‘What?!’ the journalist croaked. ‘Your men didn’t follow him?’
Fourier decided that the time had come to sit down. He put his hat in front of him on the table and squirmed on his seat.
‘Well … they tried. One of my men decided to follow him while his colleague stayed inside, just in case, to watch the meeting. And …’
‘And?’
‘Well, a group of customers came in just as the suspect was leaving and by the time my officer finally managed to get out of the door there was no one there. He waited in the middle of Place Blanche where he had the best view but it was impossible to tell which way the suspect had gone. Rue Blanche? Rue Fontaine? Boulevard de Clichy? Rue Lepic?’
Jacques Lacroix said nothing but you only had to look at him to know that he was silently fuming at the police and their hopeless incompetence.
‘Well, there’s nothing to prove that he was the man we’re looking for,’ said James soothingly. ‘Maybe it was just a little old man from the area who hurried off to his flat in the building next door.’
‘According to my men, the fellow seemed interested in the Surrealists. He was paying them a lot of attention.’
‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ James continued, ‘some of these writers and artists are fairly well known in Paris. It’s hardly surprising that customers are curious.’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘A curious customer but who, let me remind you, exactly fits the description provided by Mademoiselle Ducros.’
‘It’s clear that it was our man,’ declared Lacroix. ‘And I suppose at least we’ve learnt that he is probably still in Paris as we speak!’
‘Were your men spotted?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure they weren’t!’
‘I say!’ exclaimed my friend. ‘If this fellow really is the Marquis de Brindillac’s and Pierre Ducros’s unknown visitor, what was he doing in the brasserie? If he is trying to find out about the Surrealists, why not just contact them directly?’
‘Maybe he has. In any case, if it’s our man, he will probably go back to the Café de la Place Blanche. Either today or another day.’
‘Which is why my men are still watching the place.’
I lit another cigarette.
‘However, if you’ll allow me, Superintendent, Lacroix is the only one of us who has seen Öberlin before. Even if he uses another disguise, our friend would still be able to identify him. If you agree, Superintendent (and if Monsieur Lacroix agrees, of course), I think that his presence at the brasserie would be very helpful.’
‘Of course I agree! That goes without saying!’
The reporter had recovered his usual enthusiasm and, with a broad smile, he took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘I have not been idle since yesterday, gentlemen. Until four o’clock this morning I was in the Paris-Soir archives. A researcher friend of mine helped me. Together, we went through hundreds of newspapers with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘And what did you find?’
The journalist flicked through the pages of his notebook.
‘I found two cases which are very similar to ours. One in Amsterdam, the other in New York. Amsterdam first: on 9 May this year, Professor Adalbert Van Brennen, seventy, who worked at the Suggestive Psychotherapy Clinic, was found dead in his bed. There was no sign of a struggle or blows, no evidence of a break-in via the windows of his room or the front door of the house. It appears that he died in his sleep. Then New York: on 16 July, Dr William Stanhope was found dead in the early morning. He was forty-three and worked at the Neurology Institute and, like Professor Van Brennen, despite his closed eyes, he looked … well, I’ll let you guess!’
‘Absolutely terrified!’ Fourier was the first to cry.
‘Exactly. In both cases, despite the very strange circumstances, the cause of death was recorded as bleeding in the brain, although the symptoms did not corroborate the theory.’
‘There was no autopsy?’
‘It was not considered necessary.’
‘Did the articles say what they were working on?’ I asked.
‘The Neurology Institute in New York is known for its interest in nervous disorders and behavioural disorders in the young. But Dr Stanhope seems to have specialised in sleep-related illnesses. As for Professor Van Brennen, he treated certain psychological imbalances through hypnosis. He began his career at the Salpêtrière hospital under Charcot at the end of the 1880s.’
‘So both men were carrying out research into sleep and dreams,’ I observed.
