The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Stories

by Mike Ashley

  Oh, now we’re getting to it, I thought. With a shake of my rifle, I ordered him to continue.

  “As a result of the contacts I made with other worlds, I learned one fact that the metapsychics have yet to learn: each of us, you and me alike, has as many doubles as there are universes.”

  “As many brothers, you mean?”

  Fogg/Moriarty nodded.

  “Almost twins, with a few slight differences, depending on their environment. As you see, the unfortunate Loveless was stricken with a serious illness in his youth and didn’t grow as he should have. But what does that matter?”

  The dwarf, in fact, was smiling, not the least bit inconvenienced by his disability.

  “Although the body may have undergone certain modifications, the mind, my dear Passepartout, the mind of each double reverberates in unison with the same concerns. There’s no chance that a nice boy from the London we know would behave like a boor anywhere else.”

  “Or vice versa.”

  Moriarty burst into laughter.

  “Of course, you’re right. And vice versa!”

  I changed the topic abruptly. “How many of you are here, now?”

  “You crossed paths with my first brother, dear Fantomas, in France, without realizing it,” replied the fake Fogg.

  “That can’t be!” I exclaimed. “They’re so much like you that I would have noticed!”

  “Except that that particular brother is a master of disguise. Imagine him with a goatee, fake eyebrows and dressed as a railway porter.”

  I jumped. The blackguard had duped me thoroughly with his “Mr Smogg”! He had pulled the wool over my eyes with the audacity of the master criminal he actually was.

  “All right, I’ll let you have that one,” I admitted. “But as for the transfer on the Mongolia, I stand firm. You reappeared alone down below and then I locked the cabin door!”

  “My dear friend, you’re not the only break-in artist around. There are others who can pick locks too, you know. The individual you saw reappear was my brother, the admirable Nemo. And as for me, I waited until you left your hiding place to go to the upper deck and peacefully join the captain’s table, while my twin slipped off on board the submarine that was waiting for him.

  “So, you knew I was there, watching you.”

  “But, of course. Just as I knew that you were following me in Asia, when I set out to meet my Asian brother, the refined Fu Manchu.”

  I admitted that this point astounded me. But the reason for all these masquerades was still beyond me.

  “Why did you allow me to observe the successive arrivals of your brothers without making any attempt to stop me?”

  “First of all, because I didn’t want to alert your employers. It’s far easier to keep an eye on a single agent. Then, too, because I wanted a worthy witness. And I think you are one, my dear Passsepartout, if that really is your name.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “A witness? Whatever for?”

  The Moriarty twins laughed like little children. They seemed to find my puzzlement quite amusing. Loveless continued with the explanations.

  “To make the game worth it, my dear chap, we need adversaries who are worthy of our talent. What point is there in sowing chaos if we have to remain in the shadows? No, what we want to do is make sure that our exploits burst into daylight! And for that, we need this world to recognize our intentions. The report you will be handing in will help with that. Consider it the first move in the game between ourselves and Good, starting now!”

  I was dumbfounded, as I’m sure you must realize. So, Moriarty and his diabolic doppelgangers considered this whole thing a game!

  Hesitantly, I asked, “And just what are your intentions?”

  “Some pillaging, an assassination or two, a little bit of extortion, definitely some terror, and a couple of abductions or so. How would I know?” “Fogg” admitted. “Put yourselves in our shoes for a just few moments, my dear fellow . . . Your world is such a magnificent prey, with its vast wealth and potential! We all come from places that are so poor, so sad, so desolate, that our criminal genius is wasted. Who would fear the name Moriarty in the world I come from? No one at all, no one at all . . .”

  So, he admitted that he came from another world. Which one? I never found out.

  “On the other hand,” added the dwarf, “America will tremble and quake before Loveless!”

  “And Europe before Fantomas!”

  “China before Fu Manchu!”

  “Africa and the East before Nemo!”

