The Nyctalope on Mars 2: The Triumph of Love

by Jean de La Hire

  The silence was terrible—but in that silence a voice sounded, which no one recognized, stressed by emotion as it was. It was the voice of Oxus, which said: “That is my desire!”

  He made a gesture, which the slaves understood. Two minutes afterwards, Saint-Clair and Koynos were no longer in the room.

  Third Interlude

  At 8 a.m. on October 18, Franz Montal, the director of the Aéro-Garage Universel de Paris, was arrested in his home by Monsieur Sanglier, the head of the Sûreté.

  This was accomplished with the utmost discretion, and Monsieur Sanglier took his prisoner to the Prefecture without anyone at the Aéro-Garage having any inkling of the occurrence.

  The legal formalities were, in any case, neglected. There was no arrest warrant, or had any Investigating Magistrate been apprised of what was happening. Monsieur Henrion, the Prefect of Police, and Monsieur Sanglier had been given carte blanche by the Minister of the Interior. They could act as they saw fit; the Minister would take responsibility for everything.

  Once he was seated in the office of the head of the Sûreté, Franz Montal found himself confronted by three people: Monsieur Henrion, Monsieur Sanglier and a man he did not know.

  “Monsieur Montal,” said Henron, without preamble, “you are a member of the secret society of the Fifteen?”

  Franz raised his eyebrows and said, with well-feigned astonishment: “The secret society of the Fifteen? What’s that?”

  “It’s futile to pretend or lie, Monsieur,” Henrion told him, curtly. “The Fifteen have a sort of general agent in Paris whose orders you have often followed. Among the Fifteen, that agent is named Epsilon—but in the everyday world, he is simply called Bastien, and is employed as Monsieur Sanglier’s secretary. We know everything, you see!”

  Despite his strength of mind, Franz Montal had gone pale, and a rapid thrill of emotion made him shudder. Without giving him the time to collect himself, Henrion went on: “Bastien left with the Saint-Clair expedition. One of your Commanders, Monsieur Montal—the one who always speaks in the name of the Master, Oxus; Commander Koynos—killed Bastien, or, rather, thought he had killed him. Bastien is alive, though. He has come back; we have seen him; he talked yesterday evening. We arrested you today. If you talk in your turn, you will be freed as soon as what you tell us has been verified. If you don’t talk, you will be deemed guilty of abduction and complicity in abduction and murder. We shall subject you to the procedures that the Fifteen employ against the society of men; we shall make you disappear, and you will never be heard of again.”

  These terrible words, all the more terrible for emerging from the mouth of a functionary habituated to respect legal formalities, had a visible impact on Franz Montal. He was dumbstruck and frightened. He had not expected such threats—but he stammered: “I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know Epsilon, Bastien, Oxus, or Koynos. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard mention of those names.”

  Henrion shrugged his shoulders. Turning to the third person, he said: “My friend, would you care to convince Monsieur Montal, by means of some word or gesture, that his denials are useless?”

  Franz looked at that man thus called upon, and started in panic. With an abrupt movement, the man had removed his beard and spectacles. He presented to Franz’s gaze the familiar physiognomy of Companion Epsilon, more commonly known as Bastien. “Do you recognize me, Sigma?” he said. Sigma was Franz Montal’s code-name.

  “You can talk,” Bastien went on. “The Fifteen have betrayed and abandoned us. They’re on the planet Mars. Having no further use for me, Koynos tried to kill me. The same fate is reserved for you, since Thoth has taken Koynos’ place on Earth. And Thoth, as you know, is jealous of you and detests you. So talk—save yourself and join the struggle against the Fifteen. We shall defeat them, since we know their secrets. And Saint-Clair, in the Congo, will win the first victory. I’ve been able to take the Nyctalope’s measure; he, alone, is stronger than the Fifteen in combination. Talk, Sigma!”

  There was a long silence. Franz Montal had lowered his head and was deep in thought. When he raised it again, he was very pale, and his brows were knitted. “Bastien,” he said, “was wrong to reveal himself. He does not know the full power of the Fifteen. How many companions are there in Paris alone? Within a week, a dagger-blow will have punished Bastien. You threaten to make me disappear if I stay silent—but if I talk, I’ll be killed.”

