Saint-Clair raised his hand and Wolf fell silent. “What is this horn? Do you know what it sounds like?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Go on,”
“It’s a horn whose sound, once heard, is unforgettable. In order to justify a summons, the horn must be blown, somewhere in the valley or in the mountains to sound one long blast followed, after an interval of about 30 seconds, three short blasts.”
“And do you know what that signifies–in what circumstances the horn is blown?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“That’s all right. Continue.”
Wolf resumed: “Five: the entry into the sentry post of a man other than the sentries or the captain of the guard. In such a case, the first thing is to render it impossible for the man to move or cry out. If several men enter, one sentry must raise the alarm immediately, while the other must shoot as many of the intruders as possible, without any word of warning. Inaction is forbidden. Six: the death or insanity, or the danger of death or insanity, of the captain of the guard.” After a pause, Wolf concluded: “That’s all, Monsieur.”
Saint-Clair closed his eyes for a minute or two. Then a smile wandered over his lips, and he opened his eyes again. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “you also told me that to summon the captain of the guard here, it’s sufficient that something should happen which is not among the five incidents on the list, but in respect of which neither of the sentries dares take the initiative?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Very well, Wolf, I’m satisfied.” Addressing Corsat and Pilou, Saint-Clair said in his usual voice, as if he were continuing an ordinary conversation: “Wouldn’t it be interesting to announce number four? What might be the reason for sounding the horn, and what would happen if I ordered Wolf to act as if it had sounded? I find it intriguing, and I’m tempted... as you are, too, no doubt? But no–we must restrain our curiosity, my friends, at least for the moment. All the more so because number six fits in with my plan and modifies it most conveniently, exactly as if it had been created for my benefit. Number six, moreover, like numbers one and two, implies that one can go insane here as easily as one might die!”
Corsat and Pilou nodded their heads and stood up straight again, impassively. They knew that what the boss said in this fashion, in perilous circumstances, was the prelude to some forceful and decisive action.
The Nyctalope’s eyes, face and voice immediately resumed the quality that had petrified Wolf without depriving him of his intelligence. He turned back to the man and said: “First, summon the captain of the guard.”
Wolf obeyed without hesitation. He turned on his heels, went to the telephone, pressed the bell with one hand while the other lifted the receiver, and spoke into it, spacing his words and emphasizing each syllable.
“Woechter! Ja! Bisher Hauptmann! Woechter!”
“Corsat, Pilou,” Saint-Clair said, “the execution of the plan will commence now. Wolf, you’ll greet the captain and tell him that Ragh, lying there on the bed, appears to have fallen ill a few moments ago. Understood?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Good.”
Corsat, still wearing Ragh’s uniform, lay down on the bed with his face to the wall, while Wolf extracted a spare smock and denim trousers from the cupboard. Saint-Clair and Pilou, once the latter had disencumbered himself of his equipment and Corsat’s satchel, which he hid under the bed, stood flat against the wall, where the opening door would hide them from the view of whoever came in. Wolf, in order to play his role as best he could, went to stand next to the bed.
Three to five minutes might have elapsed, or only one or two–for the march of time accelerates and slows down by turns in such circumstances, in step with the thoughts progressing through the waiting minds. Then footsteps were heard of a man shod in heavy boots descending a staircase. The door opened and a man came in–an enormous human colossus, bare-headed, with the neck, shoulders, arms and hands of a brute beast!
Saint-Clair did not see the face of this formidable fellow–who, having entered and violently kicked the door shut with his heel, went straight to the bed, grumbling inarticulately. He saw, though, that the figure was at least two meters tall, with shoulders, hands and a stride to match. He had not thought to ask Wolf what sort of physique the guard captain had.
Good God! he said to himself. If I’d known... Will we be able to bring such a man down without his being able to cry out? If his voice is proportionate to his...
But the hauptmann was leaning over the fake Ragh; the moment had come. Saint-Clair nudged Pilou and they both leapt forward. At the same time, Corsat turned round, with a cushion in his hands.
