On the Brink of the World's End

by Brian Stableford

  Charfland then takes out a tampon, which he puts over his nose and mouth, closes the door, and then, sprinkling the liquid contained in another bottle on to a second tampon, he applies that one successively to the faces of Mrs. Terrick, the children and the governess. He switches off the electricity and opens a window. After a few moments, he is heard to say: “It’s breathable now.”

  He closes the window, puts the light on again and heads toward Mr. Terrick, who seems to be asleep. He gags him, and ties his hands and feet with cords. He rummages in the inside pocket of his jacket and, radiant, takes out a check book, which he places on the table beside and inkstand, which he fetches from the smaller drawing room.

  He watches the movements of his principal victim. “It’s been a quarter of an hour; the effect of the narcotic is wearing off.”

  He then takes a revolver out of his trouser pocket and places his vaporizer within arm’s reach.

  Mr. Terrick comes round; on perceiving the masked man he tries to stand up, but Charfland forces him to remain seated with a robust hand and, putting the revolver under his nose, says to him in a low voice:

  “Terrick, you and yours are in my power. Look at your neighbors; they’re chloroformed and incapable of doing anything whatsoever. You’re gagged and immobilized; it’s futile to try and resist me. Anyway, what I have to ask of you is very little for you. You’re simply going to sign me a check for ten million francs, on the Universel Crédit.”

  The man addressed replies in the negative with a abrupt shake of the head.

  Charfland retorts: “I tell you that you’ll sign it for me, with a little letter that will permit me to collect it without difficulty. If not”—his eyes become menacing—“I’ll proceed with the execution of your wife and children before your eyes; then it will be your turn. I’ll give you ten minutes to reflect. In ten minutes, if you’re not disposed to sign the two pieces of paper for which I’m asking you—a very little thing for the billionaire A. H. Terrick—you’ll have condemned one of your family to death, and I won’t show any mercy. I have spoken.”

  Coldly, Charfland installs himself in a chair on the other side of the table, without taking his eyes off the American, the revolver in one hand and his watch in the other.

  Then ten minutes pass in the midst of a silence troubled only by the hoarse breathing of the real Charfland, who is sweating copiously and seems to be on the brink of fainting in the arms of his two guards, and the regular tick-tock of the phonocinematographic apparatus.

  At the end of the delay, Charfland stands up.

  “Well?” he asks.

  Terrick nods his head in a sign of acquiescence.

  “That’s good,” says the wretch. “I’m going to untie your hands, but as you’ll be tempted to take action against me, I’m going to place myself like this...” He passes between the American and his wife; with his right hand he places the revolver against the American woman’s head and his left hand, drawing a second revolver from his trouser pocket, aims it at Terrick. “At the first untoward movement you make, I’ll shoot both of you—that’s understood, isn’t it?”

  He sets down the revolver that he is holding in his right hand and unties the wrists of the head of the family, then picks up the revolver again, which he places as before.

  “You have everything that you need in front of you. Write, first of all, your check payable on presentation to Mr. Joe Helly...

  “Good; now, a letter on your personal notepaper, as I dictate it to you.:

  “Financial establishments of the Universel Crédit,

  “Messieurs,

  “I have the advantage of informing you that I have just expedited, to the order of Mr. Joe Helly, my check number 0203 for ten million francs, a sum that you will be kind enough to pay on presentation, debiting my account accordingly.

  “Please accept, Messieurs, my sincere salutations.”

  The letter having been dictated, Charfland makes sure that it is duly signed. Then he tells his victim what remains to be done:

  “Now, write on the envelope the address of the Universel Crédit (Foreign Services).

  “Stick a stamp on but don’t seal it.

  “On the other side of the envelope write: Urgent.

  “Everything is fine now, but you can’t suppose that I’m going to set you free immediately. No, I’m going to put you to sleep again; when you all wake up I’ll have the ten millions and you’ll be able to look for me.”

