Madame Atomos sighed again and walked off into the night. As she crossed Elm Street, she realized she was bored.
Suddenly, a bit of news she had just watched on television gave her an idea. A magnificent idea. A smile appeared fleetingly on her razor-thin lips. A diabolical plan was already forming inside her prodigious mind. It wouldn’t take much more than ten days to execute it, she thought. And her plasmoid wouldn’t be ready, in any event, before the new year.
Ten days... Why not twelve days? As in that insipid song, The Twelve Days of Christmas that some stores had already begun to play.
The Twelve Days of Christmas, indeed! Why, it would be her own Christmas gift to herself!
Twelve days later exactly–Madame Atomos prided herself on punctuality!–the guinea pig whom she had personally selected and who had just been subjected to an intensive nuclear treatment, was, for the last time, sitting attached to a metal chair in an underground base located near Calvin Pooley’s ranch.
Everything was ready. But Madame Atomos left nothing to chance. She had to have the man repeat her instructions one last time.
“Tell me again what you’re supposed to do, Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald,” whispered the deadly Madame Atomos.5
Doctor Francis Ardan is that French proto-Doc Savage hero created in 1928 by Guy d’Armen in City of Gold and Lepers (available from Black Coat Press). In Randy Lofficier’s tale, Doc Ardan, who already had a brief meeting with Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s Little Prince in our second volume, makes here a no less extraordinary encounter in...
Randy Lofficier: The Reluctant Princess
Southern France, The 1920s
Doctor Francis Ardan (as he was known in France) was hacking his way through a massive forest of thorns on the side of a mountain in the Pyrénées. He felt as if he had no sooner chopped a pathway than a new batch was growing almost before his eyes. He would never get to the other side of the forest at the rate he was going. He was starting to feel discouraged.
He sat down to take a breather and to think about what had brought him on his strange quest. He had returned from his travels in the Far East, planning to take a well-deserved rest while doing some research on the Cathars of Montségur. But that research had awakened a curiosity he could not quench.
While reading about legends of lost treasures in France, he had come across a strange story. It was said that a young Noblewoman had been enchanted more than 400 years earlier in a village named Perceforest, somewhere in the mountains along the border between Spain and France. The legend had it that she would sleep forever, unless awakened by a stranger willing to brave the many enchantments which held her prisoner.
At first, Ardan had dismissed it all as mere fantasy; after all, it had to be a fairy tale. But something about the legend continued to eat away at him and he began to do further research. In the end, it seemed that there was clearly some truth to the whole thing. He was unable to let it rest and decided he had no choice but to set off to find the answer.
The difficulty of his quest had at least helped him to decide that it was true; but he was still unable to reach what he presumed was his goal: the other side of the enchanted forest. The explorer was no quitter; he knew there had to be an answer. If this was a “magic” forest, perhaps he needed to fight his way through it by unconventional means. Rather than using brute force, he decided to use some of the eastern methods he had learned on his journey through Tibet. He centered his thoughts and tried to feel himself becoming one with the forces of nature; in his mind’s eye, he pictured a path opening up through the tangle of plants, leading him to his goal. As he gently breathed in and out, he felt a change in the air around him. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and saw that a path had mysteriously appeared directly in front of him.
Still breathing in a set pattern, he began to walk through the forest of thorns.
The path curved and twisted until Ardan no longer had a sense of the direction he traveled. But his meditative breathing enabled him to remain calm and not focus on his fear of becoming lost. Eventually, after walking for what seemed like hours, but which had in reality only been mere minutes, the young adventurer found himself standing in front of a stone tower in the midst of a clearing. As he circled it, he was unable to see any opening in its rough surface. Without a doubt, this was another challenge.
He again tried Eastern meditation, but this time it had no effect. He thought about the legends he had read and tried to recall if there was anything in them that might give him an answer to how to enter the tower. Then he remembered a passage he had read that had talked about an event said to occur just before the mysterious enchantment had overtaken the young noblewoman. He looked at the tower and repeated a phrase supposedly spoken by her.
Immediately, a wooden door appeared in the wall right before his eyes. He turned the massive iron handle that held it closed, and as if it had been oiled the day before, it gently swung open on its hinges.
To Ardan’s surprise, the corridors inside the tower were brightly lit with glowing torches. He had no idea where to find the object of his search, but simply walked forward, certain that he would find her as this was now clearly meant to be.
The corridor spiraled around like the shell of a snail, and eventually the adventurer reached a chamber in what he perceived was its center. There, in a large canopied bed, was a beautiful young woman. She had cascading, golden hair and alabaster skin. Ardan felt mesmerized by her beauty. She lay motionless on the bed, but it was clear that she was not dead, merely in some state of suspended animation.
The young man circled the chamber, looking at the young woman from every angle as he tried to determine what he needed to do to awaken her. Finally, he decided that he would follow the blueprint laid out in every fairy story he had ever read or studied; he approached the beautiful Princess (for he was sure she must be a Princess) and bent over her to kiss her.
As his warm breath touched her face, her dark golden eyelashes fluttered and she opened her astonishingly beautiful sapphire-colored eyes. Ardan was shocked when she reached up a delicate hand and slapped him in the face!
