Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  My friend’s reputation preceded him; his crime-solving exploits during the Great War were still fresh in the minds of the Belgian Police; the investigation was entrusted to him in the hope he would quickly find the murderer and thus help calm the protests of the American Consulate.

  After a week of arduous investigation, often thwarted by the lies and contradictory statements of the suspects–three other Americans who had arrived at the Pension soon after Mr. Carter–Poirot gathered us all in the library in the presence of Inspector Owen to inform us of his conclusions.

  Everyone’s attention was focused upon the detective as we all waited for his definitive solution to the murder of Randolph Carter.

  “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh, n’est-ce-pas, wagn'nagl fhtegn! Aaaaiiiiii!” said Poirot, holding in his hand a copy of Quentin Moretus Cassave’s renowned Flemish translation of the Necronomicon.

  “Fhtagn,” corrected Charles Dexter Ward.

  “Pardon?” said Poirot.

  “Fhtagn,” said Dexter Ward. “It’s pronounced Fhtagn. I can’t understand you with your damned French accent.”

  Poirot shook his head in irritation.

  “Fhtegn. That is just what I said, Monsieur Ward. Please, pay attention. This book, a 17th century edition, once part of the Comte d’Erlette’s collection, a fine example of Belgian engraving, it is one of your obsessions, non? You can recite entire passages from memory. You and Monsieur Carter had both come to Ghent to negotiate the purchase of this rare book. But Monsieur Carter, he arrives a few days early and he buys the book before you. You are upset, naturellement, but you repress your anger and you go and talk to Monsieur Carter in this very room where we stand. You offer to buy the book from him for twice the amount he paid. He refuses. The anger, it becomes very strong. Then, you suggest that you should combine your expertise and exploit the book together. He turns you down again. And then, you learn that Monsieur Carter, he has bought the book with only one purpose: to burn it!”

  The audience shivered with palpable surprise.

  “I found a briquet à amadou in Monsieur Carter’s pocket, a lighter powerful enough to produce a strong flame. Look at the corner of the book, here. The binding is charred. So Monsieur Carter, he was trying to burn the book, but he did not succeed. Why? I blame the damp that pervades this house,” he said, throwing an unkind glance at Monsieur Doucedame, our hotelier. “Still, one fact leads to another. When you find out his purpose, you become furious. I made inquiries about you, Monsieur Ward. It seems you are afflicted with a serious personality disorder. You are subject to violent episodes during which even your friends, they say they do not recognize you...”

  “I suffer from some gastric problems, yes,” said Ward dismissively. “I have a sensitive stomach. What has that to do with this case?”

  “Eh bien, when Monsieur Carter, he reveals his intentions to you, you become overpowered by your insane passion and you grab the first thing at hand, this Arumbaya fetish, and then, you strike!”

  “You have no proof of that!”

  “Au contraire! In your rage, you break a piece of the ear of the fetish, a piece that I found in your coat pocket later.”

  “You dirty, lying, Belgian weasel,” screamed Ward, while being dragged away by Inspector Owen’s men.

  I thought that, because of his political connections, he would be quickly extradited and would not have to suffer Belgian jails for long.

  “This nightmare is finally over,” said Lavinia Whateley. “Thank you, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “I fear, Madame, that it has only begun.”

  The young woman blanched, if that was at all possible considering her extremely pale complexion. She was seven months pregnant and had told the Police she had come to Ghent for the waters. When apprised of the fact that there was no thermal source in our beautiful town, she had merely replied she had been misinformed.

  I was no MD but her belly seemed abnormally large. I also could have sworn–but no doubt it was a trick of the light caused by the dimness of the lampes à quinquet that lit the Pension–that I’d seen it tremble and quiver, as if under a pressure exerted by some inhuman thing incubating inside.

  “The nightmare of a young mother alone, pregnant with a child whose father is unknown,” continued Poirot. “Please note, Madame, that I do not judge the scandalous behavior of a certain depraved American youth. Undoubtedly, you were the victim of some fiendish Oriental drug. A man, most evil, took advantage of your passivity... Your body barely conscious, pliant, supple, ready to yield to his bestial transports...”

