“No one, and no visible hiding-place,” he murmured.
All the same, he remained ostentatiously armed, for he mistrusted the bookshelves that were set to the right and the large mirror to the left, set above a low-slung divan, along its entire length. They gave a suspect appearance to the room, further emphasized by the licentious paintings hanging on the walls and the hardbound books arrayed on the shelves, whose titles were worthy of that which a bibliophile might call “my Inferno.” Facing the immense divan, to the right of the fireplace that was flanked on the left by the bookshelves, was a beautiful wardrobe whose three panels were mounted with mirrors. The keys were set in three ornamental locks delicately sculpted in copper.
Saint-Clair opened the middle compartment. Feminine apparel appeared, exhaling a perfume that was less suggestive of an elegant socialite as of a rich courtesan unafraid of migraine–a very strong, insistent, subtly inebriating perfume.
“There we go!” said Saint-Clair, shrugging his shoulders as he closed the wardrobe door. “It’s the débauché’s boudoir...” Mechanically, he opened one of the side compartments, and started. “Oh! This is much more serious! Our debauché is a torturer by methods more direct than spell-casting. He’ll have to pay the account of a Spanish inquisitor when I get my hands on him!”
Trembling with furious indignation, Saint-Clair slammed the narrow door of the second compartment into its frame. What he had just seen inside was nothing less than a complete collection of handcuffs, whips, restraints, canes, switches, metal gags and chokers. He did not even deign to look in the third compartment.
Resisting with all his might the supposition that Laurence Païli might have been brought here and lodged in this place of cruelty and debauchery, Saint-Clair left the room. He put his Browning back in his pocket and went to plant himself in front of the captive, over whom Corsat was watching attentively.
“You–what’s your name?” he asked, in German.
The brute grunted, looked down in a surly fashion and said nothing.
“Talk, idiot,” Saint-Clair said, rudely. “If you don’t, you’ll make the acquaintance, on your own account–do you understand me?–with the pretty toys I’ve just seen set out and suspended in the left-hand compartment of the wardrobe over there.”
The man shuddered, grunted again and said nothing.
The Nyctalope waited for about a minute, his lips peevish, his brows knitted and his eyes hard and terrible. Then he turned round and went back to the “infamous room,” as he had privately named it. He returned almost immediately, carrying a pair of handcuffs, a metal gag and a sort of short-handled knout whose six cords were tipped with steel balls armed with tiny spikes.
The man looked at it in a kind of fearful daze.
Letting the gag and the knout fall on to the bed, Saint-Clair skillfully handcuffed the captive, whose wrists Corsat swiftly brought together in response to a glance from his boss. Immediately afterwards, Saint-Clair struck the prisoner brutally on the chin with the index finger and middle finger of his left hand, stuck rigidly together. The man howled and, with his right hand, Saint-Clair crammed the metal gag into his mouth. The man remained motionless, seated on the edge of the bed.
Then, Saint-Clair seized the knout, raised it and struck it against the wall, where the spiked steel balls ripped holes in the colored paper. “I’ll count to ten,” he said, in a dry, cold and implacable voice, stressing the German syllables. “If you want to talk, to answer my questions in full, raise both your index fingers, while the other fingers remain folded. That will be the signal to put an end to the blows that you will receive, and which, until now, you have had the hideous pleasure of inflicting–for I’ve guessed that you play the role of torturer here, under the orders of the infamous monster who calls himself Lucifer. Do you understand me? Yes? Take the knout, Corsat! I’ll count to ten. When I’ve finished, strike this filth on the body and the limbs. Don’t spare the head–and strike powerfully. Be pitiless. If he runs around the room, pursue him. The jackal won’t suffer the hundredth part of the tortures that he’s surely inflicted on his master’s innocent victims!”
Corsat did not say a word. He seized the knout and raised himself up to his full height beside the seated man. Saint-Clair began counting slowly, leaving about five seconds between each number: “One... two... three... four...”
The man had not even enough moral fiber to wait for the first blow. As Saint-Clair said “five,” he raised his index fingers and his porcine eyes became basely pleading.
