Later improvements permitted Nounlegos to ensure a uniform illumination over a thickness equal to that of a human head.
With that apparatus, the examination of animals permitted the scientist to verify certain relationships between circumvolutions and sensations and movements, and to invalidate others. The real problem, however, could only be studied in a thinking brain; the observations made, if they were possible, could only have value is there were no doubt about the thoughts to be detected. Nounlegos was therefore led to the sole conclusion that it was himself that he had to examine.
He built an apparatus thanks to which his eyes could see into his own brain and he equipped it with optical equipment permitting a considerable magnification.
From that moment on it was with his head surrounded by a kind of yoke that the prodigious man spent all his time.
In the beginning, his head preoccupied with so many things, avid to divine and observe, was full of confused thoughts; he could only distinguish rapid movements in the gray matter of the cerebral hemisphere, swellings and contractions of a sort, in all directions, without any interconnections: a veritable chaos.
He understood that before anything else, he had to determine his own thought, oblige his head to an absolute repose in putting on the yoke and then, being placed for the observation, to strive only to think of a single simple idea: “I am looking,” for example.
When he began that experiment, he believed that he observed something, and, his brain then resuming its activity unconsciously, the multiple undulations recommenced agitating the cells.
He began again many times, obliging himself to extraordinary efforts to master his thoughts. Finally he arrived at a certainty: every time he thought “I am looking,” a tiny movement—which the accessory phenomena whose examination was permitted by the illumination translated into a kind of tiny swelling—was produced at a precise point in one of the circumlocutions, the role of which had never been defined at yet..
That day, Nounlegos told himself, gladly: “I shall succeed!”
To avoid any confusion between the physiological phenomena of thought itself and those produced to command in the nerves the most important functions of life, he constrained himself to a detailed study of the latter, and succeeded in determining in an absolute manner the locations on which the respiratory mechanism, the regulation of the heart, the motor incitements, and coordinating forces of movement, and so on, depend.
Then, for his first thought, “I am looking,” he substituted others that were equally simple, and succeeded in observing indisputably the kind of phenomenon produced and the location of its production. He thus arrived at being able to grasp in his own brain the manifestation of a series of simple thoughts that he considered as an initial alphabet.
The method that was to lead him to the result thus became more precise. He applied it for twenty-five years and, by dint of determination and patience, his genius succeeded in fixing the physiological manifestation of which the brain is the seat when a concrete or abstract thought passes through it, whether it relates to an object, a fact or an abstraction. By combining several thoughts, little by little, he was able to read rapidly and simultaneously the various thoughts emitted. He even succeeded in distinguishing idea relating to the past, those relative to the present, those relative to the future, those whose situation is independent of the time factor, and even determining whether a thought is new or familiar to the brain.
He had, in fact, observed that the amplitude of the phenomena produced was a function of their antiquity; which is to say that the cells activated—for it was to a veritable movement of turbulence that he attributed the said phenomena—vibrated relatively weakly when they were activated for the first time, when the thought interested the brain for the first time, and that the amplitude of the vibrations increased with the time separating the observed phenomenon from the epoch when the phenomenon had first been produced. He had arrived at that curious observation be make use, as reference points, of memories of his enormous erudition, remembering precisely the epochs in which he had learned particular things.
Thought is rapid, as everyone knows; thus, to succeed in recording it as it was being emitted, he was obliged to invent, not an alphabet but a veritable new writing in which a simple symbol was equivalent to a long sentence. By means of his hieroglyphs, he was able to observe and record while leaving his cerebral mass absolute liberty to operate at its ease. Thus, he was able, after having read an article, for example, to put himself into his apparatus, in order to note via the intermediary of his eyes and his hand, the reflections that the reading had suggested to him.
It was thus possible for him to grasp phenomena not yet observed, thanks to his method of organizing his mental labor; he succeeded in analyzing them like the others and thus enriching the mysterious dictionary of sorts to which he was consigning the “language of the brain.”
By the time he reached his sixtieth year, nothing was passing through his own brain that was indecipherable to him.
Curiously enough, until then, he had never observed another brain.
He had certainly thought about it, but by virtue of his physiological knowledge and is multiple observations of himself, he had arrived at the absolute conviction that the locations of various thoughts were absolutely the same in all individuals. The circumvolutions were certainly not identical in dimension in each individual, but in every one, the active cells for a certain idea were always in the same relative position. He therefore found himself certain in advance of being able to read any human brain, although perhaps not as quickly as his own, to begin with, because of the proportions. He also knew, however, that few people were capable of stirring as many thoughts as he was, and that having commenced, in sum, by reading the most arduous and complex mind, other, simpler ones would not cause him any embarrassment.
At that moment he wanted to put his science to the proof on a third party.
He hesitated momentarily, for he wanted to be sure of the greatest discretion. On the other hand, he wanted that experimental intervention to have some utility.
