Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  The rejuvenated Madame Atomos loved wandering around Biba’s. She loved getting ideas from the great ambiance, buying fab clothes and makeup, and always grabbed something to eat upstairs; it made her feel like she was part of the “in” London scene–even though she wasn’t really part of any scene.

  The bullet that had earlier crashed onto the special glass that made up the tinted windows of her Rolls had had her name on it. She knew who had fired it of course. Well, she would deal with Greta Morgan later. What she really needed now was that elusive moment of peace and fun that had eluded her all day.

  Unfortunately, a tall, beautiful Eurasian woman came from behind and grabbed her arm.

  “What amazing luck,” said Tania Orloff. “We must have tea! Come on! I shan’t take no for an answer!”

  A long, two hours later, Madame Atomos managed to escape from Tania. She had seriously considered poisoning her, but she was working with her uncle on a new breed of deadly butterflies, soon to be tested in Africa; the murder of his favorite niece would cast a pall on the enterprise.

  She had also fleetingly considered poisoning herself, rather than continue listening to Tania’s long rambling stories about her unrequited love for that French prig; a man who had been responsible for the death of Madame Atomos’ protégé, the “Samurai of a Thousand Suns.”

  Tea with Tania Orloff was enough to drive anyone to suicide.

  The City, 8 p.m.

  Night had fallen and some remnants of the once-mighty London fog were slowly creeping into the narrow streets of its financial district.

  Isadori had returned to tell Madame Atomos that her plan to appropriate the Pink Panther diamond had failed. The Black Lizard had gotten to it before her own force could move in to execute her carefully planned scheme.

  Madame Atomos consoled herself with the notion that the stone was cursed. It would serve her rival right.

  She was lost in dark thoughts of revenge and failed to see Sinclair emerging from the darkness. The little banker handled all of Madame Atomos’ financial assets in Europe. They never met in his office, of course, but in this quiet back alley, after everyone had gone home.

  She also failed to see the tall figure, dressed in a ragged coat and a floppy hat, shamble out of the fog.

  Two crimson eyes blazed death and struck Sinclair.

  At once, the small man, the only one who knew the numbers to all of her secret bank accounts, collapsed in a pile of unattractive charred remains.

  Madame Atomos sighed, for the umpteenth time that day.

  Two metal plates she had carefully reengineered on her original Paco Rabanne dress produced a deadly burst of disintegrating rays. She only felt a pleasant tingle on her nipples, but the small dacoit who carried the death-ray apparatus harnessed on his shoulders half-vanished, leaving behind a foul-smelling carcass of entrails and blood.

  Madame Atomos cursed Miss Ylang-Ylang. The leader of the international cartel known as SMOG had obviously not forgiven her for pilfering some of their secrets after SMOG’s failed “Operation Dark Knight” orbital misadventure.

  She would deal with SMOG later.

  It had been a miserable experience, but she would rebuild, as always.

  Now, she had a party to attend.

  Ladbroke Grove, 11 p.m.

  Madame Atomos arrived suitably late at Flint’s party. It was well underway. The band was playing Alkan’s Symphony for Solo Piano Number Four to waltz-time.

  She waved at Catherine Cornelius, avoided Mephista, made small talk with Mrs. Butterworth and danced with Vic St. Val.

  All in all, her definition of fun.

  Then, it happened.

  The outrage. The embarrassment. The crushing blow. The final humiliation in an otherwise abominable and dismal day.

  Modesty Blaise entered, Willie Garvin on her arm

  She was wearing the very same Paco Rabanne dress as she!

  The bitch, thought Madame Atomos.

  She stamped her feet and walked out.

  The world will pay, she cursed. Oh, how they will!