  “No!” said Bastien. “Since Noël left, there are no more than two companions in Paris—you and me—plus one slave, your mechanic Malteste. Malteste was arrested last night. That’s why you didn’t see him arrive at the Aéro-Garage as usual at 7 a.m. I should add, to reassure you, that there are no more than three other companions in the entire world: your brother Noël, Thoth, whose whereabouts I don’t know, and Félix Numa in Brazzaville. As for slaves, Picard, who is with Numa, and Breton and Normand at the radiomotive station in the Congo, are the only ones that Oxus has left on Earth, and…”

  “I don’t believe you!” Montal interrupted, with a somber energy.

  Bastien was about to reply when someone knocked abruptly on the door. Sanglier got up, went to open it, went out, and immediately came back in with an envelope in his hand. “It’s the radiotelegram you’re expecting,” he said to Bastien. Following my orders, the Eiffel tower station sent it imm…”

  “Give it to me!” cried Bastien, with feverish impatience. He stood up, reaching out. He seized the envelope and opened it.

  By way of address, the radiotelegram bore the two letters A.G.; these were the initials that Bastien had given Saint-Clair, as a return address, in the radiotelegram received by the Nyctalope at the radiomotive station in the Congo. Bastien unfolded the paper; as soon as his eyes had scanned it, he released a cry of triumph. Then, suddenly calm, he said: “Obviously! The Nyctalope has won!” He went on, in a calculatedly cold voice: “Gentlemen—and you, Franz, in particular—listen to this news, which marks Saint-Clair’s first victory over the Fifteen. I know the Nyctalope’s secret cipher well enough to translate on sight. Listen.” And he read: “Thoth shot. Am master station. Will depart for Mars. Entrust Christiane to you. Rescue her, keep her for me. Saint-Clair.”

  The most intense joy was reflected in Henrion’s face, and Sanglier clapped his hands—but Franz Montal only said, quite coldly: “What proof do I have that this dispatch is authentic, that it comes from the radiomotive station, and that what it says is true?”

  “Nothing, indeed can prove these things,” replied Bastien, somewhat impatiently.

  “Until proof is forthcoming, then, I refuse to talk!” Montal declared, curtly.

  “You’re mad!”

  “So be it—and you’re a traitor!”

  “No, I’ve been liberated!”

  “Now, now! Let’s not argue any more!” Henrion put in. “Since Montal doesn’t want to talk, we’ll get rid of him. My dear Sanglier, have the prisoner taken you-know-where…”

  Sanglier rang a bell and two men—both colossal—immediately came in. They threw themselves on Franz and, before he knew what they were doing, they had put him in a straitjacket. Then one of them lifted the prisoner up and put him over his shoulder like a sack. The two policemen disappeared with their prisoner through a side-door that Bastien opened in front of them, and quickly closed behind them.

  A quarter of an hour later, Henrion, Sanglier and Bastien, assisted by Montal’s chief accountant, were searching the director’s office at the Aéro-Garage. Bastien, in his capacity as a former companion of the XV, knew the combination of Franz’s safe. From a cavity in one of the thick walls of the strong-box, he took a dozen large white envelopes, all sealed with wax, with the initials F.M.

  “It’s all here,” he said to Henrion. “We can go.”

  Meanwhile, Sanglier said to the bewildered accountant: “Monsieur Montal will be away for a few days, unreachable by you, all employees and all clients. He’s traveling with Malteste. If you’re indiscreet enough to tell anyone
whatsoever what has happened today, I’ll have you arrested—and I warn you that four Sûreté inspectors have been assigned to watch you!”

  “I’ll be discreet, Monsieur!” replied the accountant, frightened half to death.

  “I hope so, for your sake.”

  Sanglier left the office, followed by Henrion and Bastien.

