Kane could not make a scene without it becoming generally known that this whole casino was a giant trick. But he knew, even before Bret Maverick, that his crooked path had twisted against him. Finally, he slipped from the podium and waddled with an unaccustomed hurry towards the foyer. The staircase which led to the secure gallery above the Eye-Ball was still guarded. Voltaire stood at his position, suitably resolute, invisibly well-armed. Ironically, Riolama could not have got upstairs without his strength.
Casually, Gilberte and Elizabeth followed the magnate.
In the foyer, just as Kane was about to call out to Voltaire, they caught up with him and, with practiced ease, took an arm apiece.
“Oh, Mr. Kane,” said Elizabeth, musically.
“Ladies,” he said, not recognizing them but not too far gone in panic to miss their appeal, “ordinarily, I’d be happy to escort you, but…”
“We shan’t take refusal kindly,” purred Gilberte. “This is a special occasion, and we claim you as our prize.”
“We could dance all night,” said Elizabeth, tugging on one arm.
“Or drink champagne as if it had just been invented,” said Gilberte, tugging on the other.
Kane tried to break free, but–for all his meat and money–was not a strong man.
In the salon, general fury erupted at another huge loss. The chutes to the counting-cellar were choked with boards like clogged-up drains. As usual in such situations, a stink was rising. Kane turned to look, but Gilberte and Elizabeth insisted on his attention, patting his damp cheeks, smoothing his sticky moustache. If pricked with one of Riolama’s darts, he would not be more deftly immobilized.
Bennett and Owen, black-faced and broke, stalked out of the salon, towards the main doors.
“Gentlemen… friends,” cried out Kane as they passed by.
Bennett gave Kane the evil eye and made a vulgar gesture with his malformed hand. Owen drew his thumb across his throat in an equally eloquent sign.
“Don’t mind them,” purred Elizabeth. “They’re bankrupt. They haven’t got two pennies to hire a cosh-boy, let alone funds enough to have you killed.”
Kane really saw Gilberte and Elizabeth for the first time.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
A commotion exploded in the salon, and spread through the building.
William Boltyn was on the floor, clothes torn, expertly pinned by the dainty boot-heel of Nastasha Natasaevna. She cursed him as every variety of capitalist exploiter and blood-sucking oppressor of the people. She took a croupier’s gathering-stick and knouted the millionaire as if he were a Russian peasant and she a Cossack. His face was striped with red weals. So, he wouldn’t be conquering the Angel of the Revolution in his suite this evening. Others of the Most High Order were with her, getting in kicks and blows. Their pockets were empty, Gilberte supposed. Dr. Quartz had actually pulled out his trousers-pockets in a caricature of pennilessness. He had gambled away his custom-made surgical instruments.
“The house wins,” announced another croupier, blandly.
A shot rang out and the man was down, wounded in the shoulder. Two hefty guards threw themselves on General Sternwood, who had brought his revolver. Voltaire left his post to see what the trouble was.
Kane was pliable now. It was important he see what was happening, so they steered him back into the salon.
It was pandemonium!
Boards flew like shrapnel on a battlefield. Patrons smashed the furniture. Voltaire and the apes went into action, endeavoring to suppress rowdy behavior. Madame Sara tried to splash a bottle of vitriol into a croupier’s face, and was instantly trussed and thrown onto a table. Acid burned the baize. The Inner Circle of the Most High Order of Xanadu, assuming treachery on the part of their Grand Master, took to quarrelling with each other, flinging accusations and daggers. They had no common cause before Kane gathered them. Old rivalries and enmities bubbled up like marsh gas. Simon Carne and Sir Dunston Gryme fenced with swords, leaping from tier to tier. They fetched up on the podium, cutting through the orchestra. Musicians fled diplomatically, grasping their more valuable instruments. Maupertuis brutally kicked Henry F. Potter, as if determined to put the pleading banker into a wheelchair.
Then, all the croupiers started screaming.