  Paul d’Ivoi (1856-1915) was the first to be the second (or third or fourth...) on the block after Jules Verne. As a result, he is somewhat neglected today, even though valiant publishers periodically try to reissue some of his novels; his best-remembered being Les Cinq Sous de Lavarère, a rip-off of Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days. Doctor Mystère is d’Ivoi’s own version of Captain Nemo, and would be mostly forgotten today were it not Alfredo Castelli’s (yes, the same Castelli from earlier in this volume) brilliant idea of making his world-famous comic-book hero Martin Mystère a descendent of Cigale, Docteur Mystère’s teenage sidelick. David McIntee, a name well-known to Doctor Who fans, decided to tell a story featuring Docteur Mystère in Bollywood…

  David A. McIntee: Bullets Over Bombay

  India, 1896

  I had read, in many spiffing adventure stories, of characters experiencing “thunderous silences” and the like, and had never believed that such a thing was even remotely possible. Until that day, when two Colt single-action Navy pistols fell silent, with a shock that startled me, and made me whirl round to see what was happening.

  I am afraid I am somewhat getting ahead of myself, and for that I must beg your forgiveness, for the telling of tales–no, let me rephrase that, lest it imply tall tales and lies–storytelling, is not as natural a profession to me as is the hunting of great cats. Oh, tiger-hunting is not a profession I had sought out–far from it–but when the Service wanted someone to help out with a man-eater some years ago, they knew I was something of a sharpshooter back in the 95th, and requested my skills. We had staked out a goat near a watering hole–this was down by Panaji, by the way–and shot the beast quite easily when it came to feed. There was no question that it was the man-eater, as several local men had previously wounded it in self-defense, and this animal bore the identical scars. At any rate, from that moment, my rather dubious destiny was assured: whenever there was cat trouble, which happens a couple of times a year, I would be given a brief leave of absence and seconded to help out with the hunt.

  But, I’m sorry, now I fear I have gone too far back rather than too far ahead; I can see it on your face. Please forgive me. I’ll send the Boy for another round; that should help loosen the tongue.

  Where was I? Ah, of course, the “thunderous silence” matter. Dashed queer business, all told. It started the night the Lumière brothers brought that–what do you call it? their magic lantern show–along to Bombay.

  I had heard about it, of course; the stories say that people in Europe and American ran screaming from displays of their work, when they thought that steam engines were charging through the portable theaters. Nothing like that happened here, I must say. Indeed, the exhibitions of this almost magical new medium were met with wonder and amazement to be sure, but also with a certain amount of calculation. The Indians as a people are quite diligent and ambitious, and I shouldn’t wonder if before too long they have outstripped the Frères Lumière and their ilk in this new art form.

  The Frères Lumière were not alone in their expedition, however, and, quite aside from representatives of the Raj and the British East India Company, they had somehow added to their company an apparently exiled Hindu Prince. Thought he was a Sikh at first, actually; he had that kind of turban and that trim of beard. You know the look I mean. Turns out that’s geographical rather than religious; it’s the tradition in the area he comes from. Well-dressed chap too; proper morning suit, waistcoat and so on. Wouldn’t look out of place at Buckingham Palace, apart from the turban and beard. When I asked the Lumière sahibs what his role was, none of them were quite sure.

  As for me, well, it seems the Lumières had also brought along all the apparatus and impedimenta used in the creation of these wondrous moving picture displays, and they had developed something of a desire to make a show about a tiger hunt. So, of course, your and my mutual friend, Freddy Rowbotham, recommended me, and before you knew it, the Lumières had s
ent me a telegram.

  I have to admit that I maintained a certain curiosity about their extravaganzas, so I packed up a couple of Henry rifles and the usual gear for a tiger-shoot, and went to meet them.

  I caught up with the group while they were filming a local wedding. A high-caste were celebrating a marriage, and the Lumières wasted no time in capturing the event for eternity by means of their technologically marvelous contraptions. I’m afraid I can’t even begin to explain how it works, but in essence it’s a camera of sorts, and they were using it to take these moving pictures of the wedding.

  An Indian wedding is a dashed colorful affair, and always has been. Everything was decked out in red and yellow blooms, as were most of the members of both families. When I arrived, the bride and groom–A Mr. Khan and a Miss Chopra–appeared to be singing to each other, while both families cavorted and danced in a very respectable and pleasant fashion throughout the courtyard. I must say it was a damned shame the Frères Lumiere had no means to record the songs as well, without which their moving images will probably lack considerably in the atmosphere that suffused and seduced us all. Perhaps someone should introduce them to that American chap who has invented a wire sound recorder? There may be some business worth doing with that.