  Poirot’s eyes glazed over, becoming lost in the distance. No doubt, his little grey cells were actively gathering clues, working to solve this baffling mystery.

  “Poirot!” said Inspector Owen.

  “Ah oui, je m’excuse,” he said, batting his eyes. “The nightmare, as I was saying, of a young mother alone, pregnant, who fears to lose the inheritance she is counting on to provide for herself and her child!”

  “Heavens! How did you know this?”

  “Très simple, Chère Madame. Your cousin, Wilbur Whateley, he dies recently in a hunting accident. Normally, you would inherit his vast fortune. But then, you receive a letter from Monsieur Carter informing you that he, too, is a cousin of Wilbur. And according to the antiquated laws of the State of Massachusetts, it is the male cousin who inherits! So you take the first ship for Belgium where you know Monsieur Carter is going–I checked the passengers manifest of the John Flanders–because you want to plead your cause in person. At first, Monsieur Carter, he seems reasonable. He is ready to abandon the inheritance. Mais voila: he puts a condition to his offer. A horrible condition. I do not dare to repeat it here, but you know what I am talking about, do you not, Madame Whateley?”

  The gesture of the young woman, clutching her hands over her stomach to protect her unborn child, answered more clearly than any of Poirot’s remarks might have. I even thought I heard a hiss of rage that sent Murr, the Pension cat, slithering out of the room, but it was more likely the wind gusting through the fireplace.

  “That night, your decision is taken,” continued my friend. “You know that Monsieur Carter, he likes to nap alone in the library after dinner. You walk down very softly, armed with this three-pronged garden weeder that I later found hidden in the tropical fish aquarium. There, you find Monsieur Carter, battered by Monsieur Ward, but still breathing. And you strike, with all the ferocity of a mother seeking to protect her child!”

  Inspector Owen’s men took Lavinia Whateley down to the station. The woman was in tears and I knew that no jury, be it Flemish or Walloon, would have the heart to condemn the poor child after such an ordeal. No doubt her child would grow up to become an outstanding citizen that would help Belgium project its pacifying influence abroad; a fearless reporter with a tuft of hair, for example...

  “Congratulations for a fine piece of crime-solving, Monsieur Poiret.”

  “Mais non, I am not yet finished, Monsieur Marsh. And my name is Poirot, not Poiret or Popeau.”

  That David Marsh was a strange and repulsive man. A native of the small town of Innsmouth, he had a narrow head, bulging, watery-blue eyes that seemed never to wink, a flat nose, a receding forehead and chin, and singularly undeveloped ears. His skin was rough and scabby, indications that he either suffered from a rare firm of Ichtyosis, or that he was allergic to the carbonade drink served by Monsieur Doucedame.

  “I had you investigated, Monsieur Marsh,” said Poirot gravely. “You and your family are smugglers, pirates, the leaders of a town of pirates and smugglers. Your ships, they bring back drugs, slaves, pagan idols and God knows what else from the Southern Seas. But one man knew of your nefarious traffics: Monsieur Carter, who had gathered in the taverns of Antwerp enough evidence to have you all put under lock and key. Evidence which he was preparing to give to the Federal investigators. You were sent by your accomplices to insure his silence, in the most definitive fashion.”

  “I protest!” />
  “Do not interrupt me, Monsieur Marsh. You arrive in the library after Madame Whateley has left. The twin shadow of the Manneken Pis which so puzzled me, it was you! That detail, it confuses me, until I remember how much water you drink with each meal. You come into the library and there, you find Monsieur Carter, writhing in agony but not quite yet dead. Madame Whateley, she is a weak woman. So you see an opportunity to have someone else accused of your crime. You put your hands, your vile, slimy, viscous, strangling hands, around the neck of Monsieur Carter and you squeeze, squeeze, squeeze...”

  “Poirot?”

  “Ah oui, excuse me again, Inspector. Once your sinister task, it is concluded, you go back to the dining room and order your favorite dish, a plate of mussels. But instead of asking for them à la crème, as you usually do, you ask for moules provençales, a recipe that contains much garlic. Why? Because Monsieur Ward, he has told you of his stomach problems and you are trying to divert the attention, but Poirot, he isn’t so easily fooled, oh non, mon ami.”

