Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

George chuckled. “Ah, but were those of our generation any better? Back when God was in his castle, Henry still on his throne, and this city was still called London, I was George Boleyn, Emily was Emlia Bassano...”

  “And I was Zephir.”

  “I suppose.” George chose not to remark on the interruption. “But only among friends, Thomas.”

  It was true. Even before the ouster of the old King, it had never been Thomas, only Zephir; his father, Robert Recorde, had four sons and five daughters, who were seldom if ever called by their given names, but instead known as the Four Winds and Five Wandering Stars. With the coming of the Republic, and the abolition of the names bestowed by God, he had simply made it official, and Thomas Recorde became Zephir.

  He wondered what had become of his three brothers, and of his five sisters. He had heard from his mother once, in the days of the First Forest War. His seeming betrayal of the Republic, siding with the elephants, had broken his father’s heart, she said. So far as the family as concerned, the letter had read, brother Zephir was already dead.

  “My parents are dead and buried, I suppose,” Thomas said aloud, musing. “I’d always hoped to square things with them, to let them know that their son wasn’t really a traitor. But then...” Thomas trailed off, his eyes unfocused.

  “I was in America when I heard about the Revolution, and about your being imprisoned. It... It just made me sick that I wasn’t able to do anything to help back then.”

  Thomas took a deep breath, and gave a limp shrug. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. I suppose it isn’t anyone’s fault but my own. I should have known something was in the wind when the Old Lady was assassinated by the cabal of Fandango, Capoulosse and Podular. They hoped to rid themselves of her influence over the King, you see, taking her place in the King’s favor. But it was only a short while afterwards that Hatchibombotar, Olur and Poutifour sprung their Revolution. If I’d been any sort of spy, I’d have seen it coming, but I’d allowed myself to get too close to the royal family, and saw nothing of what was happening with the common elephants outside the palace walls.” He paused, his lips drawn into a tight line. “More’s the pity.”

  “There was a war on, Zephir,” George replied. “And you were doing your duty. When the Elephant King and the Ape Republic went to war, you were perfectly positioned to act as our eyes and ears in the enemy court.”

  “Yes, but only by posing as an enemy myself, a traitor to my own people.”

  “You were an invaluable source of information during the First Forest War. I’ve seen your reports myself, since taking Red Peter’s job. The Republic might well have lost the war to the elephants in those early days, if not for you.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said hotly, eyes flashing, “and what was my thanks for it? A lifetime rotting in an elephant jail.”

  George reached out and placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, his expression grave. “Zephir, you must know that was one of the hardest decisions that Red Peter ever had to make. But for the gorillas to claim you as one of their own, to prove your innocence, would have been to expose our entire network of informants. The elephants had to believe you were really a traitor.”

  “And our own people, George?” Thomas tugged the folded newspaper from his pocket, brandishing it at the yellow-hat wearing ape. “They had to believe it still, as well?”

  George lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry, Zephir. There just wasn’t any other way.”

  Thomas threw the paper to the ground, and leapt to his feet. “I was abandoned, George! Left to the tender mercy of the Animalists! And now freed only because the elephants have found some use for me as a bargaining chip, tossed in with a bunch of other anonymous political prisoners.”

  George looked up at him, surprised. “You mean, you didn’t know?”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. “Didn’t know what?”

  George shook his head, sadly. “Oh, Zephir. It was at my urging that Solovar arranged for the release of the apes held by the elephants. We had to offer Olurgrad a raft of political concessions to close the deal, but I knew that no price would be too high. Not when the bill had come due, all these years later.”

  Thomas opened his mouth, and closed it again. His eyes widened. Finally, he said, “You did this?”

  “Zephir,” George sighed, “I’ve been laboring ceaselessly since I took office to get you released. In fact, I’ve done little else for the last few years but investigate every possible angle. This was just the first to bear fruit.”

  “But... but...” Thomas was taken aback.