  At any rate, the celebrations were most pleasant, and it was there, by a buffet table, that I first spoke to this Hindu Prince. When I asked him his name, he was most well-spoken and replied that the members of the French expedition referred to him as Docteur Mystère, and that he consulted both on medical matters, as his title implied, and on the technical matters of how the moving pictures were created. He was, by all accounts, quite a technical wizard, and traveled in his own carriage, which the people in the group called an “Electric Hotel.” Rather rum name, but I’ll tell you more about it in a moment.

  I attempted to make small talk and explain the purpose of my visiting the group, but he seemed mostly concerned with discussing some technical matters with his apprentice, a lad called Cigale. Cigale was a pleasant lad, and had the vigorous practicality that can be so strangely lacking in today’s youth. I found Dr. Mystère and Cigale much more our kind of people than the Lumières, and was a little disappointed that they were so preoccupied. I could not really complain, of course, for what is so terrible about efficiency and professionalism in playing one’s part?

  I circulated for a while then, ignoring the sobbing mother of the bride, who seemed to be having some kind of argument behind the scenes. Eventually, I noticed a rather shifty fellow, whose name I never did discover, who was only watching the festivities. He was the very image of a villain from a penny-dreadful: unkempt, scar-faced and wearing an eye patch. He openly leered at the dancing bride, much to the annoyance of many other celebrants, before getting leaving most rudely.

  I followed him a short distance, but lost him in the dark. When I turned to return to the group, I was startled to find Dr. Mystère almost right at my shoulder. “Mr. Williams,” he asked, “Did you know that man?”

  “No, I just thought he seemed a little out of place. I know it probably isn’t my place either, but- Do you know him?”

  Dr. Mystère put his hands behind his back and said the oddest thing: “I hope not, for all our sakes.”

  Yes, it put a dampener on the evening for me, this hint of danger and threat. I asked what he meant by it, but Dr. Mystère shrugged the questions off, saying that I was missing some good food and drink. That is something that is hard to argue with.

  I had shared a dormitory room for the night with Cigale and two cousins of the groom, off the courtyard where the celebrations had taken place. The bride and groom had left for their new abode a few streets away, where they undoubtedly had been enjoying the prima noctis more than I had been enjoying Cigale’s snoring. So the last thing I expected the next morning was for the bride’s distraught father to rouse the company with shouts and wails of the deepest and darkest despair. I had thought I had known darkness in my drinking days, but this man, Bachchan, was in a torment that no drug, no form of alcoholic depravity, could have sent a man to.

  Dr. Mystère, in britches, shirtsleeves and braces, answered him, and quickly ascertained that some tragedy had occurred. He motioned to Cigale, telling him to be sure the Lumières stayed with their equipment and did not accompany he and the suffering father. He then said to me, “Mr. Williams, would you be so good as to come with me?” I had no idea what had happened, or what possible aid I could give, but his tone was so grave that I felt I had no choice but to acquiesce.

  The old man took us to the home of the newlyweds and some other members of their family, and a more horrific charnel house I have never seen. I will spare you the details; I know such things aren’t to your taste, but I must impress upon you that a truly terrible death had visited the young man and everyone in the neighboring domiciles. I saw at once why Dr. Mystère had asked me to come: the marks on the bodies were not made by knives or bullets, but unquestionably by the claws and fangs of big cats. The way the throats were bitten is quite distinctive. “You understand?” Dr Mystere asked. I dared not speak lest my voice betray my nausea, so I could but nod.

  We went next to a missionary hospital. It appeared that the bride had survived, and truth to tell, I believe that this fact was to her misfortune. The injuries that she must have sustained were hidden beneath the most modest bedclothes, but her face was pale and sweating, and her eyes pits of despair. I could hear a clock ticking, though I could not see one in the room. I could see only a bed and two dozen members of her family who had somehow entered the room.