This had the effect of stopping fights and destructive rampages. All the staff were rooted to the carpets, juddering and fizzing, hair standing on end and smoking. Cards spewed from sleeves. Trousers-cuffs caught fire. Crackles of lightning ringed the croupiers’ bodies. Riolama had cranked up the electrical devices to their highest setting and thrown all the switches at once. There was a peculiar tart, burned smell. This extraordinary phenomenon lasted only a few seconds, then shut off–along with all the electric lights.
Maverick strolled out of the side-bar, with a fistful of Hattison’s paper. He tipped his black hat at the ladies, and his appalled host, and calmly walked out of the building. Back in the bar, Hattison had abjured ginger ale and was thirstily swigging whisky from a bottle.
The hall was dim, but infernal–lit only by a few fires. Yelping staff patted at burning patches of their evening attire. With dreadful curses, they helped each other tear wires out of their shoes.
“Gigi, cover your ears,” said Elizabeth. “This is not language you should learn.”
Kane was limp now, mumbling about “roses’ buds.”
There was a great rending sound, as if Plan Thunderbolt were torn in half by the Gods, and the Eye-Ball detached from the ceiling. Wires and chains through tore plaster as the globe crashed 50 feet to the floor. It smashed, throwing broken glass all around.
It was a miracle no one had been underneath it.
Gilberte’s heart clutched, but Riolama wasn’t in the wreckage. Looking up, she saw the bird-girl dangling from a cluster of wires stuck out of the ceiling. With the agility of a born acrobat, she swung from chandelier to chandelier, then found a column she could climb down as if it were a tree-trunk.
Gilberte and Elizabeth abandoned Kane to his ruin, and made a cradle of their hands. Riolama leaped into their grip. They helped her out of the salon, deftly moving through panicking, rioting, complaining crowds.
Heaps of boards were scattered across the floor. Colonel Moran, on his knees, filled his pockets. Most folks were too afraid the building would collapse to bother with scavenging.
They tried to leave the building in an orderly fashion, along with many less cool heads who were fighting and clawing to get out into the relative safety of the street.
Voltaire stood by the main doors, waiting for them, teeth shining like the family silver. Kane must have summoned him with a silent whistle.
“My good man,” began Elizabeth, “if you would be so kind as to step aside. This poor girl has had a trying evening and is on the point of fainting…”
The giant’s eyes glittered, like his gnashers. He was skeptical.
“Move your bloomin’ arse!” shouted Elizabeth, in her original voice.
Disheveled folks streamed past Voltaire, but he stood firm, arms extended.
Now was the time for one of the stratagems they had practiced, under the tutelage of the Persian, in the gymnasium beneath the Opéra. It was Gilberte’s call.
“Hi Lily Hi Lily Hi Lo!” she trilled.
Riolama flew as if on wires, taking “Hi Lily” and jamming her toughened heels into Voltaire’s metal grin. Elizabeth, the other “Hi Lily,” took a discarded parasol and jabbed its point into the giant’s midriff. Gilberte, performing “Hi Lo,” fell to the floor like the dying swan, braced herself against marble, and swept stiff legs against his stout ankles.
Voltaire shuddered but didn’t fall.
The angels recoiled and landed on points, adopting poses of aggression and flirtation. Elizabeth twirled the parasol for distraction. Gilberte opened and closed invisible fans, trying to ignore the pain in her shins. Riolama’s arms rose in a crane stance and she stood on one leg.
Even the fleeing guests knew enough t
o clear a circle.
“Hi Lily Hi Lily Hi Lo” was brute force. For all their delicacy, the trio could fell a tree with it. But Voltaire still stood.
After the Persian had tutored them black and blue, they had suffered under an even more exacting master. To become an angel of music, one had to pass muster with Monsieur Erik. Gilberte hadn’t believed her throat could hurt so much, or that such sounds could be torn out of her.
Now, they would put their lessons into practice.
Elizabeth began to tap out a tempo with her parasol.
Gilberte found a discarded croupier’s scoop. Riolama, alarmingly, picked up a blooded sword.
They tapped in synchronized time. Voltaire’s eyes swiveled between them.
