Dr. Ahmed Bey’s library was a vast room overlooking the Parc Monceau through an immense window extending from the floor to the ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves laden with richly-bound books. In the middle stood an enormous terrestrial globe surrounded by a gallery, which was accessed by four staircases with guard-rails. Divans and profound armchairs were disposed all round the room, some of which had work-tables in front of them equipped with writing equipment and blank paper.
It was in one of those armchairs that Ahmed Bey waited for the Prefect, meditatively. As soon as a servant brought him the evening newspapers, he unfolded hem swiftly and began reading the miscellaneous events section. He marked certain items with a tick, in blue pencil.
He had just completed this enigmatic task when the door opened and Ra-Cobrah appeared.
“The Prefect of Police is here,” he announced.
“Send him in.”
The Doctor got to his feet.
Monsieur Torpène appeared, seemingly very emotional, holding out his hands eagerly.
“My dear Doctor! You’re back! Here you are, in the flesh!”
“Yes, Monsieur, I’m back.”
“Alone?”
“No, four of the human souls of which I went in search are in my laboratory, submissive to my will.”
“Is it possible?”
“It is! Please sit down here, I beg you, next to me.”
“Four souls, you said, my dear Doctor. Wasn’t it five human beings that the Fiery Wheel abducted?”
“Indeed.” And the Doctor told him about the singular stubbornness of Jonathan Bild, in waning to remain on Venus.”
“At any rate,” he concluded, “that stubbornness will be profitable for human science, since we’ll have a means of communicating with Bild viva voce.”
“You’re joking, Doctor!”
“Not at all. But if you’ll permit, we won’t talk about that this evening. Sit down, I beg you.”
When the two men were both sitting in armchairs, facto face, the Doctor said: “My dear Monsieur, it’s not the knowledgeable spiritist Torpène that I wanted to see this evening, but Torpène the Prefect of Police.”
“To tell me…?”
“I’ll tell you about my voyage when all our friends are gathered here. Today I want to ask you to help me in concluding the task that I’ve undertaken...”
“And it’s the Prefect of Police that you need?” said Torpène, with a smile.
“The Prefect of Police, indeed. This is it: I need four human bodies recently struck by a particular mode of death that has not destroyed any of their essential organs. Death by asphyxia or drowning, without remaining long in the water, would meet the necessary conditions. Now, in the miscellaneous news items published by the evening papers, I’ve just found a number of cases of death that occurred today in the requisite forms. Would you care to cast an eye over the articles marked in blue pencil? Here, there’s a young woman—very beautiful, it’s said, and an orphan—who asphyxiated herself with carbon monoxide after her lover’s marriage. I need that body, in order to reincarnate the soul of Lolla Mendès...”
“Right!” murmured Monsieur Torpène, a trifle disconcerted.
“Here,” the Doctor continued, imperturbably, “we see a young man, unidentified, drowned while rowing on the Seine at Saint-Cloud. He was fished out almost immediately and his cadaver is waiting until it can by identified in a riverside tavern. No papers were found in his clothing. I need that cadaver to reincarnate the soul of Paul de Civrac...”
“That’s possible, quite possible,” said Torpène, in a low voice.
“Pick up the other paper,” the Doctor said, with a slightly sardonic smile. “Look there! An Italian laborer, with no family in France, overwhelmed by misery, took a room in a furnished hotel in the Rue Planchat yesterday and committed suicide in a bizarre fashion. He was found this morning hanging from a nail in the ceiling, in a corridor, with his teeth clenching the extremity of the gas jet that lights the corridor. The doctor who was immediately summoned concluded, after his examination, that death was not due to hanging but asphyxia by lighting gas. The body has been taken to the Hôpital Bichat, where it will not be autopsied until tomorrow. I think it might be exactly what I need to reincarnate the soul of Francisco.”
“Indeed,” said Torpène, trying to master himself. “An Italian…Francisco is Spanish. He would do very well, very adequately...”
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, with comical gravity. “Now I only need something to house the soul of Arthur Brad. I think I’ve also found something appropriate for him. I’ve just read the details of a strange affair that has been exciting Paris for several days in one of my papers...”
