I am sorry to say it, my dear Kasamori, but Nora Fuset had seduced poor Folenfant with her beauty and the promises of wealth and power. He was her pet and his “Policemen” were actually disguised members of the Vampire gang.
“The secret of the treasure is ours,” Nora purred, “and tomorrow the papers shall tell of two more deaths by the cursed sword.”
Emile took up the Demoiselle Grise and moved towards the captives.
Suddenly, a pistol shot rang out. Folenfant dropped his pistol and clutched his wounded arm.
As you may have guessed, I was in the room all along and I had fired the shot. I stepped off the podium where I had been posing as blind Ichi and covered the group. As I had mentioned to Nora, it would take tremendous discipline to pose as a motionless wax figure. Fortunately, I have such discipline, thanks to a ninja trick I have mastered.
As I stepped down, Guerande threw off his captors and produced his own pistol from his sling.
“Excellent, detective!” he cried gaily, “Our plan has worked beautifully.”
Nora looked shocked and poor Folenfant was dumbfounded as they recognized the voice of Arsène Lupin coming from the journalist’s mouth.
I explained that the gentleman burglar and I had come to an arrangement. Tomorrow, he would go back to theft and I to trying to capture him, but first we resolved to put an end to the Vampires.
Unfortunately, both Lupin and I had forgotten the hidden switch that the gang had used to plunge the room into darkness once before. Nora pressed the switch and, in the sudden darkness, the Vampires attacked.
My eyes took only a moment to adjust. Lupin and Dulac were struggling with the Vampires and I have never seen anyone fight as fiercely and well as those two. Nora was fleeing with the scabbard.
I started to chase her but was distracted by Emile who was harrying Lupin with the cursed sword he still carried. I fired a shot that drew a grunt of pain, but failed to stop him.
“A sword!” Lupin cried, “I can deal with him.”
I tossed the zantetsuken to him and turned to race after Nora.
She had a good lead on me. As I ran, I saw the front door open and Nora’s form silhouetted there. I fired a shot, hoping to wound her leg. Instead, I hit the scabbard, shattering it. She cried out in rage and slipped into the night air.
I tried to catch her but she ran like a deer. After five minutes of pursuit, she had lost me in the streets of Paris. I returned to the Musée Veronica to find the Vampires subdued and a wounded Dulac standing guard over them. Lupin was gone. So were the fragments of the stone scabbard.
Emile was dead. In trying to run Lupin through, he had sunk the blade into the wall where it hit an electrical line. Perhaps there is something to the sword’s legend after all. She seems to have saved him from Lupin’s blade, only to kill him herself through a bizarre accident.
I will remain in Paris a little longer, and perhaps I shall catch Lupin yet. I must admit, a part of me has lost interest in the chase. I owe him a debt, after all. Besides, I promised my wife a honeymoon and should keep that promise.
Your friend,
Kogoro
Letter to Justin Ganimard, Picardy, 12 December 1931:
My Most Excellent Ganimard,
I understand you followed the recent case the papers are calling the “Mystery of the Cursed Sword.” As you have no doubt deduced, I left the museum when there was no longer any need for me to remain. I kept the zantetsuken in the hope that I might find a worthy soul to pass it onto someday.
I understand Detective Akechi was given the honors due him for the capture of the Vampires and returned to Japan with his lovely wife. Several months later, he foiled the plans of a female master criminal called the Black Lizard. I suspect that this was none other than our Mlle. Fuset.
I wonder if the detective ever made the connection? Perhaps not, he only ever saw Nora in her European guise and I don’t think he ever knew of her tattoo.
You will note that our friend Folenfant recently escaped from prison. Please do not be alarmed by this. Though he stumbled once, I believe there is hope for him yet. I have arranged his early departure from confinement and promise to take a personal hand in his rehabilitation.
As for the mysterious Père Dulac, I saw him again. As I left the museum that night I took the fragments of the stone scabbard with me. I noticed a most remarkable thing about those fragments. There were letters carved into the stone in the inside of the scabbard. It was only when the scabbard was broken that the message was “set free from the stone.”