The repertoire for three female voices was limited. Three Little Maids From School was too trivial, though perhaps effective in a back-alley brawl. Bizet’s Les Tringles des Sistres Tintaient was too coarse, and they all thought Carmen a stupid slut. So, it must be Mendelssohn. Lift Thine Eyes To The Mountains. The Angels’ Trio from Elijah.
Elizabeth, the most naturally skilled, took the lead. Gilberte had counterpoint, and Riolama–whose high-notes turned to bird screeches–fluttered around. Song come from their hearts and lungs. Sound rolled from their larynxes in waves. If Voltaire could hear a dog-whistle, this would hurt.
All around, folks were struck by the beauty, then pricked by the pain. Crystal shattered, and another chandelier fell.
They focused the song on the giant in their way.
Blood trickled from his ears, his nose, his eyes. But he was transfixed.
Riolama took the lead from Elizabeth, and improvised–cockatoo sounds, birdcalls from her jungles. Voltaire felt it in his steel teeth, and clutched his mouth as the sharpened false choppers vibrated.
Gilberte became the dominant voice, and ended the song.
The giant fell to his knees, eyes and mouth red.
Without taking a bow, the trio slipped round him into the street.
A few stunned patrons tried to applaud, then thought better of lingering. More chandeliers would fall tonight.
In song, the angels of music had conquered.
Europa-Xanadu was in ruins. A mob was tearing down the facades of every Burgher Kane in sight. Fellows with sledgehammers smashed gaming machines. Liberated cattle charged down the street, trailing bruised cowboys by their lassos. A circle of small boys filled up a lost ten-gallon hat with piddle. The bandstand was seized. An impromptu barbershop quartet sang Go Home, Yankees to the tune of Good Night, Ladies.
The European War of the Future was finished before it was begin. The false plans would not be drawn up and passed on, the Terrorists’ air-destroyer would not strike, the armies would not march. The Most High Order of Xanadu was set against itself. The most dangerous, vindictive and resourceful people in the world believed Charles Foster Kane had set out to fleece them. The magnate would be lucky to get out of France with his skin. He would have to fortify his Florida fastness against the creatures sure to be set against him by those who felt he owed debts no gold mine could service.
The Persian was waiting with a black motor-carriage and chauffeur.
The three women got into the vehicle. The Persian had champagne on ice for Gilberte and Elizabeth, and chocolate-covered insects for Riolama–her favorite delicacy.
Envelopes were handed to them. In Gilberte’s was a notice of a bank account opened in her name in Switzerland, and a generous initial deposit.
“Against a rainy day,” Elizabeth explained.
Their commission concluded, expression drained from the Englishwoman’s face–as if she were Galatea turned back into a statue, waiting for someone to vivify her again.
Then, briefly, she was animated as she gasped, “Freddy!”
Mr. Eynsford Hill was tied to a lamppost. Children painted as wild Indians danced around this totem, giving out war-whoops.
“I suppose he’ll be all right,” Elizabeth said as they drove by. “Fickle fortune frequently favors the foolish.”
Riolama happily crunched her chocolate bugs.
Elizabeth needed a strong teacher of music and diction to set her course, while Riolama was happy in an eternal present surrounded by winged friends. Gilberte recognized them both as her sisters.
They took the road from Royale-les-Eaux, leaving Kane’s colossal schemes behind in irreparable shambles. Gilberte knew they would be in Paris by sunrise, to sleep away the day and emerge fresh the next evening–ready again to take flight.
Two days later, a telegram was delivered to Box No. 5. A simple acknowledgement of success, and the continued gratitude of his country. And, though they knew it not, the other Great Powers of Europe.
There would be no War this year.
More importantly, a dire threat was lifted. A certain American tycoon was no longer in any position to make good on his plan to buy the Paris Opéra outright and ship the building stone by stone to Chicago.
Beneath his mask, Erik really smiled.