  “Unfortunately,” George continued with remorse, “I’ve been unable to convince Solovar that your name should be cleared publicly. At least not yet. All of Red Peter’s files from those days have been sealed, by the President’s order, until the end of the century. His position–with which I disagree, but my voice carries little weight–is that with tensions easing with the elephants, and hope for reconciliation on the horizon, it wouldn’t do to reopen old wounds, and to remind them that relations between our two countries were not always so genial.”

  Thomas set his jaw, eyes narrowed. “So I’m to remain a traitor.” It was a statement, not a question, demanding no answer. “Hated by my countrymen.”

  “I’m afraid that those who remember the name of Zephir, yes, will likely hate his memory.” George paused, and gave a sly smile. “But who remembers that there was ever a Thomas Recorde, my friend? I doubt there’s more than a handful still living who remember that the famous Zephir was once called by that name, and one of them stands before you.”

  Thomas shifted uneasily, averting his gaze. “This is not how I foresaw my homecoming, when I left for Celesteville, all those years ago.”

  George climbed to his feet, slipping his pipe into his pocket. He stepped to Thomas’s side, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come work with me, friend. There’s a place for Thomas Recorde at the intelligences services, even if there isn’t one for Zephir. I can use someone with your experience to help train my students, to increase their chances of surviving in the field.”

  “I don’t know...” Thomas began, uneasily.

  “You don’t have to decide right away,” George hastened to add. “We will discuss it further over dinner tonight. I’ve invited someone to join us, by the way. Another of those who remember the name of Thomas Recorde, but who hold no grudge against the name Zephir, for all of that.”

  Thomas looked up and met George’s eyes, confused.

  “Have you forgotten, old friend?” George asked. “Isabelle was a young ape with us, too, and has never forgotten the name to which you were born.”

  “I-Isabelle,” Thomas repeated, his tone breathless.

  George tightened his companionly grip on Thomas’s shoulder, and nodded. “She waited for you. All of these years. She waited.”

  Thomas tried to reply, but couldn’t think of the words to say.

  “Come on, Thomas Recorde,” George said, taking him by the arm. “It’s time to go home.”

  Bob Robinson knows Judex because he wrote a screenplay for an updated remake of the renowned serial. Louis Feuillade’s Judex was a way to redeem the author for his virulent paean to supervillainy in both Fantômas and Les Vampires, two previous serials brimming with undisguised cynicism and thinly-veiled attacks upon the bourgeoisie. Judex, on the other hand, in Feuillade’s own words, was meant to “exalt the finest sentiments.” But, in reality, Judex is anything but tame; Robinson’s Judex highlights the merciless side of the character, never as evident as when the Parisian avenger teams up with another hunter as fierce as he is…

  Robert L. Robinson, Jr.: Two Hunters

  Paris, 1915

  The sounds of the Parisian streets trickled through the slightly opened windows in the main office of the Banque Favraux, as street vendors, strolling lovers and the honking horns of new motorists created an opera of sorts. The sweet cascading scents of perfumes, pastries and cigarettes mixed in the air as they formed a new smell, u
nique to the City of Lights. Within the marble walls of the building, the hum of commerce filled the air as men diligently followed the financial markets in Europe and abroad.

  Entering the magnificent building of the bank, in a brisk walk, his large frame covered in a fine overcoat and hat, with the brim over his face, was a man with eyes like those of a beast. They blazed mercilessly at all who met his glance. For weeks, he had lived in the shadows; those who knew him thought him dead. But the time had come for his return. The time had come when justice–or so he believed–must be served. Or more precisely, vengeance would serve in lieu of the justice he craved.

  Coldly, the man approached a receptionist, a proud-looking woman who sat behind a desk. Her hair was tightly pulled back in a bun, her face expertly wore the latest in makeup, enhancing rather than detracting; she sat there in her tailored blue dress, her stern, yet beautiful, appearance complementing the décor of the office. She looked up at the man and was not put off by his eyes, as she had seen those kind of eyes almost every day for a year.

  “I am here to see Monsieur Favraux,” announced the stranger, handing her his calling card. “I have an appointment. My name...” The man suddenly paused; he had kept his name silent for months. Then, he announced with arrogance: “My name is Nikolas Rokoff.”