A headline referring to a “judiciary scandal” attracted his attention one day; he scanned the article, which summarized the famous affair, and rapidly concluded that he might perhaps find there the terrain of the experiment that he wanted to carry out.
The next day, he went to see the examining magistrate, Monsieur de Landré; our readers know what followed.
IV
Monsieur de Landré fell upon the manuscript that Nounlegos had handed him, and plunged into its reading.
His physiognomy reflected the impressions he felt; he was exultant…then he calmed down, reflected, recommenced reading, and took notes. Putting away the manuscript and his notes, he telephoned the Sûreté and went out at about eight o’clock in the evening. He had not left his study for eleven hours; he had not had anything to eat or drink except for the glass of port taken in the company of Nounlegos and…Charfland.
His stomach, however, was not demanding anything. He went home primarily to reassure his wife, dined rapidly, returned to his office and drew up a series of mission orders.
At eleven o’clock, the head of the Sûreté arrived, as requested. The two men deliberated for two hours and came out together. As they separated, the magistrate said: “It’s agreed, then; the various missions will be carried out as soon as possible; each of them will be completely unaware of the others. I’m expecting you at ten o’clock to carry out the most important of all, about which I haven’t yet given you any information. I’m hoping for a resounding success. Until tomorrow.”
The following morning, Monsieur de Landré was at work in his study early.
At nine o’clock the telephone rang. “Hello! Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction de Landré?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m calling from the secretariat of the Court and am instructed to request that you go to see the public prosecutor immediately.”
“That’s fine. I’m
on my way.”
When the conversation was concluded, Monsieur de Landré thought bitterly that instead of employing the usual formula—“Would Monsieur X be kind enough to call…,” he had just been given an order.
“The public prosecutor has made a decision. There’s only just time, then!”
He was not mistaken. Introduced to the prosecutor’s office, the latter, instead of extending his hand to him, as usual, remained seated.
“Monsieur,” he said to him. “You have not taken account of my numerous indications that have been given to you on the subject of the Chalfrand affair; public opinion considers the latter as an innocent man, and parliament is agitated. Urgently summoned by the Garde des Sceaux yesterday, I’ve been obliged to recognize, with him, that a measure is imposed to put an end to a scandal from which the prestige of the Law can only suffer. In consequence, I warn you that I have just signed”—he displayed a large sheet of paper bearing the court’s heading—“your dismissal from this affair to the advantage of your colleague Monsieur Laumier; you will hand over all your files to him this morning.”
Slightly astounded by that decision, and above all by the brutal fashion in which he had been informed of it, Monsieur de Landré pulled himself together swiftly. Was he not on the brink of finally confounding the guilty party?
“Monsieur le Procureur Général, you know how convinced I still am of Charfland’s guilt. I understand, in view of the absence of certain proof, the emotion of public opinion. I also understand that this affair might be used to the advantage of the opposition to the present ministry. Be certain, therefore, that I would incline without discussion to the order that you have just signed if...”
The prosecutor started, but the magistrate, without paying any heed to it, continued: “If I were not absolutely certain of unmasking the guilty party very soon; I have come to ask you for a delay of a few days.”
“I regret, Monsieur, that that is impossible.”
“However, Monsieur le Procureur Général, if I told you that I have just become acquainted with new facts concerning the case and that the delay is simply that necessary to proceed with their verification...”
“It would be futile. The signed order will be carried out.”
“But if, to give you proof of the importance I attach to these new facts, I give you my word that if I am mistaken—which is to say that if I do not succeed imminently in proving Charfland’s culpability—it is not merely the dossier that I shall return to you but also my resignation as an examining magistrate. With that resignation you would be covered with regard to the Garde des Sceaux, so you can grant me the short respite.”
“Impossible,” pronounced the public prosecutor, dryly, standing up to signify that the interview was terminated.
Monsieur de Landré went white. So, at the moment when he was about to ring the long investigation to a conclusion, when—he was convinced—he was finally about to demonstrate how exact his intuition had been, it was necessary, under the weight of a decision equivalent to a veritable disgrace, to detach himself from the case in which he had put his heart and soul.
He stiffened, and said in a contained voice: “You know, Monsieur le Procureur Général, that I have always been a faithful servant of the law; for nearly thirty years I have devoted all my strength and all my intelligence to it. You know very well that magistrate de Landré has never made an error, has never convicted an innocent man, and has only sent guilty parties to the tribunal.
“Well, in the name of those thirty years of honorable and devoted service, and in the name of the law that I am proud to serve with the depths of my soul, grant me this delay, Monsieur le Procureur Général…which will astonish you. I implore you!”
Slightly emotional, the prosecutor, knowing that what he heard was true, was silent.
Ten o’clock chimed. De Landré started.
“Monsieur le Procureur Général, the head of the Sûreté is waiting for me in my office; I have to carry out an operation of the highest importance with him relative to the Charfland affair. Please, wait for me to return in two hours, and I’ll bring you indisputable proof...
“Keep that order of dismissal on your desk for just two hours…if the truth is not blinding…may God strike me dead!”
