Zenith took a table in an alcove under a low stone ceiling that was centuries old and blew out the large votive candle which was his only light. He ordered his usual absinthe and from his cigarette case removed a slender oval, which he placed between his lips and lit. The rich sweetness of Kashmiri opium poured from his nostrils as he exhaled the smoke and his eyes became heavily lidded. Watching the dancers, all at once he became aware of a presence at his table and a slender woman, whose domino only enhanced her dark beauty, an oval face framed by a perfectly cut “page-boy” style. She laid a hand lightly on his shoulder and smiled.
“Will you dance, old friend?” she asked.
Although she was known to the world as Una Persson, Countess von Beck, Zenith thought of her by another name. He rejoiced inwardly at his good fortune. She was exactly whom he had hoped to meet here. He rose and bowed, then gracefully escorted her to the door where they joined in the rhythms of The Entropy Tango, that strange composition actually written for one of Countess Una’s closest friends. In England, she had enjoyed a successful career on the music hall stage. Here, she was best known as a daring adventuress.
Arranging their wonderful bodies in the figures of the tango, the two carried on a murmured conversation. When the final chords rose to subtle crescendo, Zenith had the knowledge he had sought.
At his invitation, Countess Una joined him, the candle was relit and they ordered from the menu. This was to prove dangerous for, moments after they began to eat, a muffled shot stilled the orchestra and Zenith noted with some interest that a large caliber bullet had penetrated the plaster just behind his left shoulder. The bullet had flattened oddly, enough to tell him that it was made of an unusual alloy. Countess Una had recognized it, too. It was she who blew out the candle so that they no longer made an easy target.
They spoke almost in chorus.
“Vera Pym!”
Who else but that ruthless mistress of Paris’s most notorious gang would ignore Smith’s rules of sanctuary, respected even by the police?
But why had she suddenly determined to destroy the albino?
Zenith frowned. Could he know more than he realized?
IV. Fitting the Pieces
Commissaire Lapointe was unsurprised by Zenith’s information when they met at L’Albertine the next morning. Vera Pym (believed to be her real name) was the acknowledged leader of a gang which had in its time had several apparent leaders. Only Pym, however, had remained in control of the Vampyres throughout their long career. She was one of a small group capable (to one degree or another) of moving between the worlds and living for centuries. The rank and file of her gang, for all their sinister name, had no such qualities. Some did not even realize she was their leader, for she generally put her man of the moment in that position. Occasionally, she changed her name, though generally it remained a simple anagram of her gang’s. And she had many disguises. Few were absolutely sure what she looked like or, indeed, if she was always the same person. Several times she had been captured, yet she had always been able to escape.
“She has been a thorn in the side of the authorities for well over a century,” agreed Lapointe. “And, of course, she is one of the few we can suspect in this case.”
“What’s more,” added Zenith, “she has recently been seen in the company of a man of the cloth. An Abbé by all accounts.”
“My God!” Lapointe passed a photocopied picture across the table. “Tell me what you make of that!”
Frowning, the albino examined the picture. “Not much, I’m afraid. Is she?...”
“The likeness is remarkably similar to our victim. Her name was Esther Gobseck, a Jewess better known in her day as La Torpille.”
“A surprisingly unfeminine sobriquet.”
“I agree. But at that time a torpedo was something which lay in the water, half-hidden by the waves, until hit by a ship. Whereupon it would explode and as likely as not sink the ship. She is most famous from Balzac’s History of the Courtesans.”
“Ah!” Zenith sat back, drawing on his cigasrette. “So that’s our Abbé! Carlos Herrera!”
“Exactly. Vautrin himself. Which would explain the initials on the rosary. So he is here now with Madame Pym. Which also explains anomalies in his career as reported by Balzac. Vautrin is Jacques Collin, the master criminal, who vanished from the historical records at about the time our ‘Torpedo’ became an inconvenient embarrassment to more than one gentleman. Suicide was suspected, I know. But now we have the truth.”