  That seemed to be everything that had to be said. I aimed my rifle at the “professor’s” chest and declared, “I won’t let you.”

  And I fired. The detonation exploded in the tent, causing the diabolical brothers to convulse in laughter.

  “Come on now, old man. Don’t you recognize that weapon? It’s the one you gave me in San Francisco. Loaded with blanks. Quite unlike this one.”

  He brandished his Colt. Rage filled me as I realized that I could have escaped from the tent without the least risk of getting shot.

  “The game has started,” Moriarty repeated.

  Loveless nodded and added, “And you will be our adversary. You and your brothers. We’ll help you transfer them here. We’ll have so much fun!”

  And that’s the entire story of the very first case in which I found myself fighting against that devil Moriarty. After the Sioux episode, I was drugged and I completed Phileas Fogg’s incredible trip around the world in a state of unconsciousness. Fogg then disappeared from circulation, making way for Moriarty, after first marrying Aouda. I’m convinced that he put her away safe from harm in his original world, since I never heard mention of the beautiful princess after that.

  I submitted my report to the Statistics Section and resigned. From that time on, I was driven by a single obsession – the need to organize and coordinate the fight of Good against Evil, on a planetary scale.

  And that’s exactly what I have done, from my Pall Mall HQ, a stone’s throw from the place where it all started. I did promise, at the beginning of my tale, that I would get back there. Now you know the real reasons behind the Diogenes Club.

  But I know you’re dying to ask THE question.

  You know the one I mean. The one about my brothers?

  Well, Loveless Moriarty kept his word. Taking advantage of the fact that I was at his mercy, he used me as bait to lure his first adversary to America, which he took for himself. Then the professor proceeded in the same manner, using the watch he had stolen from the Reform Club, and other brothers appeared, here and there.

  They all looked just like me, except for a few details: James, the American, shared my small stature and energy; Fandor, the Frenchman, enjoyed my athletic prowess. Yet, the most famous of all had nothing in common with me, except for a vague expression in his eyes. Just as I remained short and my waistline swelled with age, Sherlock was lean and lanky . . .

  And the Moriarty brothers? Unlike my brothers, unfortunately, they’re not all dead. If you have any doubts about that, just ask yourself who placed the gun in the hand of that Serb student in Sarajevo, in June 1914.

  In one manner or another, the game is still being played.

  But without me. I’m tired, old and worn out by the fight.

  This object in my hands . . . perhaps you recognize it? Yes. It’s Phileas Fogg’s famous watch, just as I collected it from the Reform Club storeroom.

  I’m planning another trip around the world. I don’t know exactly where I’ll wind up, but I’m sure you’ll understand that I would truly like to meet a certain individual, someone I met in the jungle fifty years earlier.

  Treat me like an old coot if you like.

  That’s not a problem.

  Meanwhile, you have no business stifling my confession or disclosing it, as you did so admirably well in the case of Sherlock’s exploits, dear Dr Watson.

  With kind regards from Mycroft . . .

  Translated from the French by Sheryl
Curtis

  EIGHTY LETTERS, PLUS ONE

  Kevin J. Anderson & Sarah A. Hoyt

  Letter #1

  30 September 1872

  London, England

  My dearest Elizabeth,

  I leave this note for you, as the house was empty when I came home to pack. Doubtless you’re out enjoying a quaint diversion with your women friends. As for me, I am unexpectedly off to the Suez, my dear. I’ve been dispatched to intercept a notorious thief who stole fifty thousand pounds from the Bank of England.

  The villain is sure to leave the country and use his ill-gotten fortune to live extravagantly abroad. Detectives have been dispatched, one to each major port, and I have been chosen to keep a sharp eye on all British travellers who come through the Suez. I have a clear description of the thief, a well-dressed man with fine manners. Should I find him, I will shadow him till a warrant can be dispatched.