  The receptionist took his card and placed it on a silver tray, its edges wonderfully ornate, then signaled to an office boy. Upon the simple wave of her hand, the boy–no more than 12–ran over to stand before her.

  “Louis,” she ordered the youth, “bring this to Monsieur Vallières. At once.”

  The boy walked quickly away.

  “You may have a seat, Monsieur Rokoff. It shall be a few moments.”

  Rokoff removed his hat and sat in a chair, his eyes always scanning the room, never once stopping. After a short time, the boy came back down. He nodded to the receptionist, who looked at Rokoff. “Monsieur Vallières will meet you upstairs,” she said.

  Rokoff rose and followed the boy to the elevator cage.

  The boy held the gate open, waiting for the larger man to enter. Once inside, his hands skillfully manipulated the levers, operating the car as they rode together to the top floor of the building.

  Neither spoke during the ascent, the boy enjoying the wondrous ride as if it were its first again, Rokoff quitly anticipating the meeting at the top. As they came to a halt, the boy again opened the gate, revealing a gentleman standing before them. His hair and beard betrayed his age as they sparkled shining silver. For an elderly man, he was tall, although slumped over from age; his eyes shone with signs of the youth he once had been. Rokoff exited the elevator. The boy smiled at him before manipulating the levers to bring the car back to the ground floor.

  “Monsieur Rokoff,” began the man as he extended his hand, “welcome to the Banque Favraux. I am Monsieur Vallières, personal secretary to Monsieur Favraux. Please, come with me.” The elderly man led Rokoff down the hall to the outer chamber of an office. Knocking once, then opening the door, Vallières entered, with Rokoff following, into the office of Monsieur Favraux.

  The huge corner office was one of opulence, fine art and comfortable furnishing filling the room.

  “Monsieur Rokoff,” said a voice from behind a large marble desk. “I don’t often meet with strangers.”

  Rokoff walked towards the desk. “It is in both of our interest for you to do so, Monsieur Favraux,” replied Rokoff.

  “Please sit,” said the banker as he motioned to the chair before his desk. Vallières took the seat beside Rokoff, then opened a leather-bound portfolio to take notes.

  “I was under the impression that we would speak alone,” began Rokoff as he glanced at the secretary. “What I have to say is most confidential.”

  “Monsieur Vallières is my right hand,” said the banker. “If you want to work with me and make use of my resources, you must learn that he is amongst my most treasured ones. It is that simple. Now, what do you have for me?”

  Rokoff rubbed his bald head for a moment as he decided which course of action he would take. He had come too far to back out now. “I believe that there’s an absolute fortune to be found in Africa.”

  “That is nothing new. Men every day travel to the dark continent to find their fortunes.”

  “Listen to me, Monsieur Favraux, and listen to me well. I’m not a man to be trifled with, nor dismissed casually. I’ve come to you for a simple reason: I need the funds to accomplish two things. Mount an expedition to a city called Opar, and get the services of a certain English Lord to guide us.”

  “Then why ask to speak with me? There are men in my employ here who could evaluate your project and make a decision.”

  “It’s not that simple. First, only one man knows where Opar is located. I believe that it is the reason for his fortune. And he won’t be easily persuaded. Second, and this is more important for you, the pay-out for this is beyond anything you might imagine. Gold, gems of untold value... We could fill ten ships and still not have dented this treasure.”

  Favraux rose from his desk and walked to a bar located along the wall. He reached in and took out a bottle of brandy, of which he poured two glasses. Walking back, he handed one to Rokoff. “Why haven’t you already made this English lord some kind of offer then?” Rokoff raised his glass in thanks to Favraux, and then drained the contents in one swift sip.

  “Why? This man is not like you or I. He is a demon, with the strength of ten men. Believe me when I tell you this. I’ve had my hands on his throat, and he’s had his on mine, and we’ve looked into each other’s eyes with hate. I know for sure, he is more beast than man.”