He stepped back as the Princess sat up in her bed. “How dare you!” she exclaimed. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I... I...” Ardan felt himself at a loss for words, something unusual for the sophisticated scientist. Finally, he was able to speak, “I’m sorry, your Highness. But you have been under a charm for many centuries. I have fought my way through a series of enchantments to come here to awaken you. I thought I would use a method that has been written about in many stories, and that meant I needed to kiss you for the spell to be broken.”
“I don’t care about you kissing me, sir,” said the beautiful young woman. “I want to know what gives you the right to disturb my peace and quiet!”
“I don’t understand. I simply wanted to help you. Weren’t you placed under this spell by an evil enchantress?”
“Of course not! I chose to enter this state. It is my sanctuary.”
“What reason could you have for such a bizarre thing?”
“You say that centuries have gone by, so perhaps you do not know what life was like for a young woman when I was born, sir. You cannot imagine how hard it was to be a woman with a mind of her own. I wanted to study and walk freely in the forests. I had no desire to be married off to some ugly, old horror of a man because it would gain my family lands and power. Indeed, I am not sure I desired to marry at all.
“If I did not marry, then my only choice was to wall myself off in a convent, and I fear I am not better made for the life of a religious, as I have a rebellious soul and do not take well to being told what to do by anyone, man nor woman.
“Thus, I chose to ask a sorceress of my acquaintance to place me in a state of peace and happiness to forever escape a life I could not bear to contemplate,” she looked at Ardan in sadness for what she had lost.
“My Princess,” said the explorer, taking her hand, “I think you will find a changed wo
rld awaits you! You no longer have to belong to any man if that’s your wish.”
“Will I be totally free?”
“No. No one is totally free, but I think you will approve of the world outside this place.”
“I suppose I can give it a try. But first, tell me how you managed to get inside my tower? I had thought that I was quite clear it was to be a puzzle that no one could solve.”
“Ah, that... It was something I read you had said on the day before the enchantment took hold of you.”
“And what was that?”
“No day is so bad that it can’t be fixed with a nap!”
Paris – Yet again we were astonished by an amazing feat of derring-do, as the latest flying ace on the Parisian scene, the amazing Phantom Angel, flew her bi-plane over the Eiffel Tower and climbed down a rope ladder (while somehow managing to keep the plane circling overhead!) to disarm the notorious anarchist Azzef who was threatening to blow up the radio transmitter at the top. Our City is certainly a better place for having a heroine of her caliber watching over us. – Joseph Rouletabille writing in L’Epoque.
Xavier Mauméjean’s contribution to this year’s Tales of the Shadowmen is a delightful parodic romp that brings together two iconic figures of English literature: P. G. Wodehouse’s inimitable Bertie Wooster (and his clever factotum, Jeeves) and Agatha Christie’s detective Hercule Poirot (with his “little grey cells” and ever-reliable Hastings). Bertie thrives on chaos, while Poirot worships order. When the two meet, expect sparks to fly during...
Xavier Mauméjean: A Wooster Christmas
Worcestershire, Xmas 1921
For a mystery novel, Agatha Christie is certainly the best choice.
Bertram Wilberforce Wooster in Much Obliged Jeeves
“Beanacht...”
“Indeed, sir. Good morning,” said Jeeves.
“Did I say something?”
“It sounded like Welsh.”
“Good Lord, did I speak Welsh?”
“Each day provides its share of surprises, sir.”
To know me is to know what condition I am in after an evening spent at the Silver Slipper. The foxtrot follows the quickstep, and the gimlet follows the foxtrot, for notwithstanding this new law that prohibits drinking after 11, nothing rehydrates a dancer more than a cocktail with gin, vodka and lime. I went home at exactly the time of the fashionable tune, Three O’Clock in the Morning–well before the milkman pops round to perform his listed duties. When I woke up, a migraine was applying a vice to the Wooster noggin, which just goes to show that there is after all more under my night cap than some say–even if I never wear a night cap. That’s why Jeeves had shimmered into my room like a benevolent ghost, carrying his miracle medicine.
“My head feels like... that strange vegetable that begins with a P?”
“A pumpkin, sir?” he said, putting his concoction on the nightstand.
“Always the right word, Jeeves.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How is the weather this morning?”
“Snowy, sir, but with a wintry Sun.”
“Bright light, then? Wasn’t it Plato who said that Truth is like something thingummy noodlethwap?”
“Precisely, sir. Like the Sun, one cannot stare at it directly.”
“A quote that suits my present condition.”
“Entirely apposite, sir.”
With the solicitude which is the pride of a devoted servant, Jeeves took care to leave the curtains closed. I leaned back against the pillows, staring at the glass on the nightstand. At first glance, and even looking at it twice, I didn’t trust Jeeves’ hangover cure. Yet, Jeeves’ creation is worthy of my unquestioning trust, since it is on the basis of its miraculous properties that I initially hired him. I swallowed the egg beaten in Worcester sauce with a dash of red pepper in one gulp. At once, it exploded inside me like a bomb in the days of the Zeppelins. I felt my head burst, my eyes roll like marbles, and then the Sun rose and the bluebirds began to sing.