“I expected as much,” said Saint-Clair, disgustedly. “This torturer’s valet is a coward. Bring him along, Corsat. We’ll be better off in the dining-room downstairs. It doesn’t stink like a trough, as this room does. Don’t worry about the lasso or the cutter. We’ll go out via the roof, because I want to leave all the doors locked. Light the electric lamp and snuff out the candle. Good. Follow me–and if the fellow stumbles, a rap on the head with the knout will bring him to his feet.”
Five minutes later, Saint-Clair and Corsat learned that their captive was Heinz Kroon. For an hour, they listened to him talk, the Nyctalope restricting himself to asking curt and precise questions when necessary.
IV. After Kroon’s Revelations
The Schwarzwald, or Black Forest, is a German mountain range which terminates to the east in the Rhine valley in the Grand Duchy of Baden and Wurtemburg. This steep chain is 260 kilometers in length. Its highest peak, the Feldberg, is exactly 1,425 meters high. Despite the relative modesty of its altitude, the Schwarzwald is one of the coldest parts of central Europe; snow is found there in summer. Its most densely-forested part has no large towns, only isolated habitations in the midst of the wildest scenery.
The most forbidding part of these hirsute mountains–which the black firs drape in perpetual mourning and where the mists move from morning until evening over damp uneven rocks–lies in the south-west, within a radius of about 30 kilometers from the intersection of the 48th degree of northern latitude and the 6th degree of eastern longitude. The sources of the Danube are there: nameless springs bursting from huge unexplored grottoes descend in heavy waterfalls into unknown abysses, and centuries-old firs on mossy crags overhang frightful precipices, at the bottom of which rivers sometimes cascade along serpentine paths at breakneck speed.
There, overlooked by a circle of steep mountain slopes, and itself overlooking a circular valley where a few human beings eke out a living as primitive farmers, is to be found a strange, romantic edifice with vertiginous walls, set on a rocky peak around which an improbable staircase spirals. The clouds in the sky and the mists of the Earth mingle around its flanks, continually gathered and dissipated by the mountain winds. This is the castle of Schwarzrock.
From Freiburg-in-Brisgau, which is a town in Baden, to the wild valley of Schwarzrock, by the paths that are the most direct, if not the most difficult, is about 50 kilometers.
On May 12, at noon, Leo Saint-Clair, Corsat and Pilou left Colmar in a small hired car, which did not look like much but had a good engine. Saint-Clair had become once again a thoroughly convincing Heinz von Kraft, commercial traveler, suitably transformed by false whiskers and clothes cut in the local style. Corsat could easily have passed for a colleague of a less well-bred sort, and Pilou–who had a genius for make-up and disguise–was playing the role of a Swiss chauffeur who had followed a thousand other trades in his time, in an admirably natural fashion. It goes without saying that Corsat and Pilou, who had been prisoners of war in Thuringia in 1917-18, spoke German as easily, if not quite as purely, as Saint-Clair.
The three adventurers spent the night of May 12 getting their fill of sleep in a patriarchal hotel in Freiburg-in-Brisgau. At 8 a.m. on May 13, comfortably equipped as tourists, they left Freiburg on foot after Heinz von Kraft had told their host that he would spend a week walking in the Black Forest with his friend and chauffeur, who would play he role of domestic servants during the pleasure-trip.
In the mountains, the time lost i
n going upslope is regained going down. That day, Saint-Clair and his auxiliaries covered 32 kilometers between Freiburg and the place where they slept, which was a forest hamlet furnished with a humble inn.
At 10 a.m. on the next day, they arrived on the crest of the mountainous circle enclosing the valley of Schwarzrock. This circle was linked, via a deep and narrow gorge, with one of the valleys extending towards the Danube, but that almost-impassable gorge served only to export the valley’s melted snows in torrents and streams. The only routes into it were steep zigzagging paths leading from the distant roads to Baden and Wurtemburg, which were few and scarcely practical–for the valley’s inhabitants, who numbered about 30, almost never left it, and rarely saw four strangers emerging from the gap in the course of a year.