I had been carrying that phrase around for months not knowing how it fit with the mystery, but now it was clear.
Following the directions I found my way to a barrow in the English countryside. (Please forgive me if I am vague about the location.) Inside I found a treasure indeed. Would you think I was mad if I said it was a noble body laid out on a bier and so perfectly preserved that it seemed to be asleep?
As I gazed on the treasure, I became aware of another entering the barrow. It was Dulac with a sword in his hand. We spoke for a time and he asked my intentions. I told him I would sooner desecrate a cathedral than loot this sacred place. He thought for a moment then raised his sword. I made no move to resist as the blade came down, once, twice, three times.
And that is all I shall say of that matter ever again. I rose and left that place its newly made guardian, and not even Sir Lancelot du Lac shall be more zealous in that duty than I.
Your humble servant,
Arsène Lupin
Bill Cunningham took a break from his Hollywood duties to sneak in a diabolically clever short-short (more about that type of story later) about a certain child and the trauma he experienced when he witnessed a bloody murder. No, this is not about the Bat-Man, but the consequences are nevertheless similarly far reaching. And we are also left to reflect upon two very different father-son relationships...
Bill Cunningham: Trauma
Paris, 1916
The boy’s lower lip trembled in fear.
“Just tell the Policeman here everything you saw, son, like a good reporter,” whispered the boy’s father standing over his shaking son.
Maigret smiled an inviting smile and opened his notebook as the boy’s account poured forth.
“I didn’t see him at first, I was too busy looking at all the books,” stammered the boy. “Dad had stepped out, and Prince Vladimir was talking to me, and then suddenly he wasn’t. I turned around and it, excuse me, he was wearing this black mask and coat. He must have come in through the window.”
“Did you recognize the Prince’s killer?” asked Maigret. “The color of his hair? How tall was the man?”
“All I could see was his eyes. He was all darkness surrounding these wild eyes. Then, he raised the knife,” blurted the boy. “I couldn’t move. All I could do was look. I wanted to scream but it wouldn’t have stopped him. He just kept stabbing him. Like the green hornets we saw in Africa last year. Remember, Dad? Just stinging and stinging him, over and over...” The boy curled into a ball and fell silent. Maigret followed the boy’s gaze across the room.
In the corner of the study, the Prince’s body lay draped in a blood-soaked sheet. Maigret recognized the tell-tale marks of a dozen or more stab wounds.
His father hugged him, gave the boy strength. The father, a reporter, looked at the Policeman. “Prince Vladimir contacted my paper with something he said was of great importance. My son and I changed our travel plans immediately and came to Paris because His Highness said there was no one here he could trust. He was so afraid he committed nothing to paper.” The boy’s father let the words hang in the air. “I hope this has been of help to your investigation, but you’ll understand if we take our leave. I should get my son back home to Detroit.” The newspaperman clutched his son tightly. “We’re not used to this sort of... activity, even there.”
Maigret nodded, understanding. He then leaned down to the boy–another in a long list of those tainted by Fantômas’
evil. He met the ten-year-old’s shocked stare.
“It’s going to be all right, Master Reid. One day you’ll forget all about this night...”
But even as he said it, Maigret knew it was a lie...
For the uninitiated, the character of “Shrinking” Violet Holmes, who stars in this tale, was created by Matthew Baugh and Win Scott Eckert in order to explain Clive Reston’s genealogy. Reston was featured in Marvel Comics’ The Hands of Shang Chi: Master of Kung Fu series. Violet helps connect the Sherlock Holmes and Fu Manchu novels. Baugh established her as Mycroft’s daughter, while Eckert provided her name. Violet’s aunt is Sherlock Holmes’ wife, Mary Russell, from the novels by Laurie King. Philip José Farmer’s Tarzan Alive identified Sir Denis Nayland Smith as a nephew of both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, thus making him Violet’s cousin.
Win Eckert: The Eye of Oran
Oran, Algeria, 1946
No one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences.