Prey to a veritable exaltation, Monsieur de Landré ran out like a madman.
Once the prosecutor was alone he reflected.
All right, I can wait until noon!
And from the file that he was about to hand over to his office, he removed the order relative to the Chalfrand affair.
At quarter past noon, the usher came in.
“Monsieur le Procureur Général, the head of the Sûreté is asking to speak to you urgently.”
“Send him in.”
The individual in question appeared; he was still under the influence of a profound emotion, which did not escape the magistrate’s experienced eye.
“Monsieur le Procureur Général, I have been sent by Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction de Landré to ask you...beg you…to accompany me. I can’t tell you anymore, but I give you my word that you won’t regret your disturbance. I have a taxi waiting at the door.
Although somewhat intrigued, the other replied, after a brief hesitation: “I’ll go with you.”
The two men climbed into the vehicle, whose motor was still running. The head of the Sûreté shouted to the driver: “Back to where we came from.”
During the short journey, silence reigned in the vehicle. When it stopped, the prosecutor got out and, looking up, perceived that he was in front of the Caisse des Dépôts et Consignations.
What does this mean? he wondered.
Meekly, he followed the head of the Sûreté inside.
In a small room the newcomers joined Monsieur de Landré, who was carrying a large package, accompanied by a clerk and two inspectors from the Prefecture of Police.
The magistrate bowed. “Thank you for coming, Monsieur le Procureur Général, but for the deposit I want to make in your presence one important witness is still lacking; I must ask you to be kind enough to wait for him.”
Scarcely had he spoken than the door opened and a gentleman of respectable appearance appeared, accompanied by another inspector who, addressing the magistrate, simply said: “Here he is.”
Monsieur de Landré spoke. “You recognize me, do you not? Monsieur de Landré, examining magistrate in the Charfland affair.”
“Oh, indeed—you’ve interrogated me sufficiently on the conditions of the cashing of Joe Helly’s check for ten millions.”
The magistrate, turning then to the public prosecutor, proceeded with the introduction. “Monsieur Alivet, chief of service at the financial establishments of the Universel Crédit.”
“Monsieur le Procureur Général!”
The two men bowed to one another.
“Monsieur Alivet,” the magistrate continued, “if you were shown the briefcase in which Joe Helly placed the ten thousand thousand-franc bills that you handed over to him, would you recognize it?”
“I believe so—but what I would certainly recognize is the fashion in which the bills are arranged. In the nearly twenty years that I have been at the Universel Crédit it’s the first time that I’ve ever witnessed the withdrawal, in the form, of such a large sum, and, without attaching any importance to it, because the transaction was absolutely in order, I noticed all the details.”
“In that case, Monsieur, look.”
The magistrate placed the package he was carrying on the table. He removed the newspaper in which it was wrapped, and a rubber envelope stained with patches of mildew appeared. That envelope was stuck; he was obliged to cut through it with a pen-knife. A kind of brown cloth bag emerged, secured by a trap. When the bag was opened he took out a black morocco leather briefcase.
“It was exactly like that!” exclaimed Alivet.
The briefcase was divided into two compartments; large flaps closed each of the two pockets.
“That’s extraordina
ry!” murmured Alivet. Then, as the magistrate was about to open the pockets, he said: “Wait! I remember clearly that the strap of one of the flaps entered very easily into its buckle, whereas Joe Helly had to force the other, the buckle seeming too narrow for the strap.”
“We can verify that,” the magistrate replied, and proceeded gently with the extraction of the straps; the first resisted; it was tightly held by the buckle in the direction of its width; the other, by contrast, emerged without effort.
The two pockets were opened; the watchers leaned over anxiously…and perceived wads of banknotes.
“That’s exactly how Joe Helly arranged the bills: six piles side by side.”
“Let’s count them,” said Monsieur de Landré, addressing Alivet.
“The bills are arranged as we organize them; they’re stacked in tens, fastened with a pin; ten packets of ten are fastened together by a red rubber band.”
He counted a hundred packets thus defined.
“Are there any other indications you can give me,” the magistrate asked, “permitting you to confirm your belief that these bills really are those delivered by the Universel Crédit to the bearer of the check signed A. H. Terrick?”
“Perhaps,” Alivet replied. “In every packet of ten thousand-franc bills, we have the habit of placing the third and the ninth in the opposite orientation to the remainder.”
Verification made of a few packets chosen at random proved that particularity existed.
“Monsieur Alivet,” declared the magistrate, “Would you please make your declaration; clerk, write.”
“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, save for inexplicable coincidences, I recognize this briefcase as the one in which Joe Helly arranged the ten millions in thousand-franc bills here present, which were handed over in payment of the Terrick check.”
“Good. Now, in your presence, Monsieur le Procureur Général, I shall deposit that sum in the Caisse des Dépôts et Consignations; I shall keep the briefcase and the envelopes as pieces of evidence.”
On the Brink of the World's End Page 18