  Dr. Mystère was allowed to her bedside. I doubted that I would be so allowed, and I had no desire to trouble her or her family, so I remained by the door. When Dr. Mystère returned, his eyes burned with anger. “Will she live?” I asked him.

  He balled his fists. “No. But her last breath has avenged her.” Outside in the empty corridor, he extracted a notebook from his pocket, and neatly wrote down some instructions to an outermost part of the city. “Take this to the Frères Lumière, and tell them they may have their cat hunt. Tell them they will have the most exciting moving picture they can imagine. Cigale and I will go on ahead and prepare the groundwork.” He hesitated a moment, then said. “Your Foreign Service and Freddy Rowbotham say you are the best tiger-man in Bombay. Is that true?”

  I did not wish to seem a braggart, but could not deny that many held the opinion that I was the best tiger-man in Bombay.

  “Then we shall have sport tomorrow,” he said, “for I was once counted the best tiger-man in Bengal.”

  We–I mean the Lumière’s group and I–followed Dr. Mystère’s instructions precisely. I had thought that we would be traveling out some distance from Bombay, to one of the villages or even some jungle, but to my astonishment we simply circumnavigated the city, and were still within its environs when Dr. Mystère’s strange Electric Hotel came into view once more.

  When I call this superlative and quite mystifying vehicle “Electric,” I am not merely using the name by which its owner refers to it. It is, indeed... Electric! Not only is it illuminated with a incredible arrangement of electrical apparatus–I’ve heard that Mr. Tesla is jealous to a fault over the vehicle, and young Cigale warned us more than once to keep our eyes peeled for spies from Tesla’s company–but it was surrounded by an atmosphere of tension and suppressed excitement that is quite draining. Electric, as I said; being around the Electric Hotel was like awaiting the discharge of a massive thunderstorm. Like the building storm, it quite gave me a headache, and I needed something of a pick-me-up while in its vicinity.

  While the Lumières and their attendants and lackeys began unpacking their most singular equipment, Dr. Mystère approached with Cigale. To my surprise, the good Doctor carried a Henry rifle and wore two Colt Navy revolvers belted around his morning coat. “A cat hunt, then,” he said with grim cheer.

  The officials who had been playing host to Dr. Mystère and the brothers Lumiere had gone to great leng
ths–too great, I began to think; the lady doth protest too much and all that–to assure us that big cats were unknown in the city. His attempts to mollycoddle us came to naught, when we were approached by a man–with the odd name of Lever–in charge of what used to be a village, before it was subsumed into the city, who begged that I would shoot the leopards which had killed several of his family.

  Dr. Mystère and I exchanged knowing glances. Leopards could easily have committed the atrocity after the wedding, and I at once knew that Dr. Mystère had already heard of this case, and linked it to the wedding killings with remarkable speed. I was very much astonished by this, for I had never before known either tigers or leopards to wander so close to human civilization.

  Nevertheless, the wounds I had seen the previous day were certainly caused by a leopard rather than a tiger, which is larger and heavier.

  Lever informed us that these beasts had been sighted coming from a slum on the city’s southern reaches, as if they were human residents. He accompanied us to this fetid hive of poverty. I had considered myself quite used to the poverty that the lower-caste Indians existed in, but the conditions in this deplorable suburb were more horrifying than any I had ever seen before. Finally, Dr. Mystère described to the old man the unkempt man whom I had seen at the wedding. Lever recognized the description, and seemed to think that this person was bad luck. Lever gave the mysterious ruffian a name, Dutt.

  Upon our hosts’, shall we say, vociferous doubting of this man’s statement, he drew our attention to numerous pawprints, which had somehow survived being obliterated by those of the multitude which had passed over them. These prints were going in all directions, back and forth through the very streets and between the houses, and none of us could deny that the cats seemed to have been walking about the district all night.

  I recognized the tracks immediately, of course, as did Dr. Mystère. Examples of the spoor were both new and old, and tended to cluster along the wheel-ruts formed by carts and wagons bringing grain from the fields. Dr. Mystère knelt beside one such track, heedless of the mud that was soaking into the tail of his coat.