  As he concludes that speech, Charfland pours a few drops of the contents of his vaporizer on Trick’s face; the latter’s head falls abruptly on to the back of the armchair.

  The wretch takes out of his pocket the little box that he put in there before setting out; it contains a small Pravaz syringe and a little bottle. While preparing those objects for his sinister work he talks to himself:

  “Was he stupid, all the same! As if I could leave a single witness to what has just happened! Even those”—he glances at the children—“must never be able to say anything.

  “Oh, you won’t suffer; it’s a miraculous poison, still unknown to your medical examiners; one drop will suffice; the contents of the syringe could serve for several families; you’ll pass without a word from sleep to death. No cries, no struggle, no blood.”

  And the sinister bandit, his preparations complete, lightly pricks the arm of each of the five persons present with the sharp point of the syringe, and presses lightly on the piston.

  “It’s done!” And, carefully, picking up all the objects of which he has made use, including the tampons and the bonds, he adds: “That really is good work.”

  He scans the scene with a glance, perceives the inkstand, and takes it back to the small drawing room.

  At that moment, the examining magistrate, who was following the play of the real Charfland’s physiology carefully, believing, based on the lividity of the latter’s face, that he was ready to confess, asked him, abruptly; “It was really like that that you acted, Charfland, wasn’t it?”

  The wretch shuddered, without being able to pronounce a single word.

  The advocate, who did not understand that mutism, exclaimed: “Defend yourself, then!”

  And under the effect of that admonition, which gave him courage, the accused replied, albeit without his usual calmness: “I don’t understand any of what happened here; my emotion is perfectly comprehensible when one sees oneself passed off as the author of the frightful crime that you’ve just simulated.”

  “You deny it?” says Monsieur de Landré. “That’s your business. It only remains for us to continue.

  Charfland switches off the light, goes out, and leaves the door ajar. In his room he places his various instruments on a table, takes another small vaporizer from his medical kit, returns to the drawing room and spreads a cloud. He takes precaution as far as to inspect his own garments and hands. He checks that the keys to the three doors giving access to the drawing room are all on the outside.

  He finally goes out, for the last time, He returns to the cloakroom and replaces the wire connecting the bells to the batteries.

  He is soon back in his room. Drawing the bolt of his bedroom as a precaution, he proceeds carefully to make up a little packet in which he assembles all the tools and various ingredients of which he had just made use.

  He sits down and contemplates, delightedly, the check and the letter signed by A. H. Terrick. He draws pen and ink towards him, plunges his hand into his right hand jacket pocket and agitates it as if searching for something. He draws it out and contemplates the back of it. “Nothing at all to be seen there.” Then he turns the hand over and looks at the palm. That is holding at a bizarre little apparatus, which, in steel wire painted in flesh-color, is scarcely visible. The wires seem to be maintaining several phalanges of the digits.

  “Another one of my inventions! It’s a clever expert graphologist who can find a single common point between my normal writing and the one this little toy obliges me to produce, opposing all the habitual ref
lexes of my hand and fingers!”

  He takes the open and on the second page of the Terrick letter he signs, in crude handwriting: Joe Helly.

  The letter is sealed.

  At that moment the magistrate speaks, to indicate that after that, Charfland goes to post he letter at the nearest post office.

  Then the wretch, having returned to the room, is heard to murmur: “Let’s prepare for tomorrow.”

  From a compartment with a secret lock contained in one of his valises, he takes out a bowler hat and a suit of the same dark cloth as the one he is wearing, and places his manual deformer in one of the inside pockets, and his packet of incriminating evidence in the other.

  “Now it’s the following morning,” declares Monsieur de Landré.

  The curtains are drawn and the light is switched off,

  Charfland gets dressed, putting on the clothes from his valise.

  He opens a crack in the door, cautiously, and stands watch.

  “It’s eight o’clock. Madame Durand is going out; her instructions to the maid prove that she won’t be back until late.”