‘By digging a bit, I found another mention of this Van Brennen. There was a paper on his Suggestive Psychotherapy Clinic in a scientific magazine a few months before his death. The clinic clearly treated some rather loopy cases. Among other things, Professor Van Brennen had apparently treated a patient suffering from Hyperesthesia psychosexualis for a long time.’
‘What?’ said Fourier.
‘Psychosexual hyperesthesia. His patient was convinced that he was the victim of a lascivious creature who tormented him every night.’
‘Ah, yes! Those ethereal spirits our dear Marquis was so fond of!’
‘Van Brennen was convinced that he could be treated with hypnosis.’
‘And did it work?’
‘The article didn’t say.’
In the space of an instant, images from my dream came back to me. I saw the face of the unknown woman bent over mine and experienced again the taste of her sweet hair between my lips and the mellow heat of her skin. I chased away the vision with a reflex movement of my hand.
‘No other cases of Deadly Sleep?’ asked James.
‘I went as far back as the summer of 1932 but I couldn’t find anything else. No, the whole thing definitely seems to have started with the death of Professor Van Brennen on 9 May this year.’
‘Of course,’ my friend speculated out loud, ‘if we could find out whether a chap who looked vaguely like a mad doctor had tried to meet the two victims a few days before their deaths, it would certainly make our case easier.’
‘How can we find out?’
‘Maybe the Sûreté could contact the relevant police forces?’
‘That might take time but you’re right, we must try everything. I will give orders to that effect. Lacroix, my congratulations! That was good work.’
‘So from now on we must consider that five deaths have occurred in similar circumstances,’ I declared. ‘Adalbert Van Brennen on 9 May; Percival Crowles on 5 June; William Stanhope on 16 July; Pierre Ducros on 26 August; and finally the Marquis de Brindillac last week on 13 October.’
James shivered. ‘Five deaths in the course of six months, that’s a lot.’
‘Too many. Time is short,’ confirmed Fourier. ‘I think that a meeting with the leader of the Surrealist group is called for.’
‘Yes. We have to find out why our Austrian chap seems to be so interested in him or one of his friends, and if he has already tried to contact them.’
‘There again I can help, Superintendent,’ said Lacroix. ‘André is extremely hostile towards anyone who even remotely resembles a police officer. With all due respect, you will have more chance of obtaining information if I accompany you.’
‘Fine! I accept your proposal, Lacroix. The best thing would be to go to his home immediately – if you see no objection of course.’
‘None.’
‘In the meantime, James, shall we go and see those nice people at the Institut Métapsychique? Perhaps they will remember Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin’s visit. And they can tell us about the lecture the Marquis de Brindillac planned to give. I am very curious to know what it was going to be about.’
‘An excellent idea, gentlemen! Then it will be time to go to the Café de la Place Blanche. Hopefully our man will appear. But this time, dash it all, I won’t let him get away!’
It was settled. Midday sounded at the church of Saint-Merri. We agreed to meet at Place Blanche at six o’clock sharp.
‘It wouldn’t b
e a good idea to be seen together at the Surrealists’ café,’ added Fourier, rising. ‘Is there somewhere else we could meet?’
‘The Cyrano brasserie,’ replied Lacroix. ‘It’s their old headquarters and it’s very near, on the other side of the square.’
‘Perfect. Let’s meet there, gentlemen. Are you coming, Lacroix?’
‘Why did they change their headquarters?’ I asked.
‘The owner didn’t care for broken tables …’
The hotel doors closed behind the superintendent and Lacroix, and we watched them through the window as they made their way down Rue des Lombards.
‘Speaking of tables,’ cried James, ‘I’ve just realised that I haven’t eaten a thing! Let’s go and have a good meal.’
X
A VISIT TO THE INSTITUT MÉTAPSYCHIQUE
When the taxi dropped us at No. 89 Avenue Niel, a hundred yards away from Place Pereire, I admired the façade of the famous house for a few seconds.