  “I wasn’t told you were a madman, Monsieur Rokoff. Our mutual acquaintance, Alexis Paulvitch, said you were a man to be listened to.”

  “Then listen to me, you pompous ass. Lord Greystoke is no normal man. He was the son of an English lord, born in Africa and raised by apes. Do you understand what I am saying? He was not raised by men, suckling on the milk of his proper English mother, but at the tit of a hairy ape. He ruled a herd of them, along with a tribe of natives. In the jungle, he is seen as some mystical god... a warrior of unequalled skill and strength. They call himTarzan.”

  “My God,” said Favraux. “I’d heard that story, but I thought it was legend.”

  “It is not. I know this man. We’re sworn enemies, but each time he returns from Africa, his estate grows. I paid his banker for information, a man in Switzerland, and he told me that Greystoke’s deposits are all in gold and jewels. And each one larger than the one before it.”

  “If this jungle man is your enemy, then how will you get him to lead you to this fortune?”

  Rokoff walked to the bar and refilled his glass. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “there is only one thing that makes Greystoke a man and not a beast. His woman. He has a wife and a son. And they’re in Paris as we speak.”

  Favraux rubbed his chin, and then looked at his secretary. It was tempting, he thought, but fantastic.

  “Monsieur Rokoff,” asked Vallières, “if this man hates you, why would he help you?”

  “To regain what he wants,” said Rokoff.

  “And that would be?” said Vallières.

  “His family. I will take his family. You will keep them hidden, until we return with the treasure.”

  Favraux stood up. “You ask me to commit a crime, Monsieur Rokoff? Kidnapping, coercion, possibly more. Are you mad? I run a bank!”

  “You run more than a bank, Monsieur Favraux. Do not think that I do not know your business. Your fortune was made by stealing from others, throughout Europe. You’ve blackmailed officials, embezzled millions, help the Vampires launder their loot... Yes, you’re more than a banker. But all that doesn’t matter now... the kind of fortune I’m talking about will erase your past, make you as respectable as the families you’ve ruined.”

  Vallières’ eyes blazed as he listened to the two men, but he said nothing.

  Favraux laughed out loud as he took the b
ottle from Rokoff’s hand. “Good, we understand each other. Now, where is this ape man?”

  Across the City of Lights, at the Royal Palace Hotel, two men stood on a balcony looking out at the skyline. The smaller of the two wore the uniform of the French Navy. His name was Paul d’Arnot. A slim cigarette in his left hand twirled to and fro as he spoke, like the baton of an orchestra conductor. He held a glass of Burgundy in his right hand. Beside d’Arnot was a bronzed god, a full head and half taller, with a body that would rival the sculptures of the Louvre. That was his friend, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. Paris was a regular stop on the annual trips he took with his wife. “This is a jungle of a different sort, eh, John?” Paul asked his companion. “The predators that come after a man here, come with a smile and a desire unknown to all but them.”

  “My world was simpler before I met you,” said Greystoke. “My enemies were so for no other reason than I was a meal to them, or they were a meal to me. It was easy. No anger, no hatred. Since becoming a civilized man, I have discovered emotions that my brothers, the Great Apes, would find humorous.”

  “Ah, this is true, but would you have known the wonders of love? To see a rare beauty and know that she is the one for you. Do you think your ape friends know that?”

  Greystoke looked out over Paris with his grey eyes, and thought back to his youth, to a love named Teeka, but chose not to mention her. Paul, while he accepted much of his life prior to their friendship, would never understand his love for this beautiful creature. The female who filled his heart with longing, until the day he first saw the golden tresses of the one who would become his mate, his wife, Jane Porter. “No Paul,” he replied. “They don’t. But neither do you, calling on a different lady every night.”

  The two men laughed, then sipped their wine in a moment of silence.

  “Your wife took your son shopping in Paris,” said d’Arnot. “There goes that amazing fortune of yours.” It took Greystoke a long time to understand the value of wealth and the importance that other men put on it. He only saw that the jewels of Opar provided him and his family with security.