The Plague, Albert Camus
FROM: A.L.
TO: Lieutenant Aristide, Section Afrique du Nord, Service National d’Information Fonctionnelle, Paris.
DATE: June 16, 1946
SUBJECT: Oran situation.
Object, Eye of Oran, reputed to have arcane power. True or false, the gem still has great pecuniary value. Secured object from Natas and have secured it in a temporary but protected location. Am at large in Oran. Natas seeks to recover Eye and utilize as means to control masses who believe in its occult properties.
British agent Reston missing in mêlée while procuring object; presumed dead, but arranged for delivery of object to me before going missing.
Oran under strict quarantine due to outbreak of bubonic plague. Plague bacillus has unusual features, according to medical personnel on scene (Doctors Rieux) and is proving difficult to treat with standard serum. Escape from Oran more problematic than anticipated.
Will report again at designated weekly interval.
FROM: SNIF.
TO: Lieutenant Aristide, Section Afrique du Nord, Service National d’Information Fonctionnelle, Paris.
DATE: June 17, 1946
SUBJECT: Your report re: Oran.
Frankly am concerned that you have chosen to engage services of known criminal A.L. in this affair. A.L.’s skills as a thief and ability to escape from precarious situations are as well known as dedication to own self-interests. Furthermore, is not A. L. rather elderly for involvement in this business?
Against better judgment will grant slight latitude in this matter. If no positive results forthcoming, will be forced to ask SDECE to send FX-18 to Oran.
The city was yellow and dry. The heavy rains at the end of June had given way to the oppressive and unstinting heat. The sand and dirt whipped through the streets, and the people of Oran, already quarantined by the plague–la peste–secluded themselves even further in the ostensible safety of their homes and cafés.
In the Kasbah was one such haven, the Café Diable. Behind the Café, a series of tunnels and warrens led underground to a set of interconnected chambers. The Asian opulence of the lair, accented in jade and gold, would have surprised the listless patrons. They would have been even more surprised to learn that the Café and its hidden lair were built over a temple of uncountable age.
Thousands of years earlier, before recorded history, this had been the site of a Temple of Dagon. When the god’s right eye–the Silver Eye of Dagon–had been stolen, a great warrior princess named Bêlit had ventured into the dark realm of the mound-dwellers to retrieve it. She had succeeded where all others failed and became a queen. In the intervening centuries, it was passed down that only a great woman would be capable of ultimately liberating the silver gem from its homeland.
As the years passed, the exact location of the temple faded into obscurity. But the legends of the Silver Eye of Oran, as it came to be known, persisted.
And Doctor Natas knew that there was more to the Eye than its mere financial value. The legend that only a woman could remove the gem from the vicinity of Oran was preposterous, of course. But the other tales of the Eye… To one who had already accomplished impossible wonders, such as the transmutation of base matter to gold, the other stories were a lure impossible to ignore.
Hordes of monstrous fish-men rising out of the sea, bulging eyes and webbed feet, implacable and inexorable, would be his to command. Others had come close to controlling this power. The ancient Méne cult. The more recent Esoteric Order of Dagon. With the Eye in his possession, Natas would create and control whole armies of the unstoppable amphibians and succeed where the others had failed.
“Huan Tsung Chao,” he called from the shadows. Only cat-green eyes glittered out of the darkness, the rest of his figure draped in black silks.
“I am here, Master,” his chief of staff replied.
“Lupin is still in Oran. I can feel it.”
“Yes, Master. I agree he cannot have escaped. The city walls are too well-guarded, even for him.”
“We have spent too much time and effort here, recovering the Silver Eye. I cannot allow Lupin to make away with it.”
“The only way he could escape is with help, and he has had none from the criminal element in this city. If he had, we would know. Smuggling operations in Oran are controlled by Signor Ferrari’s gang and we are paying him quite well to keep us informed.”
“Summon Pao Tcheou.”
“Yes, Master.”