“We’re here, finally!” cried Saint-Clair, when he saw the castle of Schwarzrock planted atop it black rock in the middle of the enormous depression. He sat down amid a chaos of loose stones beside the breach in the crest that hollowed out the pass giving access to the valley. His companions imitated him. Their clothes were uniformly somber, and there were no shiny objects among their equipment. Blending in with the slope, they were completely invisible from the castle or the hovels in the valley.
The three men looked at the edifice, inaccessible to anyone who was not invited–into which, however, all three of them expected to enter the following night. The fortified building had ironclad doors and loopholes garnished with electric cables. On its highest tower, active by day and by night, there was a sort of microphone receiver, which captured the least noise produced within a radius of 500 meters of the natural and artificial rocky mass and transmitted them to resound, separately, with varying intensity and quality, in various items of apparatus fixed to the walls of a “listening room.”
This was, in fact, the place where the formidable and monstrous Lucifer lived, and from which the fluid emanated that had attacked Irène de Ciserat, wounded Mathias Narbonne, half-strangled little Henri Prillant, irresistibly attracted Laurence de Païli and directed Edwige and her unconscious fellow cat’s-paws. It was also, perhaps, the place where that same Laurence Païli was being held captive, subjected to unknown tortures for the demoniacal pleasure of some devil with a human face.
The Nyctalope was shivering with impatience, tremulous with an enormous and profound anger, all the more terrible because he had to contain it. The hour had not yet come for him to unleash himself. If only it would arrive...
Saint-Clair summoned up all his reserves of strength–but would not the mysterious enemy be wilier, stronger, better-prepared to defend himself and better armed for attack and riposte alike? With his elbows on his knees and his chin and cheeks in his hands, the Nyctalope stared at Schwarzrock for a long time.
That May day had an exquisite gentleness. Pierced, shredded and dissipated by the Sun’s rays, the mists climbing from the dank depths of the valley reached half-way up the enormous column of rock and vanished without attaining the castle walls. An east wind was chasing the last clouds away, sweeping clean the hallucinatory blue sky. In that enchantment of spring, where even the dark firs seemed to take on a hint of the plain’s greenness, Schwarzrock appeared ever blacker and more sinister.
Two hours passed. No more mist, no more cloud; the Sun was almost at its zenith in the azure sky.
“Let’s eat!” said Saint-Clair, in a low tone. “But let’s go behind that curtain of bushes and rocks. That little patch of grass will be ideal for an afternoon nap. We have to wait here until night falls–eight hours in which we must take turns to sleep, if we can, and play lookout. Our limbs will need to be well-rested, at any rate. Do we know what we need to do? We’ll eat several times, in small doses; that way digestion won’t slow us down, and we can go without eating for 24 hours, if need be. Then, my friends, get used to the idea that Death lies in that castle, waiting for us, ready to seize us in a myriad different ways. Above all, my friends, above all... but I’ll tell you that later, when we go to face our moment of peril. Let’s eat now, smoke a little and rest.”
That was what they did. When the afternoon had run its course, though, as the Sun disappeared and dusk slowly extended it darkness, there were still two eyes on the crest of that mountainous circle watching the castle, the spiral staircase and the green valley where a few grazing cows appeared as slowly-moving stains.
Nothing happened. No one came out of the castle and no one went in. No silhouette appeared on the walls, on the towers, or at the narrow windows. Schwarzrock would have seemed uninhabited, had not occasional slight puffs of white smoke emerged from an invisible chimney and climbed vertically into the sky above the edifice, which was dark brown where it reflected the light, and black in the shadows.
“Let’s get ready!” Saint-Clair said, once the Sun had vanished.
It was not without emotion that Corsat and Pilou devoted themselves to the preparations that their boss had instructed them to make, verbally and by example. All the tourist equipment was gathered into a bundle and buried under stones between two bushes. The cord-soled sandals on their feet were replaced by socks and hobnailed boots. Over his usual flannel and linen underwear, each of the three men put on a sort of leotard, which covered everything from the ankle to the neck. A balaclava helmet and gloves of the same texture were suspended from each belt. Each supple leather belt supported a silent Browning, a dagger in a scabbard and a pair of secateurs whose crystal shafts were covered in felt. In addition, Corsat’s belt was furnished with a satchel containing the electric cutter and various other instruments, motors and tools.