“The Hôtel Fulton business?”
“Yes. Will you permit me to summarize what I’ve read about it?”
“I’m intimately familiar with it,” said the Prefect of Police, “but I wouldn’t be sorry to hear your summary.”
“Good. Six days ago, at seven o’clock in the evening, a short, stout Englishman—excellent for Brad, is he not, my dear Monsieur…?”
“Why?” said the Prefect.
“Because Brad is short and stout.”
“Oh!”
“I’ll start again. Six days ago, at seven o’clock in the evening, an Englishman arrived in a carriage at a hotel in the Rue de Paix. He asked for a large room and had the five large suitcases piled up in his carriage sent up. The hotel staff remarked that the traveler had a heavy watch-chain with a beautiful gold watch, enormous diamond rings on his fingers, and a very expensive tie-pin. He dined simply on a copious meal washed down with expensive champagne and sent for a box of luxurious cigars for a particular shop near the Opéra. To pay for it he handed a thousand-franc bill to the bell-boy, who brought the change back and received a louis as a tip. In brief, the Englishman appeared to the staff to be colossally rich and, moved by curiosity, all the bell-boys examined his identity papers, on which the Englishman had inscribed: Edward Penting, Pretoria. Is that right?”
“Exactly.”
“Now, the following morning, Mr. Penting was not seen to emerge from his room. He still had not appeared at noon. At four o’clock in the afternoon, people became anxious. At five o’clock the manager knocked on the door of the room in vain. At quarter past five, in the presence of a Commissaire of Police, the door was broken down. The Englishman was found lying on his bed in a nightshirt, dead. A doctor who was summoned diagnoses death by chloroform. The watch-chain and the chronometer, the jewels, and the wallet—probably stuffed with banknotes—had all disappeared. The suitcases had been opened out on to the carpet, the clothes and underclothes in disorderly piles. Finally, the window of the room overlooking the Rue de la Paix was wide open, and it was observed that the edge of the sill was eroded, as if by the friction of a strong rope. That’s all!”
“That is, indeed, all that we know,” said Torpène. “The investigation hasn’t turned up anything. Replies to the telegrams sent to Pretoria say that no Edward Penting has ever been resident in the city. The suitcases bore labels from Le Havre, but the employee who registered that luggage for Paris hasn’t been found. That’s all.”
“Good,” said the Doctor. “Now, listen carefully.”
“I’m listening!” said Monsieur Torpène, intrigued.
“The criminal case doesn’t concern me. I suspect, in any case, that you’ll never find the murderer, who is also the mysterious thief, because you don’t have any clues. But that’s not the issue. What interests me in the story is that the cadaver of Edward Penting will suit Arthur Brad perfectly. Give me that cadaver, Monsieur Torpène!”
“Damn!” exclaimed the Prefect of Police, staring. “But it doesn’t belong to me!”
“I know that.”
“It’s in the Morgue, where it’s being conserved intact, protected from corruption, until the affair can be clarified or the file is closed.”
“Obviously.”
“It’s quite impossible fo
r me to get the cadaver out of the Morgue.”
“All right.”
“I’m very sorry. My dear Doctor.”
“Don’t be. When I said: ‘Give me that cadaver,’ I expressed myself badly. What I meant was: ‘Let me obtain it...’”
“What?”
“Yes, let me obtain it.”
“How will you do that?”
“That’s my concern.”
“You’ll risk...”
“Nothing! And my intervention will have two excellent consequences.”
“What consequences?”
“Firstly, giving a suitable body to Brad.”
“And?”
“Secondly, a great service rendered to the French police. The newspapers are mocking you, Monsieur Torpène. Well, I’ll shut them up.”
“How?”
“Oh, in a very simple manner. Edward Penting, resuscitated, will declare that he was only asleep—people will be obliged to believe him—and that the entire affair was merely an attempted scientific experiment. He’ll make his excuses to the French police for the inconvenience caused, and donate twenty thousand francs to the poor of Paris.”