While Corsat, setting the cushion on his chest, flung his powerful arms around the neck of the colossus, violently burying his face therein, Saint-Clair leapt on to the hauptmann’s huge back as if mounting a horse, and delivered two crashing ju-jitsu blows to the sides of the man’s head, behind the ears. Meanwhile, Pilou rapidly secured the man’s legs by means of his lasso, wound it around the torso, encircled one wrist, pulled it taut and knotted it, then encircled the other wrist, tightened it and knotted it again. Then he breathed out, having completed his task within four seconds.
After these four seconds, during which time the hauptmann was experiencing to the paralyzing effects of surprise, he stood up with a furious thrust of his back, lifting up Corsat and his cushions, Saint-Clair’s ju-jitsu blows having only caused him a sharp pain that served to increase his strength tenfold. However powerful that strength was, though, he could not shake Saint-Clair loose, nor cause Corsat to fall, nor disorientate Pilou.
The Burgundian clung stubbornly to the man’s skull, stifling him by crushing his face into the cushion. When the hauptmann got up, Corsat profited from his new position to clamp his knees about his victim’s flanks. Saint-Clair repeated the blows of his fists more powerfully, generating an agony so extreme that nine men out of ten could not have borne it longer than the time necessary to cry out and fall unconscious. Pilou, bracing himself against the man’s heels and knees, forced him to fall forwards on to the bed.
The hauptmann snarled and shook his body, like a bull trying to shake off banderillas,15 resisting the pain that threatened to render him unconscious and the pressure that had provoked his fall–but his snarl, muffled by the cushion, was barely perceptible. His movements only maintained their violence for a dozen seconds or so. His resistance might have been effective if the pain had not been ceaselessly renewed and pressure of the spiral slipknots had not continually increased upon his calves, knees and thighs, crushing them together–but the human package fell upon the bed, which collapsed with a groan, its legs breaking and its metal frame and mattress ending up flat on the stone floor.
That will force me to modify my plan, Saint-Clair thought, while still in action. The bed won’t be presentable for when Lucifer comes in–and the enormity of such a brute couldn’t be hidden under it even if it were intact. Ah, if I’d known...but it’s too late. How can the plan be adjusted?
Saint-Clair jumped to the ground. Pilou and Corsat had forced two napkins into the stunned hauptmann’s mouth, and they rapidly tied him to the bed-frame itself, skillfully enough that, if he should recover consciousness, he would not be able to get to his feet or make more noise than it is prudent to make within a sentry-post. They had already made too much.
There was a moment’s silence and rest then, during which their respiration became normal and their minds recovered the requisite calmness, which the rapid and violent struggle had disrupted slightly.
“Let’s go,” said Saint-Clair. “It’s decided.” He looked at Wolf–who had not moved during the fight, having no orders to follow–and his voice took on an extraordinary gravity and solemnity, although it maintained its muted tone. “To the telephone!” he said. “Send the summons, pronounce the password, and follow it with the number six, which signifies the death or insanity, or the danger of death or insanity, of the captain of the guard.
Wait, Wolf! Pilou! Behind the door as before! Corsat–grab the hauptmann by the legs, as if you were restraining him. And you, Wolf–after the telephone call, grab his arms. Both of you will be leaning over him, with your backs to the door. You, Wolf, when the door opens, will stand up slightly, look to the side of the door, and say, very rapidly: ‘Sir, the captain had gone violently mad. After his fit he fainted, and we were able to tie him up; it was only afterwards that I was able to send the summons to your lordship.’ And you will do nothing further, Wolf–is that understood?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“When Lucifer is in front of the hauptmann at your side, Corsat, you’ll seize him by the throat. Pilou and I... that’s good! Wait a moment longer, Wolf...”
All of this seemed quite simple, sure, and easy to execute. They had succeeded with the hauptmann, who was a colossus. Why should they not succeed with Baron Glô von Warteck, who was no greater than the human average in physical terms?