For some time, electricity had played a role in almost every adventure that Saint-Clair and his auxiliaries had undertaken, and the most elementary prudence advised them to arm themselves in advance with the means to counter electricity used as an item of attack or defense. The Nyctalope never set off on an expedition without all his accessories being set out in the boot of his car, in a suitcase, a tourist bag or a vagabond’s sack.
“We’re ready,” he said, after inspecting Corsat and Pilou with a swift glance. His face was calm and grave, and his eyes softened as he added: “Above all, my friends, remain masters of your own will!” He paused, thought for a second, as if choosing his words very carefully, then continued: “If our presence is detected, the weapon that we have most to fear is the enemy’s will. Remember my explanations. You must, therefore, attend to your own will, stiffen it and render it inflexible. If you feel your moral force growing weak, stiffen all your muscles and all your sensibility, say to yourself: ‘I do not want to give way; I shall not give way!’ and continue to act physically according to the requirements of the moment. We might be obliged to separate. If so, the peril will be tripled, for while we are together, our combined wills will be unbreakable. Finally, my good comrades, companions in joy and in pain, remember that we are fighting to safeguard innocence–and, I am sure, to save humanity from an unimaginable slavery. Now, my friends, for the happiness of all the days that I still have to live, let’s clasp hands and go forth!”
Corsat and Pilou had listened calmly. They gave their hands to Saint-Clair. Their embrace was fraternal. “Don’t worry about us, boss,” Corsat said. “We’ll hold on, or die.”
“Yes, boss,” said Pilou the Provençal, simply.
“Thanks!”
Night had fallen, its blackness scarcely relieved by the stars, which were being blotted out by a light mist. Thanks to their habit of making nocturnal excursions, Corsat and Pilou could see well enough in the open to follow the Nyctalope without making any sound. Silence was the most important thing, to begin with; they had to move forward without knocking over and stones or falling over themselves. It was necessary not to rattle a pebble against a rock to disturb the silence of the night. In the valley of Schwarzrock, the silence was absolute: no crickets sang; no frogs croaked; the sheep and cattle on the land made no sound; and there was no wind in the fir-trees. Every five minutes or so, a bird would trill in the distance, but its lugubriou
s, regular call only made the silence more apparent.
Black on its enormous crag, its battlements and towers silhouetted against the slightly less black sky, the sinister castle seemed higher than the mountains. The three adventurers, as intrepid as madmen, as resolute as desperadoes and as calm as sages, went as silently and lightly as shadows to meet their Destiny.
Part Three: Schwarzrock
I. Baron Glô von Warteck
In the enormous and profound cul-de-sac formed to the north by the abyssal valley of Schwarzrock, there was a house lurking under a rocky cliff between two clumps of fir-trees. The valley was relatively warm, by virtue of its orientation, which sheltered it from the north wind but allowed the sunlight to penetrate via the gorge. The flanks of the circle were more funnel-shaped in the east-south-east section of the compass. In addition–a rarity in the Black Forest–the valley of Schwarzrock divested itself completely of its winter snows in the first days of May, particularly in the sheltered vicinity of the house in the north. This large, stout house was made of stone and wood, with an overhanging roof sustained by thick, squared-off tree-trunks, which established a sort of courtyard around the habitation.
At 8 p.m. on May 14, a man and a woman were sitting in front of a little fir-wood fire in the hearth, in the big communal room which, in Black Forest cottages, serves as a kitchen, a dining-room, a dining-room and a master bedroom. The children, relatives and servants, if any, sleep in outbuildings at the back of the house or in closets flanking the attic.
The man and the woman, dressed like all mountain peasants, were both tall, with grey hair, coarse features and blue eyes. They were peeling apples, throwing the flesh into a cauldron half-full of water and the peel into and old wine-case. They were working slowly and silently.
Suddenly, while the cuckoo was emerging from the clock to signal that it was 8:30 p.m., a dull sound was heard, like the noise of a hammer striking a full wine-cask in a cellar. The man and the woman lifted their heads. Their eyes became fixed and their hands became motionless. The sound was immediately followed by an equally loud rattle; then, after ten seconds of silence, three equally-spaced blows.
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 12