  The examining magistrate speak again:

  “Messieurs, we’re going to follow Charfland in his peregrinations.”

  The accused, his features drawn by anguish, because he cannot explain by the maid’s spying the discovery of the apparatus modifying his handwriting, says nothing, and meekly accompanies his guards in the middle of the group following his double. The latter, as he passes the concierge’s lodge, remarks aloud that everything is fine for the moment in the service stairway.

  Without hesitation, taking a complicated route, Charfland arrives at a fairly busy street situated between an investment property devoid of a shop and a small café. He stops in the courtyard; the magistrate immediately explains that, because the audience cannot all witness what the murderer did in the actual location, the scene will be reconstructed in the courtyard.

  Charfland resumes his monologue: “It’s as I anticipated; that this time, the concierge isn’t in his lodge and the café doesn’t have any customers yet. No one will notice my comings and goings. Let’s head for the lavatory, which—as my enquiries determined a long time ago—is that the end of this little corridor.”

  The bandit, operating then as if he were in the little redoubt, makes the gesture of throwing the objects of the crime into the bowl one by one; then he pulls the chain and murmurs: “Adieu, incriminating evidence!” Then he takes of his jacket, and, by means of two cleverly-dissimulated catches, he makes two pleats in the back, which gives it the form of a garment pinched at the waist; he increases the length of the lapels, which pieces of silk, hidden until then in the lining, soon ornament. He draws back the extremities to the top of his trousers, exchanges his long tie for a bow-tie, puts on a pointed back beard and a moustache, dons a pair of spectacles, pins a decoration to his buttonhole, takes a tube out of his trouser pocket, which, when deployed, forms an elegant cane, and exchanges his brown gloves for bright yellow ones.

  The metamorphosis is the affair of a moment. It is successful; in spite of the general hue of the garments remaining the same, the silhouette is so transformed that it would never occur to anyone to connect the man of calm aspect and a slightly heavy tread who came in with the one of slim and elegant appearance who emerges.

  By means of an itinerary that we shall spare our readers, but representative of a plan ripened well in advance, Charfland arrives at a large clothing store. With a strong Spanish accent he asks for a light overcoat, chooses one in dark neutral gray, pays for it, and leaves, with the overcoat over his arm.

  The real Charfland is becoming very unsteady on his feet; one of his guards thinks he hears him murmur: “Who saw me, then?”

  But it is not him on whom eyes are fixed; the leading actor takes possession of the general attention, save for that of Monsieur Landré, who never takes his eyes off the accused.

  The scene terminated, Charfland does not hesitate, and more than in the precious scenes; he chooses a direction deliberately and takes the whole group into a large café, in which the time for aperitifs is beginning to create movement. He sits down at a table near one of two staircases descending to the lavatory. He orders a drink, for which he pays immediately, of which he drinks half. Then, partly hidden behind a newspaper, he watches the staircase attentively.

  A woman in black with an apron and a white bonnet—the attendant from downstairs—appears and heads toward the cahier.

  “You’ll notice that she has the habit of doing that; it’s the time for a chat,” remarks the bandit, for the benefit of the witnesses. With a natural stride he heads for the lavatories and then mimes the scene that passes in a more discreet location; he undresses, turns his garments inside out, and comes out again dressed in bright gray; he changes cravats again, folds up his cane, puts away his gloves, crushes his fake bowler in his hands and puts on a soft felt hat with a dent in the middle. He removes his false facial hair and replaces it with a graying beard, puts on a wig of the same color, dons the overcoat and, with slight limp—which he does not abandon so long as he has that appearance—he goes up the other staircase and goes though the café again, keeping his distance from the cashier, who is absorbed in her conversation with the lavatory attendant.

  “It’s going well,” he murmurs. “Joe Helly has anticipated all the difficulties. One change might leave a trail; two are utterly deceptive!”