  In Henrion’s office at the Prefecture, the three men opened the envelopes and examined the contents minutely. When they reached the third wad of papers, Bastien cried: “Perfect! I know everything! Christiane and Madame Rondu are at the Château de Pierrefort in the Cantal, with Noël Montal, alias Noël de Pierrefort. In truth, I suspected as much. We mustn’t show our hand, though. We must strike swiftly and surely...” Turning to Sanglier and resuming his old manner of address, he said: “Chief, it might be as well to notify Baptiste that his mistress has been found and will be returned to him shortly…”

  “I’ll send an Inspector.”

  “Yes—and in order that the journalists will let us alone, Monsieur Henrion should send out a press release couched in the following terms: ‘It is incorrect that any connection has been established between the disappearance of Mademoiselle Christiane Saint-Clair and that of 15 other young women. Mademoiselle Saint-Clair, whose character is very impressionable, has gone to stay with a relative following a discussion with her governess. Madame Rondu has gone to join her and apologizes on behalf of her mistress. As for the servant Baptiste, anything that he has said about that subject is pure imagination, as he has admitted to the Commissaire of Police of Saint-Germain. The window-pane was broken accidentally by Baptiste himself and Baptiste was not asleep by virtue of the effects of chloroform, but merely as a result of drinking to excess. The incident, which has no tragic element, is therefore closed, to the general satisfaction.’ ”

  “Understood,” said Henrion. “And what are you going to do?”

  “I shall depart with Monsieur Sanglier for the Château de Pierrefort,” Bastien replied. “I’ll give the Fifteen’s password, and Noël will let us in. We’ll act then according to circumstances—but we’ll need carte blanche, for if Noël acts up, it might be necessary to use revolvers.”

  “Go ahead!” said Henrion. “It’s open warfare. The end will justify the means.”

  “It’s all set, then. Let’s get back to the Aéro-Garage, Chief—we’ll take Franz Montal’s airplane; there’s none better in all Paris.”

  “Let’s go!” said Sanglier. And the two men took their leave of Henrion.

  It was mid-day when Bastien and Sanglier arrived in sight of the Château de Pierrefort. The companion of the XV knew its name and location, but he had never seen it before. It loomed up, black and forbidding, with its four stout feudal towers, at the summit of an enormous crag above the cascade of a small river called the Arcueil. Pine-woods surrounded the crag, as if forming a defense of shadow and solitude. Between the four rounded towers the square body of the building was surmounted, not by a roof, but by a terrace that was slightly ridged, in such a fashion as to permit rain-water and snowdrifts—very frequent in that region—to slide off. It was on this terrace that Montal’s airplane set down, as it had before when it brought Christiane, this time under the direction of Sanglier and Bastien.

  The mechanical bird’s arrival had been signaled in advance, for a man suddenly emerged on to the middle of the terrace. When the airplane had come to a standstill, the man plucked a revolver from his jacket pocket with a rapid gesture, pointed it at Bastien, who was in the pilot’s seat, and said, curtly: “Who are you? I recognize my brother’s airplane, but I don’t know you. Don’t try anything, or I’ll fire!”

  Bastien laughed softly and said: “Look at me a little harder, Noël. Have you forgotten Bastien? It’s true that you only saw me once. Listen! The Master has said: ‘Whoever comes in the name of Oxus commands, and whoever hears the name of Oxus obeys.’ ”

  Noël de Pierrefort shivered, and very slowly—as if regretfully—lowered his revolver. “Who are the two?” he pronounced.

  “The Gemini.” Bastien replied.

  “What is the one?”

  “The Omega, who is the initiate of Oxus, which means the Lion, the King.”

  Noël put the revolver back in his pocket then, took off his cap and bowed, saying: “Whoever comes in the name of Oxus commands, and whoever hears the name of Oxus obeys.” Then he straightened up and advanced towards the aviators, smiling and extending his hand; the latter had already jumped down on to the terrace. “Welcome,” he said. “You’ll share my meal; I was just sitting down at table when the watchman signaled your approach.”

  “Alone?” said Bastien—who, having immediately assumed a tone of superiority, intended to maintain it until the end,

  That word made Noël blush. After a brief hesitation, he replied: “With the hostage, Christiane Saint-Clair, who was kind enough to do me the honor of admitting me to her table.”