“No doubt Collin also vanished into the 21st century, since Balzac becomes increasingly vague concerning his identity or his exploits and appears to have resorted to unlikely fictions to explain him. He knew nothing of La Pym, of course!”
“But this does nothing to tell us of their whereabouts,” mused Zenith.
“Nor,” added Lapointe, “how they can be brought to justice.”
For some moments, Zenith was lost in thought, then he glanced at his watch and frowned. “Perhaps you will permit me, Monsieur le Commissaire, to solve that particular problem.”
Lapointe became instantly uncomfortable. “I assure you, Monsieur Zenith, that while I appreciate all your help, this is ultimately a Police matter. I would remind you that you are already risking your life. La Pym has marked you as her next victim.”
“A fact, Monsieur Lapointe, that I greatly resent. Because of a promise I made to a certain great Englishman, I regret to say I have been forced to live the live of a bourgeois professional, almost a tradesman, and no longer pursue the life I once relished. However, in this case a certain personal element has entered the equation. I feel obliged to satisfy my honor and perhaps avenge the death of that beautiful young creature who, through no fault of her own, was forced into a profession for which she had only abhorrence and which resulted, at least according to de Balzac’s history, in an unholy, early and wholly undeserved death.”
“My dear Monsieur Zenith, if I may make so bold, this remains a matter for the justice system.”
“But you are helpless, I think you will agree, certainly in the matter of Collin. He will evade you, as no doubt also will La Pym.”
“If so, then we will continue to hunt for them until we can arrest them and prove their guilt or innocence in a court of law.”
The albino bowed from where he sat. “So be it.” And with that he got to his feet and, making a polite gesture, bade the Policeman au revoir.
Commissaire Lapointe immediately made his way back to the Quay d’Orsay where LeBec awaited him. He read at once the concern in his superior’s face.
“What’s up, chief?”
Lapointe was in poor humor and in no mood to explain, but he knew he owed it to LaBec to say something. “I’m pretty sure that Zenith has an idea of our murderers’ whereabouts and intends to take the law into his own hands. He is convinced that he knows who they are and how to punish them. We must find him and follow him and do all we can to thwart him!”
“But, chief, if he can deliver justice where we cannot...?”
“Then all our civilization stands for nothing, LeBec. Already the Americans and the English have adopted the language of the blood feud in their foreign affairs, demanding eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth–but that is nothing more or less than a reversion to the most primitive form of law available to our ancestors. France cannot follow the Anglo-Saxons down that road and I will do all in my power to make sure we do not!”
“And yet...”
“LeBec, for 20 centuries, we have steadily improved our civilization until our complex system of justice, allowing for subtle interpretation, for context, for motive and so on, has become paramount. It is the law I live to serve. Zenith, for all he behaves with courage and honor, would defy that justice, just as he used to, and I will have no part in it. Though I lack his resources and knowledge–even, perhaps, his courage–I must stop him. In the name of the Law.”
Understanding at last, LeBec nodded gravely. “Very well, chief, but what are we to do?”
“Our best,” declared Lapointe gravely. “I suspect that Countess von Beck, your own distant cousin, is still helping him in this. For that reason, I put a man to follow her. If we are lucky, she will lead us to Zenith. And Zenith, I sincerely hope, will lead us to the murderers–to Vautrin and Vera Pym–while there is still a chance of our apprehending them.”
“Where are they going, chief? Do you know?”
“My guess is that, since they failed to kill Zenith last night, they will attempt to return from whence they came. But how they will make that attempt remains a mystery to me.”
V. Zenith’s Resolution
Una Persson’s car had been seen heading up the Boulevard Voltaire towards the Boulevard du Temple, carrying at least two passengers, so it was for the Marais that the Policemen headed in their own Citroen ECXVI, perhaps the fastest car in France, powered by three enormous super-charged batteries. The sleek, black machine had them outside the Cirque d’Hiver within minutes, but from there they had to run towards the canal and down the steps to the great basin by now, at twilight, alive with dancing neon and neurotic music. There at last Lapointe caught a glimpse of his quarry and pointed.