“But that’s insane!”
“No! People will be obliged to bow to the evidence, since it will be the supposed dead man himself that is talking. So, will you give me carte blanche?”
“I don’t know whether...”
“You’re afraid...”
“Of nothing!” said Monsieur Torpène, curtly. “Do as you wish, since your actions, won’t do anyone any harm…”
“Perfect!” exclaimed the Doctor. He got to his feet. “My dear Monsieur Torpène, I ask you to do what is necessary for the body of the asphyxiated seamstress, the drowned young man and the hanged Italian to be transported tonight to the Hôpital de la Pitié, from which I’ll take responsibility for bringing them here.”
“Agreed. I’ve made the necessary notes.”
“And to thank you,” the Doctor continued, “I’ll invite you to Brad’s reincarnation on your own.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, at noon.
“Where?”
“At the Morgue, of course!”
“I’ll be there.”
“As for the reincarnation of Lolla Mendès, Paul de Civrac and Francisco, I’ll perform the operation on the following night, with you and our usual friends present.”
“Good! I’ll leave you now, Doctor.” Torpène stood up. “Until tomorrow, at the Morgue.”
“Agreed.”
The Prefect of Police headed for the door, followed by the Doctor. Suddenly, however, he turned round and put his hand on Ahmed Bey’s shoulder. “Permit me, however, to raise one objection, Doctor.”
“By all means.”
These souls that you are going to reincarnate—Lolla Mendès, Francisco, Paul de Civrac and Brad...”
“Well?”
“They have families, friends, interests. They’ll have changed bodies, faces…no one will be able to recognize them...”
“You’re forgetting androplasty,” said the Doctor, placidly.
“Androplasty?” Torpène repeated, uncertainly.
“Yes. Have you heard of rhinoplasty?”
“Of course,” said the Prefect, smiling. “It’s a surgical operation that has the purpose of rebuilding a nose when that organ has been destroyed.”
“Exactly—and the word comes from the Greek: rhis, rhinos, nose, and plastos, form. Well, analyze the word androplasty; you’ll find that it also comes from the Greek: aner, andros, man, and plastos, form. Androplasty is, therefore a surgical operation whose purpose is to rebuild a face—since the face is the man—when the face has been destroyed, or when, more simply, one wants to modify the expression of an already-existent face...”
“And androplasty...” stammered Torpène, a trifle alarmed.
“I have practiced it, my dear Monsieur. It was taught to me in the secret and mysterious temples of India, where bodies are modeled, just as souls are kneaded there. You understand that it will be easy for me to obtain photographs of Lolla Mendès, Paul de Civrac, Arthur Brad and Francisco. I shall model each one, on their new body, a face similar to the old one, that’s all. It’s a matter of skill, patience and time. It’s agreed, then…I can assume that my three cadavers will be at the Pitié at midnight...”
“Yes, yes…obviously.”
“And you’ll be at the Morgue tomorrow, at noon.”
“Of course. The Morgue, at noon.”
And the Prefect of Police, utterly amazed, went out of Dr. Ahmed Bey’s house.
Chapter Two
Which relates the alarming event of which the Morgue was the theater
It was ten minutes before noon when Monsieur Torpène passed under the peristyle of the Morgue. The attendant on duty recognized the well-known features of the Prefect of Police, whom he immediately escorted to an office adjacent to the room where the cadavers were exhibited.
“At noon,” said Monsieur Torpène, who was familiar with Ahmed Bey’s meticulous punctuality, “a gentleman will arrive at the peristyle. He’s tall, thin and dark-haired, with neither moustache nor beard. Bring him here immediately.”
The attendant bowed, made a military salute and turned on his heels. He went to take up his post at the entrance to the Morgue. The first stroke of midday was resounding on a nearby clock when the attendant saw a large automobile stop in front of him and a man got out, whose appearance tallied with the succinct description given by Monsieur Torpène.
Two minutes later, Dr. Ahmed Bey was shaking the hand of the Prefect of Police.