Nestling between two much taller buildings, it was two storeys high (not counting the attic under the mansard roof which had been converted into fats in the traditional Haussmann style) and was less imposing than I had imagined. But it had an indefinable charm, largely due to the reputation for brimstone and mystery the Institut had acquired after fifteen years of research on the very margins of science.
It was here that Arthur Conan Doyle had set a chapter of his novel The Land of Mist in 1926 although, for reasons which escaped me, he had located the metapsychists’ headquarters in Avenue de Wagram instead of Avenue Niel. It was here too that Malone, Mailey and Roxton, Professor Challenger’s friends, had witnessed materialisation experiments which had left them flabbergasted.
The most renowned mediums had crossed the threshold of this building and been put under the microscope by the Institut’s team of researchers. Eva C. went through just such an ordeal. Jean Guzik held nearly eighty séances during which he revealed his terrible ghosts of animals, eagles, dogs and rodents, and the enormous beast, a kind of bear or Pithecanthropus, which had so frightened those present. Luwig Kahn, the man who could read without using his eyes, was extensively studied. Franek Kluski submitted to dozens of meetings where he demonstrated his gift for making ghosts materialise and allowed casts to be made of spirit hands. Pascal Forthuny, the great clairvoyant, displayed the full measure of his talent. A few months earlier the Austrian, Rudi Schneider, had been subjected to relentless testing.
‘I hope there’s someone there,’ I remarked, approaching the front door.
‘Bah! There should be an ectoplasm to open the door at least.’
I only had to knock once before a uniformed butler opened the door.
‘Messieurs, are you here for the meeting?’
‘Uh, not exactly. We’re detectives. This is my associate, James Trelawney. My name is Andrew Fowler Singleton. We would like to talk to Professor Richet.’
‘Unfortunately, the professor has been detained elsewhere. He will not be here today.’
‘Perhaps Dr Osty could see us then?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible either. A séance is to be held shortly in the assembly room. Dr Osty is on the second floor at the moment, having tea with our medium. He is helping him relax and prepare for the séance properly.’
‘Oh, what a pity!’
As far as we could judge through the half-open door, the hall was filled with people. Behind the butler we could see small groups of men and women chatting.
‘Edgar, why are these gentlemen not coming in?’ said a voice suddenly. We only saw the man’s face a few moments later.
He was about fifty, tall, with carefully brushed grey hair and a slightly aristocratic and mannered air.
‘These gentlemen are detectives. They would like to see Dr Osty.’
‘How do you do. Detectives you say?’
‘Mr Trelawney and Mr Singleton.’
‘Trelawney? Singleton? That’s strange, I’ve heard your names somewhere before. Yes, of course! What was I thinking? Your reputation has been much discussed in the spiritualist press. Please, come in. I am honoured to meet you.’
We entered the hall where approximately thirty people were standing around in five or six groups. They could not be all the guests though because two other groups were going up the large staircase opposite us, passing a footman coming downstairs with a tray.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. Paul de Vallemont. I am a friend of Dr Osty and Professor Richet’s, and incidentally one of the vice-presidents of the Institut. The professor is detained in Switzerland for a few days. As Edgar told you, Dr Osty is going to introduce someone who promises to be the king of clairvoyants, maybe even more talented than dear Forthuny. So I fear that you will be disappointed.’
‘Is that why there are so many people?’ asked James, looking around the hall.
‘Yes. A few honorary members of the Institut are here, as well as some professors from the Sorbonne and the Académie who accepted our invitation, and not forgetting the great many people who saw the announcement in the Revue Métapsychique.’
‘Perhaps you can help us, Monsieur de Vallemont,’ I said, returning to the reason for our visit.
‘I would be delighted, gentlemen. But please, let me offer you a drink!’
The footman was heading towards us and we each took the glass he proffered.
‘Canard-Duchêne from 1927. I am told that it is excellent. It is the château of one of our benevolent donors. Ah, I am always very honoured to receive within these walls some of our English sympathisers. You know, we have several of your compatriots on our committee.’