  “Please, listen to me,” said Marsh. “It’s true, I did come here to kill Carter, but when I saw the job the other two had done on him, I decided to leave things alone. I didn’t lay a finger on him. He was still alive when I left the room.”

  “You lie, Monsieur Marsh. Only your face–you will excuse me for speaking frankly, your repulsively, obscenely hideous face–can explain the expression of unspeakable horror on the dying Monsieur Carter.”

  “I’m not hideous! Ask Pht-thyar-l’yi!”

  “He is delirious. A typical sign of dissociative personality common amongst murderers. Take him away, Inspector.”

  “Do you really think he killed Carter?” I asked Poirot after the Police had removed the suspects and we prepared to leave the Pension Doucedame. “He seemed sincere.”

  “The little grey cells, they do not lie,” said Poirot, lightly tapping his forehead. “Once we have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains is bound to be the truth, even if, as was the case here, it is very strange. Because, if Monsieur Marsh is not the murderer, then the only hypothesis left is that the house itself killed Monsieur Carter; but houses, they do not kill people, n’est-ce-pas, Monsieur de Kremer?”

  Poirot shut the front door of Malpertuis behind him and together we stepped into the darkened street.

  Xavier Mauméjean’s contribution to our Madame Atomos series is a delightful romp that takes place between the last of the original “Angoisse” novel and the final book, published much later in the “Anticipation” imprint of Fleuve Noir. The ’70s were about hair, glitter, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, women’s rights, flared suits and bell bottoms, and nowhere were they more alive than in London. It is, therefore, in the very heart of the British Empire that Madame Atomos experiences all the excesses of that decade crammed in a single day, a very bad single day...

  Xavier Mauméjean: A Day in the Life of Madame Atomos

  London, 1972

  Mayfair, 10:30 a.m.

  Madame Atomos woke up.

  Ever since her body had been rejuvenated by the effect of her multiple teleportations, she enjoyed life as she had never before done.

  She now looked forward to her occasional days off in her posh Mayfair flat. Somehow, the delicacies of life tasted much more succulent since she was once again young.

  She felt the silk sheets against her flawless, naked skin as she stretched, and purred like a kitten.

  Under the almost scalding water of the shower, she thought about the day ahead.

  Check in with the Gardener in Berwick Street. Tea at Biba’s. Meeting with Sinclair at the Depository Bank of Zurich in the City. And, of course, the night was full of promise.

  Madame Atomos wrapped herself in a yukata kimono and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Lapsang Souchong, naturally.

  In moments like these, she valued her privacy, tolerated no interruptions, wanted no servants to interfere with her. Even her loyal, hulking Isadori had been instructed not to disturb her. Madame Atomos wanted to be alone to reflect on her life, and the mayhem and destruction she would soon inflict upon America.

  The living room was white. White walls, white carpets, white bamboo screens, white enameled furniture and an original 1918 Malevich White-on-White. Even the London sky was milky white this mid-morning, the sun barely breaking through the cloud cover.

  Madame Atomos sipped her tea sitting on a silk cushion while contemplating a shogi problem on the low coffee table. She was aiming to disable her opponent’s yagura defense–perhaps reach a jishogi–when, suddenly, a single sound, a taiko note, rang clearly and loudly in the room.

  Madame Atomos delicately put her cup of tea back on the saucer.

  The note rang again

  She sighed, then pressed a square on the shogi board. A heavily accented Japanese voice that seemed to emanate from nowhere broke into the silence of the room.

  “Hai, Mistress! This is Shoichi Yokoi. Hydra Bruderschaft has taken over our secret base in Guam.”

  Madame Atomos sighed again. Since Baron Strucker’s disappearance after Hydra Island sunk, Madame Hydra had done everything she could in the Pacific to rebuild her empire.

  “Madame Hydra will want to avoid scrutiny; they will remain discreet. Do you have a cover story?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said the voice. “I will say that I spent 28 years in the jungle because I didn’t know Japan had lost the war. The foolish gaijin will swallow anything.”