In physical terms!
What about mental terms, though? In terms of thought, will-power and psychic powers whose extent was still unknown? What might he be capable of doing, in a struggle against enemy wills? What would he do?
At the first hint of action against him, as soon as he could take account of it, whether by intuition or by evident fact, might he not be capable of thinking and willing in such a manner that contrary thoughts and intentions would be nullified? Might not Wolf, Corsat and Pilou then find themselves petrified, incapable of movement or gesture?
And what about me? the Nyctalope asked himself. A violent anguish gripped his heart. For the first time in his life, he hesitated over an action that he wanted, and had planned, to carry out–but he rebelled against the anguish and the hesitation. “The action is desired, planned, necessary, obligatory!” he whispered. “The principal condition of success, in all things, is action.”
He pulled himself up to his full height and said, coldly: “The telephone, Wolf! And may God go with you!”
Wolf obeyed. He did not know what he was risking. He was ignorant of the true power of the individual he had formerly considered no more than his master. He had seen these three enigmatic beings accomplish unexpectedly difficult things with ease. Even if the overlord of Schwarzrock was as strong as they were–for it was surely impossible for him to be stronger!–these three men, with his aid, would overcome the Baron. Interesting things would be seen in the castle then!
Thinking along these lines, Wolf went to the telephone.
Corsat and Pilou were already in place. Saint-Clair joined Pilou, and they listened.
Wolf rang. Then, emphasizing each syllable of every clearly-enunciated word, in the emotionless voice of a corporal commanding an exercise, he said: “Herrlichkeit! Ja! Herrlichkeit, Woechter. Woechter, ja! Rosen Laura. Nummer sechser. Sechser, ja!” 16
Oh, what a chill penetrated the profoundest depths of Leo Saint-Clair’s soul when he heard the password. The unique password, which would never be used again as a password, was composed of the two forenames of the woman he loved, and for whom he would shortly be risking his life. His hatred of Lucifer was further exacerbated. Oh, let him come, let him come! he thought. My iron will against his occult power!
To calm himself. he began counting off the seconds: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven...
At 82, he stopped.
The door opened. It opened without any noise of footsteps being audible. It opened, and was slowly closed again.
A man was standing there, motionless in he middle of the room–a man who was looking at the demolished bed to which the stunned hauptmann was tied, and over which two men were leaning, one of them Wolf and the other bearing only the uniform of Ragh.
Saint-Clair and Pilou could only see the man’s back. He was bareheaded. He had untidy red hair, worn long at the top of the skull but cut short at the nape of the neck and about the ears. That hair glittered in the sunlight coming through the window, whose broad beams cut diagonally through the room, and in which impalpable dust-particles danced. He was tall and thin, dressed in a well-tailored smoking-jacket and a shirt with a white silk collar and cuffs, the latter turned back and the former turned down.
Saint-Clair made these observations during the time in which Wolf, half-turning towards the door, said very quickly, in a voice that was slightly strangled by the twist in his neck: “Sir, the captain had gone violently mad. After his fit he fainted, and we were able to tie him up; it was only afterwards that I was able to send the summons to your lordship.”
Without replying, the red-haired man walked towards the bed, thrust Wolf aside with a gesture, and leaned over to examine the hauptmann’s face.
At that moment, Corsat, Saint-Clair, Pilou and Wolf himself, moving silently rapidly and precisely, grabbed him, gagged him and tied him up. They sat him down like a mannequin, facing the door with his back to the wall, on the hauptmann’s legs.
Then, Saint-Clair experienced a bizarre sensation: an abrupt warmth and a sort of itch in his neck and shoulders. Without being able to account for it, his attention was irresistibly directed away from the red-haired man and drawn to something that was happening behind him. Saint-Clair stood up, turned round... and a sharp cry escaped his lips. He was rooted to the spot, while Corsat, Pilou and Wolf, alerted by his cry, stood up and turned around simultaneously. Like him, they were frozen.