Zenith, as was appropriate, wore white tie and tails, carrying a slender silver-tipped ebony cane, an astonishing sight to LeBec who had never seen him thus. “My God, we are pursuing Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers!” joked Lapointe’s assistant.
The Commissaire found no humor in this. “This could be a dangerous business, lad. There was never any profit in making that man one’s enemy. He was once the most dangerous thief in Europe and Europe is lucky that he gave his word to an old friend to forsake his life of crime or he would still be causing us considerable grief!”
Suitably chastened, LeBec panted, “What is he? Some kind of vampire?”
“Only in legends. And not in any way associated with Vera Pym and her gang.” Lapointe continued to push his way through the crowd as the evening grew darker. “At least, I have some idea now where he is heading. There must have been a gateway created by the murderers...”
Crossing the old wooden bridge over the basin, they saw what had brought the crowd here. It was a huge black barge of the kind once used in the canal folk’s funerals, two decks high. “It came up out of there–not ten minutes ago!” said an underdressed young woman wearing garish face-paint. “It just–just appeared!”
Lapointe stared into the still-mysterious maw of the underground canal. “So that’s where they’ve been hiding. A veritable water-maze,” he muttered. “Hurry, LeBec, for the love of God!”
At last, they had forced a passage through the crowds, back to the tall looming house in rue Mendoza where the corpse of Esther Gobseck had been discovered. As Lapointe had guessed, the two ahead of them had abandoned their own car and were hurrying towards the entrance of No. 15 into which they swiftly disappeared.
By the time Lapointe and his assistant had reached the door, it was locked and bolted. Much time was wasted as they attempted to rouse the residents and gain access.
Now, at the very top of the building, they could hear a strange, single note, as of an organ, which began to drown almost all other sound and made communication difficult. As they neared the fifth floor, they became aware of a violent, pulsing light filling the stairwell below. It seemed to pour through the skylight and have its origins on the roof. The air itself had an unnatural quality, a strong smell of vanilla and ozone which reminded Lapointe irrationally of the corniche at Bourdeaux where as a boy he had holidayed with his family.
Next, an unnatural pressure began to exert itself on the men, as if gravity had somehow tripled in intensity and they moved sluggishly with enormous effort up to the final landing where Monsieur Gris, an expression of terror on his features, was attempting to descend the stairs. Behind him, a ladder had been pulled down from the ceiling and now gave access to an open door in the roof.
They were at last straggling the ladder to the roof. There, amongst the old chimneys and sloping leads, stood four people–a vicious-looking woman whose beauty was marred by a rodent snarl and a tonsured priest whom Lapointe immediately identified as Vautrin–otherwise known as Jacques Collin, but here disguised as the Abbé Carlos Herrera!
Confronting Vautrin and his co-conspiratator Vera Pym were Zenith the albino and the Countess Una von Beck. All were armed–Vautrin with a rapier and Pym with a modern automatic pistol. Zenith carried his ebony sword-stick while Countess von Beck had raised a Smith and Wesson .45 revolver which she pointed at the snarling leader of the Vampires.
And, if this scene were not dramatic enough, there yawned behind Pym and Vautrin a strange, swirling gap in the very fabric of time and space which mumbled and cried and moved with a nervous bubbling intensity.
“Sacred Heaven!” murmured Lapointe. “That is how they got here and that is how they intend to leave. They have ripped a rent through the multiverse. This is not a gateway in the usual sense. It is as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the supporting walls of Saint Peter’s! Who knows what appalling damage they have created!”