  “Very well. It is but a minor setback. Hiroshima and Nagasaki will be avenged.”

  “Hiroshima, Nagasaki! Hai!”

  The silence returned.

  Now, her morning had been spoiled, thought Madame Atomos. Should she do some Sahaja Yoga before going out? No, it was getting late already.

  As she got up, a shuriken star whizzed by her face. Madame Atomos plucked it from the air, while diving to avoid two more deadly stars. In a graceful zhong chui gesture, she then threw it back at the Si-Fan ninja who had crawled down from the roof onto her balcony. The black-clad warrior collapsed, dead.

  Madame Atomos glanced distractedly at the corpse, whom Isadori would get rid of later. Fah Lo Suee did not share in her father’s misplaced idealism, but unlike him, she decidedly had no sense of humor, she thought.

  She grabbed one of the shuriken planted in the wall and walked into a small, adjacent office. Isadori had left some mail for her on her desk. She used the star to slice open the envelopes.

  The first was an invitation to a party from Derek Flint. A highly talented man who seemed to know virtually everything, including how to talk to dolphins. He wished to present his latest piano sonata.

  Madame Atomos decided to go. Flint was, like herself, a pragmatist–and therefore, not to be trusted–but his sense of style was impeccable. Besides, it would be an opportunity to try that new Paco Rabanne original made up of tiny metal pieces.

  Then, there was a letter bearing a familiar design. Madame Atomos sniffed it before opening it. She detected the faint odor of spikenard. It was poisoned of course. She nevertheless opened it. Anyone but she would have been dead within seconds.

  Sumuru wished to discuss their respective interests over tea at the Reform Club. I think not, thought Madame Atomos. She needed Sumuru’s help like she needed more mutated Teraphosa spider eggs. She would not go. She carefully incinerated the letter. It would not do for Isadori to find it. Good servants were hard to clone.

  Having disposed of the day’s mail, Madame Atomos dressed and went out.

  As she stepped into her Rolls Sedanca de Ville, she noticed the odd couple outside: the dandy with the bowler hat and the umbrella she knew to be deadly, and the seemingly daft-looking girl with the Mary Quant mini-skirt and leather boots dressed straight out of a Carnaby Street shop window.

  Mother is sniffing around, she thought. She might have to sell her flat and move. Again.

  Soho, 1 p.m.

  The Gardener–no one knew his real name–had a small, unremarkable shop off B
erwick Street.

  The market was still going strong. Madame Atomos stopped at a stall selling fresh eggs. She had more botulism germs in inventory than she knew what to do with. Perhaps... But no, another time.

  She walked into the store. It was full of glass jars, amphoras and barrels filled to the brim with roots, exotic seeds and other mixed herbs. The ambient smell was that of compost. The stuff on display was quite harmless, of course, but the Gardener liked to discourage visits. The real goods were not even in the back shop, but in the secret cellars beneath.

  The Gardener had promised Madame Atomos a brand new type of Black Lotus, cross-bred with a particularly elusive kind of Blood Orchid found only in Pnom Dhek.

  The Gardener, unfortunately, would no longer delight anyone with the fruits of his inventive genius. He was dead, his body wrinkled like an old prune.

  Madame Atomos bent over and examined the cadaver. Not that she needed to. She recognized the mark of Alouh T’ho. Madame Atomos was a scientist who had long since stopped believing in the fairy tales of her childhood, but at that instant, she wished all the dire fates the Oni could be visited upon the ex-Chinese Empress.

  There was nothing more to do here. Either Alouh T’ho had stolen the new Black Lotus for her collection, or she had destroyed it, making sure no one would produce a new one. It was hard to tell which.

  In any event, thought Madame Atomos, her plans to plunge Hawaii into madness were now moot.

  She sighed. This day was not turning out to be that good after all. But she had had worse.

  She derived a modicum of consolation from cleverly avoiding being recognized by Clarissa de Courtney-Scott as the red-haired, murderous nymphomaniac walked into the alley.

  Kensington High Street, 4 p.m.