Standing before them, immobile in the middle of the room, a man was looking at them. He was bare-headed; he had untidy red hair, worn long above the forehead but cut short above the temples and the ears, and that hair was glittering in the sunlight. He was tall and thin, dressed in a smoking jacket and a white silk shirt, with its collar turned down and its cuffs turned up. It was exactly the same man, seen from the front, that Saint-Clair had seen from behind 30 seconds earlier, and on to whom, with Pilou, Corsat and Wolf, he had hurled himself.
Wolf, Corsat, Pilou and Saint-Clair saw, standing before them in the middle of the room, at liberty, the man that they had just that instant gagged, tied up and seated on the hauptmann’s legs, on the bed, against the wall. He had the same red eyes, the same vulture’s beak of a nose, the same razor-slash of a mouth, the same square and bony chin...
Impassively, the red-haired man made a gesture.
Saint-Clair, Corsat, Pilou and Wolf had to turn their heads slightly–and without entirely losing sight of the man standing at liberty before them, they saw behind them, unquestionably, the same man, bound, gagged and sitting down...
V. The Ultimatum
About 12 hours earlier, when the Nyctalope, having been trapped on the balcony of the overhanging turret, had then disappeared through the window, Laurence Païli had remained stunned for several minutes. Then, gradually recovering her composure and her awareness of her surroundings, she got up, took a step back and drew the curtains closed again.
She felt so tired and feeble that she could not stay on her feet and let herself fall into a large, profound and high-backed armchair. She set about thinking. She could not believe that the prodigious appearance of her lover, the words spoken on either side, the promise of salvation and his disappearance out of the window above the vertiginous abyss, had been no more than the illusory plot and unreal vicissitudes of a nightmare.
Since she had been drawn away from her mother, her apartment, her art and her theater by an unknown force like that which draws iron filings irresistibly toward a magnet, the young woman had certainly known troubled hours, when hallucination and reality became confused to the point at which she believed that she had suffered fits of dementia. Since she had found herself captive in this fantastic castle, over which incomprehensible mystery reigned, she had certainly been subjected to fantastic dreams in the course of her disturbed sleep, in regard to which she had asked herself, when she awoke, whether they might not have been a inexplicably incoherent succession of material facts. Above all, the phantasmagorias to which the enigmatic and terrifying Baron Glô von Warteck had subjected her, sometimes with adva
nce warning and sometimes without, had been well-designed to make it difficult for Laurence Païli to know, more often than not, what was real and what was not. This time, however, she had an infallible interpreter: her love! Then again, she knew, with certainty and with faith, what Leo Saint-Clair the Nyctalope was capable of accomplishing.
How had he known? How had he got here? She would find out in due course. But he had come to save her, because he loved her still, as she had never ceased to love him, never doubting it for a moment. What was more, he had given orders. She could not, in consequence, do anything but obey. And obedience, in this instance, was simply to be strong and to hope, to prepare herself and to wait.
She became strong as soon as these reflections were complete. Shivering with joyous hope, she prepared herself–which is to say that she went into the dressing-room adjoining her bedroom, set about twisting and arranging her hair into a solid bun, and dressed herself from top to toe in all the clothes she had been wearing on he day when, subjugated by that irresistible occult summons, she had left Paris. Baron Glô von Warteck, while filling wardrobes and two chests of drawers with enough clothes to comprise ten trousseaus for La Païli’s usage, had not taken away from her anything that she had brought to Schwarzrock.
That night, Laurence did not sleep at all. Sitting in the armchair, she revisited the divine months of her love-affair with Leo Saint-Clair at Cap d’Antibes. Sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes a little girl intoxicated by love, sometimes a woman proud of her happiness and avid for its recommencement, glorified by all the various beauties with which passion can sublimate the features and the expressions of an amorous young woman who is already physically beautiful, Laurence Païli awaited the return of her liberator.
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 17
