. I knocked, there was a pause of a few beats, and Wolfe called out “Enter, Archie!”

  I brought Saul in for his marching orders. No one was in there with Wolfe and the telephone was on my desk.

  “Archie,” Wolfe said, “there will be a guest in the alcove by the peephole. Make sure that it is prepared properly for our guest.” I left the office to allow Wolfe to give Saul his instructions in privacy and to get the secret panel opened. I pulled over a bar stool in front of it.

  Saul was on his way out when I returned to the office.

  “So what should I know or do I just sit back and enjoy the show?” I asked, taking my seat.

  The doorbell rang. I hurried over to the door and opened it to reveal Detective Sgt. Purley Stebbins, NYPD, and an enormously well-built cliff of a man, a veritable New Jersey Palisades example of humanity.

  “He’s all yours now, Goodwin,” Stebbins growled. “Do me a favor; keep him from doing another Brodie!” I presumed that this cryptic comment would be explained. Stebbins retreated down the brownstone’s brown sandstone stoop back to the curb where a taxi, a new yellow Checker from Sunshine Cab Company, waited for him. He seemed a bit anxious to leave the vicinity of our row house.

  His companion, the slab of man, entered our humble home. He was well over six feet tall with a massively perfect physique and shoulders that a naval biplane could land on. His features were what I usually think of as Gallic, but like a clean-shaven Gaulish chieftain.

  “You are not Monsieur Nero Wolfe?” he said in a loud whisper, clutching me by the arm.

  “If you’re here to consult Mr. Wolfe, Monsieur Saint-Clair, you’d better come along with me. I’m Archie Goodwin, Mr. Wolfe’s assistant.” I took his black wool overcoat, fedora, gloves and walking stick and lead him into the office. Wolfe rose to greet him from behind his desk. I slipped away to Fritz Brenner in the kitchen. Fritz was chopping herbs on the block. I explained to him that hot and cold liquids and pastry would be required in the office, and then slipped back to stand next to the globe.

  The Frenchman was still taking in the office geography, rotating and surveying the sets of book shelves, the Persian rug, the framed Holbein reproductions, the globe, an engraving of Brillat-Savarin, the picture of the waterfall and finishing with the framed portrait of Sherlock Holmes above my desk.

  “Welcome, Monsieur Saint-Clair,” said Wolfe in French. He speaks a number of European languages while I only have my English and a modicum of high school French as it is spoken in Chillicothe, Ohio. I hope that it would be adequate to the task at hand.

  “Ah, you know me already?” said the Frenchman.

  “Do not bother with such flummery, my dear sir. You were already famous before the Great War and your face was documented in many newspaper photographs and newsreel reportage.” Wolfe wagged his finger at Saint-Clair.

  The Nyctalope was more of a Wagnerian hero type than I had expected, and it was not a surprise to learn that he was a pretty famous fellow on the other side of the pond. His eyes were a little off with a greenish-yellow cast. He was obviously the type of man equally at home in an elegant ballroom and striding across mountains in Africa or central Asia in boots and jodhpurs. I sat him in the red chair and took my own seat at my desk with notebook in hand. He didn’t beat around the bush.

  “I need help, Mr. Wolfe,” he began. Saint-Clair told us of the murderous “Death by Sausage” attack on his friend, Investigating Magistrate Coméliau, and of the shadowy underworld figure using the identity of the legendary Zigomar.

  “I received a tip from a friend in the Sûreté that this putative new Zigomar had left his new gang in Paris to come to New York. I want to find him and bring him back to France for justice.”

  Wolfe pursed his lips in thought.

  “You obviously are not going through the usual official channels for capture of wanted criminals,” he mused, “or else, there would be legitimate charges and an official request for extradition.”

  “There is circumstantial data, but not enough for criminal charges of to be filed; my friend the magistrate is slowly recovering from the attack.”

  “Surely, he must have been involved with other investigations of criminal organizations. What made you so sur
e that this Zigomar II was responsible?” Wolfe asked. “Might any other gang leader have a personal vendetta against Judge Coméliau?”

  “This was very personal, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “What happened when you went to meet Inspector Cramer, Monsieur Saint-Clair?” Wolfe asked.

  “I never got there for the appointment, I’m afraid.”

  Saint-Clair explained that he had gone down to the Churchill’s sumptuous lobby after breakfasting in his room, expecting to find the little taxi driver Shrevnitz waiting. Instead, he was met by two men in well-tailored suits and worn-soled shoes that pointed to either policemen or nightclub bouncers.

  “ ‘We’re here to take you to Inspector Cramer,’ explained the bigger of the two with a flash of a billfold too fast to see. I was willing to accept them in the beginning, remembering that New York is a true melting pot. They escorted me out via a back way—for security, they said—to a waiting panel delivery truck. The interior was lined in benches and we had a long uncomfortable ride amidst the noises of Manhattan traffic until we disembarked in the courtyard of a huge brick building which worn signs identified as the Panther-Pilsner brewery…’”

  “Ah,” I said, “the quintessential mysterious ride with dubious companions to the equally mysterious lair of the Panther. They’ve switched back to proper beer production since the end of Prohibition.”

  “Behave yourself, Archie,” said Wolfe, “and let our guest continue.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wolfe. I quickly realized that they were not police but rather criminals working for someone whom they referred to as The Big Fellow…”

  I noticed now that Saint-Clair had switched to English and I was to learn later that he spoke half a dozen European languages and that my attempts at French pronunciation had been excruciating for him.

  Saint-Clair had eavesdropped on his escorts and discovered that they were Harry the Horse, Little Isadore and the driver was nicknamed Spanish John. I nodded to myself; they were a trio of independent operators for hire from Brownsville.