When the new arrival entered, he bowed deeply. “I come to serve you, O Li Chang Yen, my cousin.”
“I will have the Silver Eye back, Pao Tcheou. Since we cannot locate Monsieur Lupin, find the English spy’s wife. If she does not know where the Eye is, then at least Lupin will come for her. He will not ignore a ‘damsel in distress.’ ”
“As you wish.”
“Once she is located, bring her here. Send the Korean.”
“It will be done.”
“Fen-Chu,” Natas called next.
Another shape emerged from the dank shadows and asked: “Hanoi Shan?”
“Notify the Council that we shall be arriving soon. And alert Doctor Ariosto to accelerate his timetable. With the Eye at my command, spawning the armies of Dagon will take considerably less time than previously thought.”
“By your leave.” Fen-Chu bowed and left.
Adélaïde Johnston jumped up as Doctor Rieux came out of the back bedroom of his small apartment.
“Doctor, how is Violet? It’s not… la peste, is it?”
“No, no. Mademoiselle Holmes shows none of the tell-tale signs, no buboes at the joints. She is, however, suffering from grief and exhaustion. She needs rest.”
“May I go in to see her?”
“Of course, but please do not tax her.”
Adélaïde went in to the nondescript bedroom and closed the door. Violet, sprawled on the small bed, looked up without energy at her friend. “Hullo, Adélaïde,” she said with affection.
“Vi, are you all right?”
“Yes, just a touch of… exhaustion, the doctor says.” Violet smiled wanly. “I’ll be fine.”
“Vi, I have to tell you, you’re looking a little green around the gills, so to say. Are you sure it isn’t that… thing?
“The gem?” Violet laughed, sharply. “Don’t be silly, dear. You can’t tell me you actually believe those stories.”
“Well, Charles put some stock in them.”
“It was Charles’ job to believe. That doesn’t mean I do.” This was true. Her late husband, Charles Reston, had been an agent for the Diogenes Club, the least known and most eccentric instrument of the British Government, which dealt with matters more unfathomable and outré. Reston was a protégé of Beauregard, who had stepped down as the head of the Club’s Ruling Cabal several years previous. That the current Cabal had loaned him to S.N.I.F. indicated a state of affairs that touched on both the political and the unknowable. Violet, on the other hand, had been known to refer to the Club and the cases they dea
lt with as “a bunch of superstitious rot,” which had caused some friction between the young couple, but there it was.
“But Vi,” Adélaïde continued, “you have to admit, it is awfully odd that you’ve become sick since Charles died and you started carrying the Eye around with you. You could let me hold it for you for a while.”
“It is not awfully odd that I’m all done in. And it has everything to do with my husband being killed by some madman, and us being stuck in this god-forsaken city surrounded by the sick and dying, with a very good chance of becoming sick and dying ourselves,” Violet retorted with the trademark Holmes acerbity. “Now, stop mother-henning me and let’s get down to cases. This Eye was the responsibility of my husband and his French partner. They’re both gone now–not that I ever did lay eyes on the mysterious ‘A.L.’–so it’s up to us. Those devils must know that Charles arranged to have the Eye delivered to me following his death, and that we now have it. I’ll hold on to it, but we’ve got to figure a way to get the hell out of here with it, and we can’t wait for this damnable plague to end. They’ll find us long before it runs its course and the city re-opens.”
Adélaïde wasn’t offended by her friend’s tone. In fact, she was long accustomed to it. The two women had first met years ago in finishing school and had become fast friends. When Reston had been loaned to S.N.I.F. and assigned to Algiers, Violet had been left at loose ends in a strange city with no friends. He had suggested that she ask Adélaïde down for an extended visit and all had agreed. After all, when Adélaïde wasn’t around, Violet had a tendency to get herself into trouble.
Not that Adélaïde’s presence had saved them this time. She was here, having accompanied Violet back to Oran from her recent sojourn in London, and now they were in the deepest trouble of their lives. Through the kindness of Doctor Rieux, they had a place to hide, but it couldn’t last long.
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 3