“Well,” said the senior functionary, “have last night’s three cadavers been taken to your house? Are you satisfied?”
“Quite satisfied,” the Doctor replied. “The young seamstress is very pretty, and her body is one of the finest I’ve ever seen; the soul of Lola Mendès will lose nothing by the exchange. The rower is a sturdy fellow, well-muscled but slim; Paul de Civrac will be delighted by it. As for the Italian, he has a diagonal scar on his face that disfigures it slightly, but Francisco will gain considerably in being reincarnated, for, if I remember correctly, his corporeal appearance lacked grace. Are we alone?”
“Yes.”
“This office communicates with the public exhibition hall?”
“We have only to open that door,” Torpène replied, his hand indicating a small door painted pale brown.
“Good! With your permission, I’ll close the window, in order that we only receive a little light through that door, which we’ll open.”
“Go ahead.”
The Doctor closed the window—the shutter as well as the pane—and also drew the curtain. In the obscurity that immediately reigned in the room, Torpène saw a spark floating five centimeters above Ahmed Bey’s head.
“You’re looking at Arthur Brad’s soul?” said the latter.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I’ll leave you alone with it momentarily. I’m going to take a look at Edward Penting’s cadaver.”
The thaumaturge pronounced two mysterious words, and then walked to the door through which he had entered. The spark did not accompany him. It stayed where it was, motionless and scintillating, in the middle of the room.
Monsieur Torpène, confounded by admiration, murmured: “What terrible power Ahmed Bey possesses! If he wanted to, he could turn the world upside-down! Humankind can congratulate itself on the fact that the man wasn’t born with criminal instincts.”
Meanwhile, the doctor had arrived in the public corridor, from which a glazed screen, protected at a distance by a barrier, separates the room in which anonymous or mysterious cadavers are arranged on a vast inclined slab, kept frozen by refrigerant apparatus in order to ensure their conservation.
At that hour, when people habitually leave work for the midday meal, there was a compact crowd circulating in the public corridor. It was composed of working men and women, clerks and vagabonds, primarily attracted by curiosity, eager to
see the enigmatic Englishman whose incomprehensible story had been filing newspaper columns for six days.
Patiently, the Doctor joined the queue, and eventually arrived at the window. There were five cadavers on the slab. The doctor cast a distracted glance over the first two, but paused at the third and leaned forward over the balustrade.
Edward Penting’s body looked as if it were simply asleep. Short and stout, with a bulging abdomen, the legs straight and strong, the feet enormous, dressed in a gray suit with pale green checks, a shirt with the unstarched collar turned down, secured by a red cravat with a regatta knot, his face was placid and benevolent. The mouth and eyes were closed in a normal fashion, and without the characteristic pallor of death that marbled the forehead and cheeks, and the particular pinch of the nose, the face would have seemed to be alive.
Around the motionless Doctor, men and women were exchanging stupid, simple or ludicrous remarks, making quips about the paunchy cadaver, or the others, more hideous, with little nervous giggles or murmurs of horror—all of which made up the continuous noise of a crowd talking in hushed voices, pushing, tramping and passing by.
“It’s perfect!” said the Doctor, in a low voice.
And, darting one last glance at the cadaver, and a coldly ironic smile at the crowd, Ahmed Bey went back to Monsieur Torpène.
In the exact spot that the Doctor had just abandoned, a young man and a young woman leaned forward, without paying any attention to the murmurs of the people following them, whom they were preventing from seeing the famous cadaver with sufficient convenience. Their arms were linked, and they had the particular expression of joy that animates the faces of a student and a seamstress in the early days of an amorous liaison.
“Hey, Fernand!” said the young woman, who had a pretty pink face aureoled with fine blonde hair, on which a round hat ornamented with enormous cherries was set at a slant. “Is that the one who was killed by chloroform?”
“Yes, my sweet,” replied the young man, smiling.
“It’s funny!” the young woman went on. “You wouldn’t know he’s dead! He doesn’t look to have suffered. See how tranquil his expression is. It’s a nice way to go, chloroform, don’t you think?”
The Fiery Wheel Page 20