  He goes to a shop near the Bourse where he buys a large briefcase with two pockets, the dimensions of which he checks with a meter rule that the shop assistant lends him.

  A few moments later, he goes into the hall of the financial establishments of the Universel Crédit and goes up a beautiful staircase leading to the luxurious rooms of the foreign service. He heads for one of the ushers and says, with a strong American accent: “Will you announce Mr. Joe Helly to your chief of service.”

  The usher holds out a notepad and pencil, but, as if he has not seen the gesture, Charfland slowly spells out: “J-o-e H-e-l-l-y” to the man, who obligingly writes the letters on the pad.

  “Reason for the visit?” the usher asks.

  “Your chief of service ought to be informed; I’ve come to cash a check.”

  A few moments later, the usher returns, seeming slightly dazed. He bows profoundly to Joe Helly, who is negligently sitting on a sofa, saying to him: “If Monsieur will do me the honor of following me, Monsieur the Director General, who is the head of the foreign service, will be pleased to welcome you.”

  A few moments later, the entire group was in that chief’s office.

  “Monsieur Joe Helly?”

  “That’s me, sir.”

  “You’ve come to cash a check...”

  “For ten million francs signed A. H. Terrick; you should have been informed—here’s the check.” And the beneficiary held out the precious piece of paper in question.

  The chief of service examined it, then passed it to two employees summoned especially when the important visitor was announced; in view of the large sum, it is, in fact, necessary not to proceed lightly. The concordance of the check with the details in the letter was carefully verified, as well as A. H. Terrick’s signature.”

  “Would you care to cash it immediately?”

  “Exactly; it was also agreed with Mr. Terrick—for you’ll agree that one can never take too many precautions, that I would sign the acquittal in front of you.”

  So saying, Charfland put is right hand in his jacket pocket and withdrew it immediately; he took the pen and, on the acquittal form put on the back of the check by means of a stamp, he applied the famous signature of Joe Helly before the very eyes of the Bank employees.

  During the new verification, the murderer briskly rid himself of the encumbering implement with which he had equipped the palm of his hand.

  “Very good, Monsieur; the ten million francs are at your disposal. Would you like a part of the sum in cash? I hope that you’ll do us the honor of permitting us to open an ac
count for you; the house terms are favorable, in particular...”

  “No, I regret, Messieurs, that for the moment, at least, it’s not a matter of that; I have precise orders from Mr. Terrick, who honors me with his confidence and his amity, and I need to proceed today with a distribution of the ten millions. If, therefore, you will give me that sum, in thousand-franc bills, in order that it’s portable, I have what I need to take it away. Look.”

  And he displayed his morocco bag.

  The director and the chief of service started, but they thought that before a client, as the man in question might one day be, it was necessary not to permit for a single instant the thought that the Universel Crédit might experience any shadow of embarrassment at paying out such a large sum on demand.

  “Very well, Monsieur; you shall be satisfied.” And the instructions were given by telephone.

  A few minutes later, two cashiers appeared, and deposited the piles of bills on the big desk.

  “Here, Monsieur: a hundred wads each containing a hundred thousand-franc bills.”

  With that, the so-called Joe Helly stands up, counts the wads, takes a few of the at random and verifies the number of bills in the packets. He even goes so far as to open a few to verify the contents.

  Unhurriedly, he arranges the wads in his briefcase, making six piles on each side; as he closes the fastenings of one of the two pockets he experiences a slight difficulty in making the tongue of the strap go into its buckle.

  He folds up the briefcase, which then presents the dimensions of forty-five centimeters in length, thirty-three in breadth and twenty in thickness, takes the large parcel under his arm, bows, and heads for the door.

  All the witnesses, at that point, observe that the accused is livid. The examining magistrate remarks to him: “You see, Charfland, that everything has been reconstituted. You’re continuing to maintain silence? If so, we’ll follow you with the product of your crimes.”