Then, suddenly, Vautrin had moved, his long, slender blade driving for Zenith’s heart. But the albino’s instincts were as sharp as always. Dodging the thrust, he drew his own rapier of black, vibrating steel which seemed to sing a song of its own. Mysterious scarlet runes ran up and down its length as if alive. He replied to Vautrin’s thrust with one of his own.
Parrying, Vautrin began to laugh–a hideous obscenity of sound which somehow seemed to blend with that awful light pouring through the rift in multiversal space their crude methods had created. “Your powers of deduction remain superb, Zenith, even if your taste in friends is not. She was indeed ‘La Torpille.’ I thought I had driven her to self-destruction, but she failed me in the end. I struck her down, as you and the others have guessed, and then, to make sure the body was never discovered, and seen to be murdered, I employed the services of Madame Vera Pym here. She is an old colleague.”
Now Lapointe had drawn his revolver and was levelling it. “Stop, Monsieur Vautrin. In the name of France! In the name of the Law! Stop and put down your weapon. On your own admission, I arrest you for the murder of Mademoiselle Esther Gobseck!”
Again, Vautrin voiced that terrible laugh. “Prince Zoran, Commissaire Lapointe, your powers of deduction are impressive and I know I face two wonderful opponents, but you will not, I assure you, stop my escape. The multiverse herself will not permit it. And put up your weapons. You cannot kill me any more than I can kill you!” He used Zenith’s given name, Zoran, which went with the title he had long-since renounced, almost challenging the albino to prove his humanity.
Then, perhaps goaded by this, Zenith struck again, not once but twice, that black streak of ruby-coloured runes licking first at Vautrin’s heart and then, as she raised her pistol to fire, at Vera Pym’s.
The woman also began to laugh now. Together, their hideous voices created a kind of resonance with the pulsing light and almost certainly kept the gateway open for them. Vera Pym was triumphant. “You see,” she shouted, “we are indestructible. You cannot take our lives in this universe, nor shall you be able to pursue us where we are going now!”
And then, she stepped backwards into that howling vortex and vanished. In a moment, Vautrin, also smiling, followed her.
For a sudden moment there was silence. Then came a noise, like a huge beast breathing. The roof was lit only by the full Moon and the stars. Lapointe felt the weight disappear from him and knew vast relief that circumstances had refused to make Zenith a murderer and Countess Una his accomplice, for then he would have been obliged to arrest them both.
“We will find them,” he promised as the snoring vortex dwindled and disappeared. “And if we do not, I expect they will find us. Have no doubt, we shall be waiting for them.” He raised exhausted eyes to look upon a bleak, emotionless albino. “And you, Monsieur, are you satisfied you cannot be revenged on the likes of Vautrin?”
“Oh, I fancy I hav
e taken from him something he valued more than life,” said the albino, sheathing his black rapier with an air of finality. He shared a thin, secret smile with the Countess von Beck. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, Monsieur le Commissaire, I will continue about my business while the night is young. We were planning to go dancing.” And, offering his arm to Countess Una, he walked insouciantly down the stairs and out of sight.
“What on Earth did he mean?” LeBec wondered.
Commissaire Lapointe was shaking his head like a man waking from a doze. He had heard about that black and crimson sword cane and believed he might have witnessed an action far more terrible, far more threatening to the civilization he valued than any he had previously imagined.
“God help him,” he whispered, half to himself, “and God help those from whom he steals...”
John Peel normally writes science fiction and fantasy, but for both his and our pleasure, he finds time to craft clever little period mysteries for Tales of the Shadowmen. After the Count of Monte-Cristo and Rouletabille, his protagonist in this third volume is Isidore Beautrelet, the young amateur detective that nearly outsmarted both Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes in The Hollow Needle. But in a twist characteristic of Peel’s stories, the lackdaisical Beautrelet is here teamed up in an amusing Franco-British Entente Cordiale fashion with a legendary and earnest English hero of the times whose help becomes necessary to solve the intriguing mystery of…
John Peel: The Successful Failure
Fontainebleau, 1913
Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre Page 22