  I’m sorry to leave you with nothing more than a note on this, our first anniversary, particularly since you never had the proper wedding you deserved. I still feel a bit of remorse over our brash elopement to Gretna Green, but you know your parents would never have consented to our love match. I still remember how haughtily your mother said that, because I need to work for a living, I should come in through the tradesman’s entrance.

  I trust you will keep a stiff upper lip while I’m away. The bank has offered a substantial reward to the detective who captures the thief, and I am convinced I’ll get him if he comes my way. All that’s needed in law enforcement these days is flair. You have to know how to nose these vermin out. And I, of course, have excellent flair. As I’ve told you many times, I have a veritable sixth sense for these things.

  Two thousand pounds will allow us to buy a better home and to hire a servant to do the housework for you. I know you expect such things out of life. It will also prove to your parents that, though you disobeyed them, you were ultimately right to choose me as your husband.

  Meanwhile, I will write to you every day I possibly can. I’m sure you’ll hardly notice I’m gone.

  Yours, with much love,

  Herbert Fix, Inspector, First grade

  Letter #9

  9 October

  Suez, Egypt, Africa

  My dear Elizabeth,

  Good news! After all these days of waiting, the thief has finally come to the Suez.

  Today, when the steamer Mongolia docked at the quay in Suez, I spotted a passenger forcing his way through the clamouring and stinking crowd of locals. You would not believe the mob of natives and black Africans that press around every passenger, offering to sell monkeys, unguents, jewellery, and the most grotesque pagan idols. One wretch even had the temerity to offer me some ground mummy which, he said, would strengthen my virile parts! I shudder to think, my dear, of you having to witness such sights.

  By great luck, the fellow who came out of the Mongolia was in search of a government official. He nosed his way directly to me and held out a passport, for which he wished to procure a visa from the British consul. He was a wiry, dark-haired Frenchman, but he carried an Englishman’s passport – his master’s. Of course, I immediately glanced at the passport, and the description was exactly that of our thief! I could do no less than try to stop the man.

  I told my suspicions to the consul and begged him to delay this man until I could get my arrest warrant. To my great disappointment, however, the consul said that I had no proof the traveller – Phileas Fogg – was guilty of any crime, and that without such proof he could not be detained.

  I must therefore follow this rogue to his next stop, which is Bombay. I have talked to his servant, Passepartout – a good sort of fellow, but French and therefore garrulous. The man is convinced his master means to circle the globe to win a preposterous bet. Apparently the cunning devil made a wager with the gentlemen in his club that he could go completely around the world in a mere eighty days. With my keen intellect, I realized immediately that this outrageous boast is nothing more than cover for his escape with the stolen money.

  Hoping to pry more information from the talkative Frenchman, I took him on a shopping expedition to the bazaar. There, merchants offer all types of goods, including a very expensive perfume called Attar of Roses, of which a single drop can be mixed with oil or water to make many concoctions prized by the local ladies. Since you are always in my thoughts, I meant to buy you a dram of it. I also saw a fly swatter made from an elephant’s tail, which I thought might amuse you. But, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I had scarcely any time for frivolous purchases.

  Passepartout wished to obtain new shirts and other accoutrements for his master. Due to the haste with which they left London, they had brought no more luggage than a carpetbag! Tell me, what man – not a thief and not in possession of $50,000 – would thus abandon his home and everything in it? The loquacious Frenchman continually bemoaned the fact that he had left the gas burning in his room and that his master wouldn’t allow him so much as a moment to run back to turn it off. This is not the natural behaviour of a man who truly intends to return home.

  I have applied for a warrant, which should catch up with us in Bombay. My dear Elizabeth, the reward money is as good as ours. I have not had the time to pick up any souvenirs for you just yet, but I am sure to buy you something in Bombay, once the villain Fogg has been arrested.

  Yours affectionately,

  Herbert Fix

  Letter # 20

  20 October 1872

  Bombay, British India

  My dear Elizabeth,

  Here I am, once more, fulfilling my promise of writing a letter a day to you. I will also post at once the letters I wrote aboard the steamer.