  Sanglier had not yet said anything, but he was observing. His keen eyes sounded those of the elegant jailer. This fellow is in love, he thought. That might complicate matters.

  But Bastien said, negligently: “It’s with regard to her that we’re here—myself and my comrade Thoth, the intermediary of Koynos, the Commander.” As he pronounced Thoth’s name, Bastien gestured towards the impassive Sanglier.

  Noël bowed, very pale now. Raising his head again, he murmured: “May I know…?”

  “Yes—we’re in a hurry,” Sanglier replied, authoritatively. “We’ve come for the prisoner…”

  Noël was quite white. He recalled the terrible words that his brother had pronounced on confiding Christiane to him and warning him, prophetically, not to become enamored: “I know that as long as she’s in the château, Christiane is, indeed, in a safe place—but we, who know the value of words, also know that when we receive the order to bring her out, the one to whom we shall deliver her will be implacable, if it is not her own brother…”

  Noël recalled these words full of menace all too clearly, and he trembled as much from revulsion as pain. The time had come to deliver Christiane, and the man who was reclaiming her was not “her own brother;” it was the official representative of the XV—which meant that Christiane was going to die.

  Noël de Pierrefort felt a sudden temptation to take out his revolver again and shoot the two men down—but he restrained himself. Placing himself between the newcomers and the open trapdoor with a single step, he said: “Gentlemen, my prisoner is already in a dinging-room to which that stairway leads directly. Before we go down, I should like to know what orders I must obey…”

  The young man seemed calm, but the sudden hardness of his eyes, the trembling of his lip and the rigidity of his entire body revealed the ardor of the sentiments seething in his soul.

  Damn! thought Sanglier. This lad doesn’t seem to be of the same opinion as his brother with regard to the Fifteen. The other didn’t want to betray them; this one looks as if he wants to fight them…

  But Bastien replied: “The orders are these: that you will deliver the prisoner to us.”

  “And what will you do with her?” said Noël, sharply, in an aggressive manner.

  Bastien raised his eyebrows and said, disdainfully: “One does not debate, one does not question, one does not reply, one does not think, when the Master gives an order! One obeys. You will give us Christiane Saint-Clair. An order from Thoth has been given to you; Thoth himself will take her from you…”

  “As for me,” Noël riposted, in a voice as dry as Bastien’s, “I think, I reply, I question and I debate…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What will you do with her? I shall not surrender Christiane without knowing that. You shall not set foot on one of these steps before telling me…” And he took out his revolver, brusquely. He pointed it at Bastien and, without taking his eyes off the eyes and hands of the two men, he went on: “One move and I’ll fire! Speak—or go away this instant!”

  Sanglier, who was a goo
d judge of men, admired Noël de Pierrefort—because Noël, in open revolt, was truly magnificent.

  As for Bastien, he remained impassive for a minute. Then, smiling, he said, softly: “Noël, if anyone ever tells me that love makes people cowardly, I shall reply that I have seen a man rebel, for love, against the most terrible power to which men were ever subjected: the power of Oxus, Master of the Fifteen. You love Christiane, with an ardor for which I congratulate you. I hope that your sentiments are reciprocated—but we’re dying of hunger, my dear chap, for it will soon be 1 p.m., and we’re not in love ourselves…”

  He advanced towards the disconcerted Noël, put an arm underneath the arm whose hand was not holding the revolver, and said, amicably: “Let’s go eat, Noël. You can introduce us to Christiane. We don’t want to steal her from you—on the contrary, you’ll be her guardian more than ever, but not any longer on behalf of the Fifteen, or against the Nyctalope.”

  “On behalf of whom, then, and against whom?” stammered Noël, stupefied.

  “On behalf of Saint-Clair, and against the Fifteen. But let’s eat, damn it, or I’ll faint. We’ll explain after dessert.” And he drew Noël towards the stairway.

  Laughing wholeheartedly, Sanglier followed, glad to see that, for once, love was on the side of the police…