In the past, John Peel has regaled us with clever little mysteries, but this time, he has chosen to craft a tale starring none other than Jules Verne’s most famous character: Captain Nemo. John, a great fan of Verne’s works, remembered the passage in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea where the Nautilus cruises past the ruins of sunken Atlantis, and wondered what other underwater enigmas Nemo might have encountered during his undersea journeys. He comes up with an answer in this most intriguing tale…
John Peel: Twenty Thousand Years Under the Sea
The Antipodes, 1865
Amongst the papers of the late Professor Arronax, the following pages were discovered. They had evidently been intended to form part of his memoirs but had, at the final moment, been torn from the manuscript that he delivered to his publisher. Upon examining the pages, it is simple to see the reason. Professor Arronax was a dedicated and thorough man of science, and whilst many of the events he described in his memoirs verge upon the fantastic, never do they unduly stretch the credulity. The excised section, however, is of a very different timbre.
The first reason is that the events that they purport to describe were never witnessed by the Professor himself–they are merely reported to him by the late Captain Nemo. Being a sound man of science, the Professor could not therefore verify their veracity. The second reason is that the events related by Nemo are, in and of themselves, quite fantastic. It is more than likely that Professor Arronax himself did not entirely believe the account that was related to him. The only reason, therefore, that the papers were not simply destroyed is the evident high regard the Professor held for Captain Nemo. He was unwilling to have his name associated with this tale while he was still alive; but now that he has died, he would appear to be less concerned. Attached to the pages was a note stating:
“Publish or destroy this account as you see fit.”
As his executor of his papers, I have been torn both ways. Allowing the general public to read this fantastical account seemed to me to perhaps jeopardize the high regard that Professor Arronax has deservedly merited to date. And, yet, such is the public interest still in the exploits of the late Captain Nemo and his astonishing craft the Nautilus that it appeared to me to be irresponsible to withhold further details of his remarkable life.
I merely note that Professor Arronax did not vouch for the truth of this tale. Nor can I; I can merely present it.
One evening, after another of the splendid repasts that the skillful chef of the Nautilus had dreamed up–against consisting solely of creatures and plants found beneath the surface of the ocean–Ned Land and my incomparable Conseil had retired, leaving me alone in the company of Nemo. At this point, the Nautilus was traveling at a depth of some 14 fathoms. The ocean around us was teeming with small fish, but no landscapes could be observed within the range of the electrical lamps. Nemo stood at his portal, staring into the waters, apparently lost in thought. I had made some inconsequential remark about the bravery and loyalty of his crew–t
he former perhaps not so surprising, given the enterprise upon which they were engaged, but the latter I found unusual in that the members of the Nautilus were drawn from many different and sometimes antagonistic nations. Yet they all owed allegiance to this mysterious Captain of theirs. I had begun to believe that Nemo had retreated into his own thoughts and started to make my way from the room when his voice halted me.
“It was not always so, Arronax.” There was another pause, which I took for an invitation to return and stand beside him. As he spoke, he did not yet look at me; instead he regarded the waters that he loved. “There was a time when their bravery faltered, and when one of their numbers betrayed me. I hesitate to speak of it not because it faults my crew, but because the events that occurred are so strange that a man of science like yourself would be understandably skeptical of my account.”
“It would seem to me, Captain,” I assured him, “that your regard for the scientific method is as high as my own. The notes you have allowed me to peruse and the facts you have related to me demonstrate a clear mind–even if it is one with which I cannot always agree.”
He gave a slight nod. “Fair enough, Professor, fair enough. Then I shall relate my tale, and you may accept or scoff as seems most suitable to your humor. However, I shall simply preface it by stating that the events I speak of happened, and, while I cannot fully explain them myself, I do not believe that they are entirely beyond the boundaries of science to explain–perhaps one day, when our understanding of the Cosmos has increased.
“It was during the early days, when the Nautilus was still being tested and proven. I had, as you know, assembled a crew consisting of mariners from a variety of nations. One among them was a man from the United States named Suydam. He was taciturn, and considered odd by his fellows, though not unliked. He was a good mariner, and I had no complaints with his performance–until his final day in my employ. That he might have ulterior motives for voyaging with me did not at any time until that final day occur to me.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 24