  Unfortunately, we have made such rapid progress – Fogg bribed the owner of the liner to have the engine stoked with extraordinary zeal – that my warrant is not yet with the police here. I am more certain than ever of my quarry’s guilt. What man but a fleeing criminal would throw away money in such a way?

  Only those who have not had to work for their income view it as of little importance. I know you do not like it when I speak of the extravagance of the lace on your sister’s gowns, but were it not for your parents’ private income, she would surely weigh her expense more carefully and not burden herself with so much expensive frippery.

  But worry not, my dear. Soon you’ll be able to afford dresses as good or better than hers. In fact, time permitting, I might pick up some fabric in Bombay, which is a city of goodly size and filled with all manner of strange things.

  The streets are extraordinarily crowded with dark people attired in cotton robes. On the way to the police station, I saw a man who lay completely at ease upon a bed of sharp nails. Imagine! I also saw a man hypnotize a deadly snake by playing his flute.

  I’m rather upset at not having received the warrant yet, but you may be confident in my abilities, my dear. Rest assured – Phileas Fogg, who really has no intention of going around the world, will no doubt remain several days here, which will certainly be sufficient time for me to arrest him. Meanwhile, maybe I’ll find you an appropriate gift . . . perhaps some silk with which the native women wrap themselves. Something called, as I understand it, a sari.

  Oh, I almost forgot to acknowledge that I received your letter, which you sent ahead to Bombay. It is extraordinarily kind of you to say that you’d gladly forego the two thousand pounds for the sake of having me near you again. Your female emotionalism is quite charming, in its own way, but I know you are not serious. If I obeyed you, I have no doubt you’d soon resent our poverty. And, more importantly, I cannot let the villain Fogg go unpunished.

  Bear my absence with fortitude, for I’m sure the arrest warrant will come soon, and I’ll return to you in glory and bearing the reward money that will start your climb back to the sphere you abandoned in order to marry me.

  With my regards,

  Herbert Fix

  Letter # 21

  21 October 1872

  Dear Elizabeth,

 
; The warrant is not yet here. I write in haste and frustration. It turns out that Phileas Fogg intended to leave Bombay for Calcutta via the Great Peninsular railway. I was at the point of stepping into another train carriage, when Fogg’s servant Passepartourt arrived breathless, hatless, barefoot, and bearing the marks of a scuffle.

  Though I fear you’ll reproach me for my rudeness, I confess that I eavesdropped on the conversation between him and his master. The Frenchman had lost his shoes and barely escaped after violating the sanctity of a heathen pagoda on Malabar Hill – which is forbidden to Christians (or, at any rate, to anyone wearing shoes).

  I was, as I said, on the point of stepping into the train carriage when I realized that, rather than waiting for the warrant from England – which might not reach us in time – I could simply find the temple and give the heathen priests the name and destination of their transgressor. Then they could press charges.

  You see, the British authorities are extraordinarily careful never to offend the native religions – it is part of keeping control over this great uncivilized mob – and therefore, what that fool Passepartout did was an offence before British law. I’ll get a warrant for that crime, too, then meet them at Calcutta, and have both men properly arrested.

  I will write to you soon and announce the date of my return home with the reward money.

  Yours, in haste,

  Herbert Fix

  Letter #25

  25 October 1872

  Calcutta, British India

  Dear Elizabeth,

  At last Fogg and his servant have arrived. I was in some anxiety that something had befallen them in the jungle as they crossed the subcontinent. I could not stop thinking of the thief and all those bank notes rotting away in the verdant wildness of India, and my reward unclaimed! I was truly in despair – but now they’ve arrived at last, and the magistrates had them arrested at the train. Everything was going so well.

  Unfortunately, Fogg bought his way out of the situation by posting an exorbitant bail of £2,000, as if it were nothing. Two thousand pounds – the same amount that could have made the two of us comfortable for so long, thrown out like so much rubbish!