“Better, sir?”
“I feel like Caesar ready to cross the… dash it all, what was that place?”
“The Rubicon, sir?”
“You may check the map later. Right now, let’s pay homage to breakfast. How was your evening, Jeeves?”
“Excellent; thank you, sir, for inquiring.”
“Weren’t you supposed to go to the theater?”
“Indeed. At the Old Vic.”
I used the corner of my toast to doodle in my egg yolk.
“All the papers rave about this new dramatist. What’s his name again?”
“Perhaps you are referring to Mr. Chekhov?”
“Tsk, tsk, another poor man forced to flee from these nasty Bolsheviks.”
“Chekhov is dead, sir.”
“Oh, are you sure?”
“Without a doubt, sir.”
“I hope that didn’t spoil the play for you. That bacon was perfect, Jeeves. And I’ll have a few more cups of that excellent tea.”
After two more cups of the life-saving liquid, I went to the bathroom. It is a shame that our scientists ignore the euphoric properties of the average bar of soap. When you hold it under water and let it go, it surfaces in a most thrilling fashion, entirely suited to spread joy in the most discomfited of souls. Sometimes, I think that if Dante had spent more time playing with a bar of soap, his life would have been transformed. Mankind would have gained a great humorist, partygoer and all-around fun person. After 20 minutes of play, I regretfully left the tub, shaved and went back to my room to put on my old rags.
I immediately noticed what passes for Jeeves’ frown: a slight upward rise of the eyebrow and an almost imperceptible lowering of the corner of his lips.
“A problem, Jeeves?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Family worries?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Your uncle Charlie Silversmith lost his position at Deverill Hall?”
“He would surely have informed me if that were the case.”
“So all’s well?”
“As well as can be, sir, except for a minor detail.”
“Really?” I said, trying to postpone the attack.
“I fear that sir forgot to shave his upper lip.”
“Oh, that?” I said, caressing my mustache. “Don’t you think it makes me look dashing?”
“No, sir. No more now than on your first attempt. I seem to remember that it was not a fortunate experience.”
“Some time has gone by….”
“For everyone, sir.”
“In tempore opportuno….”
“Indeed, sir, but if I may be so bold, I do not think that the opportune time has yet arrived.”
“Yet Douglas Fairbanks...”
“...Is an American, sir, and we cannot merely adopt the customs of the former colonies.”
“Will this warrant me another notice in the Junior Ganymede register?”
“Only time will tell, sir.”
For those who don’t know what I’m referring to, you must know that Jeeves belongs to a club of gentlemen’s gentlemen and other people in service, located on Curzon Street. According to Article 11 of the rules of this ancient institution, each member must describe the habits of his employer in a special register. Thus a member seeking employment can learn of the habits of his potential master, whether he rushes to the rescue of widows and orphans or casts stones at them. Ordinarily, an employer only warrants a single notice in the register, but Jeeves had hinted to me that I was the exception.
“How long has it been since the new register was opened?”
“Twelve years, sir.”
“You still keep it up to date?”
“Diligently, sir.”
“How many pages do I warrant now–two, I believe?”
“Twenty-two, sir.”
My surprise was such that I forgot to correctly button my vest. Fortunately, Jeeves was there to fix it.
“And what motivated this fu
rther amplification, pray tell?” I asked while Jeeves busied himself.
It was then that the telephone rang. Taking advantage of that diversion, Jeeves glided like a zephyr towards it.
“Your aunt, sir.”
Trusting in the Woosters’ reliable instinct, I mentally threw myself to the ground, bracing against the storm. I had immediately thought of Lady Worpledon, my Aunt Agatha. For those unfamiliar with my history, I will only say that Aunt Agatha is married to the execrable Spenser Gregson who made his fortune in Sumatran rubber, that she almost never leaves her lair of Wollam Chesey in Hertfordshire and that she uses barbed wire where other ladies prefer diamond necklaces.
Staring at my mustache, Jeeves handed me the receiver without giving me any more information, a gesture I thought of as petty coming from such an ordinarily noble soul. Fortunately, the screams at the other end of the line dissipated my doubts; it was my Aunt Dahlia. The dear old thing remarried a Tom Travers the year when Blue Bottle won the Grand Prize. I feel a sincere affection for her.
“Hullo, venerable relative!”
“Bertie! I thought you were in America?”
Truth to be told, I had been forced in exile there for a while after a slight disagreement with Sir Roderick Glossop, an eminent specialist in nervous disorders and manager of a nuthouse. During a compulsory stay with Aunt Agatha, a snake in the grass had told Sir Roderick about the incident of the Policeman’s Helmet. During the rowing finals between Oxford and Cambridge, in a rash and foolish moment, I had indeed stolen the headgear of a servitor of the Law. Since then, this action haunted me like the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Sir Roderick Glossop saw me as a dangerous predator ready to abscond at any time with his precious helmet collection. Fortunately, there had been a silver lining to this incident. Glossop had broken my engagement to his daughter, Honoria, who since childhood had been nudging me toward the bonds of matrimony. Before Sir Roderick could lock me up in a padded cell, I had fled to the other side of the pond.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 15