‘Actually, I’m American!’ my friend corrected him. ‘Originally from Boston.’
‘And I’m Canadian. From Halifax, Nova Scotia. But that’s not important. We should explain that we’re investigating—’
‘Canadian, but of course! Everyone here has heard of your father and what he has done for the spiritualist movement in your province.’
Once he had started talking, Monsieur de Vallemont was like a runaway train.
‘Monsieur de Vallemont,’ I resumed, ‘we are investigating the death of the Marquis de Brindillac.’
‘Oh, the poor Marquis! It is never pleasant to die but what happened in his case was appalling.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Certainly, as did everyone at the Institut Métapsychique. He no longer came to see us very often at Avenue Niel but I visited him at his château in Étampes on two or three occasions.’
‘Have you been there recently?’ asked James.
‘The last time was in June. Dr Osty went there four or five weeks before his death.’
‘That is just why we would like to see him. The Marquis de Brindillac was working on sleep and dreams – is that correct?’
‘Indeed. It is a fascinating subject, it is true. The Marquis asserted that it was new psychic territory to be explored, and is almost entirely untouched at present. Do you realise that at a time of the general theory of relativity and quantum mechanics, we still don’t know anything about sleep? And yet we devote nearly a third of our lives to it. As for dreams, our ignorance is even more striking. Come, could you tell me what dreams are for?’
‘To provide a few pleasant moments of relaxation,’ replied James. ‘Sort of cheap holidays where the brain distracts us by sailing along through a wonderland.’
‘You may be right, Monsieur Trelawney. But, in fact, no one really knows what to make of them. It is one of the greatest mysteries the human mind has ever had to solve. And that is exactly what our dear departed friend was working on. He spent entire nights, poor man, in the work room of his château watching over the rest of his household who served as case studies.’
‘To what purpose?’
‘Understanding when dreams appear. He discovered that they actually occupy a fairly small proportion of the time devoted to sleep. They appear one and a half hours after we fall asleep and return regularly in brief seque
nces of about twenty minutes. But for most of the night our bodies and minds are completely inert.’
‘He was also studying lucid dreams, I believe.’
‘You are right, Monsieur Singleton. He was both fascinated and disturbed by his ability to control his dreams and to pace around inside them like an actor on stage. Have you ever experienced a lucid dream?’
‘Never!’ replied James. ‘And I must admit that I very rarely remember my dreams. Even the most banal ones.’
I had no desire to talk about my recent personal experience in the matter so I avoided answering by asking another question.
‘We understand that the Institut Métapsychique had been planning a public lecture on the Marquis’s work at the beginning of next year. Do you know the details?’
‘I’m afraid not. Actually, I think that Dr Osty would find it very difficult to tell you as well.’
‘Wasn’t he arranging the meeting in consultation with Auguste de Brindillac?’
‘I think it was more that the Marquis had managed to convince him of the importance of such a meeting, while remaining as evasive as possible about what he was actually going to say. The Marquis was like a child. He loved surprising the world and creating an event. Dr Osty had sufficient confidence in the old professor’s intelligence and wisdom to agree at once to organise the lecture.’
‘So no one knew exactly what the Marquis wanted to say on that day?’
‘No one.’
‘Not even an inkling?’
‘I can only repeat what the Marquis told Dr Osty: a new world is opening up before us. It’s not terribly enlightening, is it? We will know more when Amélie de Brindillac has finished deciphering her father’s work and we publish it.’
‘One more question, Monsieur de Vallemont. Someone came to the Institut Métapsychique about ten days ago. More precisely, between Tuesday 9 and Saturday 13 October. He is an Austrian who claims to be a professor in Vienna.’
‘Many people come here, from all over Europe. We are a very active society.’
‘He probably introduced himself as Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin …’
The Dream Killer of Paris Page 9