Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  “With the destroyers of Nagasaki? Never!”

  “Never?”

  “Never! Why are you telling me this?”

  He closed his eyes, and for the first time she saw a play of emotion upon his face. “I know, Kanoto.”

  And a deep chill fell through her. “K-know?” she stuttered. “Know what?”

  “Everything.”

  “I—“

  “Everything. Your letters to Ishii about ‘how the war will continue.’ Your correspondence with certain, ah, disaffected officers in our military. Your meetings with the Yakuza and what remains of the Black Dragon Society. I even know how you have been trying to bribe fishing boats to take you to that obscure little island to collect specimens of its most interesting fungi. Believe me, I have already warned General MacArthur not to be eating mushrooms anytime soon.” He stared at her angrily. “Did you truly believe that I could not discover this, Kanoto? That I would not know?”

  Kanoto Yoshimuta’s face lowered, arced, twisted and squeezed; then straightened. “All right,” she said. “So you know. So what now?”

  “I would know why you are doing this.”

  “Why? Isn’t it obvious?” she screamed; her voice ringing in the limited space. “I am doing it to rid the world of the conquerors of Nippon! I am doing it for the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki! I am doing it—yes, I confess—for the deaths of my family! I am doing it for revenge!”

  “For Nippon?” His face was impassive.

  “Yes!”

  “For your family?”

  “Yes!” she howled.

  “Are you certain?”

  She stopped dead. “What do you mean?” she hissed through tight lips.

  He leaned back into the seat and stayed quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers. Then: “My dear, do you know why we chose to send such agents to the United States as we did—Sakima and Haruchi and so forth?”

  “Of course. They were loyal Sons of the Emperor, willing to lay down their lives for the Cause.”

  “Wrong,” he replied softly. “We sent them because they were psychopaths.”

  He raised a hand. “No—do not protest. You know what they were as well as I. Together or separately, they had caused consternation in this country before the War. And would have done so again—if they hadn’t been, in their own way, patriotic. So when they volunteered in order to try to spill American blood for a change, we let them. If they completed their missions, well and good. If not…Nippon would not suffer greatly for their loss.”

  He reached into his jacket and removed a cigarette box. Calmly he tapped one out. “A smoke? Lucky Strikes, I believe they are called. I got them from an Australian with far too many tattoos. No? Well.” He sucked in a deep draught of American tobacco. “Back to what I was saying. They were problems for us, Kanoto. Problems we had to get rid of. Indeed, at one time we had an entire list of ‘problems’ we intended to send overseas. I took you and your husband off that list.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? Are you telling me that—“

  “Oh, yes.” A whisp of smoke drifted lazily upward. “There are those of us who have regarded you and yours… disquietly for some time, my dear.”

  For once she had no idea what to say. “But…but…Everything I have ever done was for the glory and honor of Nippon! Everything!”

  “And that is why you habitually carry poison around to place upon your fingernails? Answer me that, hmm? And there are other things—for example, that strange and mysterious city hidden deep in China, founded, of all things, by fleeing 18th century Protestants? They had mastered certain elements of light and sound unknown to the rest of the world, according to reports: secrets that could have been very useful to us in the War. Yet, for some reason, when you and your husband returned from the 1937 expedition, you reported that the city, and all its wonders, had been forcibly destroyed.”

  “We had to, you fool! Otherwise Doctor Natas…”

  “…Would have seized it for himself? Perhaps. Or—you have always been quick to resent those somewhat more successful than yourself, my dear. Serizawa, for one. I seem to remember several letters in the science journals mocking his oxygen experiments. And it is no secret you had been having troubles with your own researches into light. Could it possibly be that you were so infuriated that a ragtag little city of inbred refugees—and white refugees at that—had mastered what you could not that you ordered the entire city destroyed in a fit of pique?”

  “That—never—happened,” she hissed through her teeth.

  “Did it not? And just what line of research were you investigating when Hiroshima and Nagasaki occurred, hmm? You bragged you were going to be quite the ‘madame of the atom,’ as I recall. So tell me, my dear old friend—is your wrath truly because the American brought the Thunder down upon Nippon…or is it because they stole your own thunder?” Suddenly his cigarette was snapping in two. “When we were both young and walked hand-in-hand in the countryside, I would never have dreamed this of you. What happened to you, Kanoto? Who made you such a woman?”

  She could not longer stop herself. With an animal snarl she lunged at him, driving her fingernails toward his throat. But he was faster. Suddenly her digits were being seized in an iron grip. Instantly, Kanoto drew back. As small and inoffensive as her companion appeared, she knew he could kill her in twelve different ways before she drew her next breath.

  “Do not do that again.” He clenched a bit tighter, enough so she could feel her bones creak. “Ever.”

  Slowly, very slowly, she lowered her arm, massaging the fingers. “My husband died in Hiroshima,” she said simply. “My children died. Horribly. And you ask me to forgive the Americans for that?”

  “As I said, you are not the only one to suffer from the war. I, too, lost much.” For a brief instant she saw the look of pain skit across his features, then it was gone. “But the war is over. We lost. We would have lost even if the Americans hadn’t dropped the bombs. And it would have cost us far, far more than we lost even on that terrible day.”

  She was silent.

  He reached out to seize her hand again, but gently this time. A gentleness she had not felt from him for a very long time. “Our people are weary and hungry, my dear. They are sick of blood and death. It is time to take the energies of Nippon and parlay them in a new direction. Nippon can be as great as it was meant to be—but not as an Empire. Instead, we must be an Example. An example for the new post-war world that is coming. You could be at the forefront of that world, Kanoto. But you must give up this hatred and jealousy. I will not allow our country to become embroiled in another war it cannot afford to fight.”

  He picked up the tube and ordered the car to stop. Then he reached over and opened the door for her.

  “Go, Kanoto. I give you two choices. Come forward with us and help make a true future for Nippon. Or continue to try to take your oh-so-precious vengeance upon the Americans. I shall not try to stop you if you do. But I will not aid you, either. And know this—if in your mad quest you do anything—anything—to bring the wrath of America down upon the people of Nippon again, I shall not rest until your head is perched upon a pike in my garden. And that would make me so very unhappy.”

  She pressed her lips tightly. “I would expect no less, old friend.”

  Then she climbed out of the limousine.

  He slammed the door shut. Then, after a moment, the window rolled down and Mr. Moto gazed upon her for the last time. “Consider carefully, Kanoto. I have made my decision. Now it is time to make yours.” The window closed and with its smooth purr the limo moved forward, across the littered street with its shattered corpses of buildings toward the Sun just beginning to peek from the clouds. Kanoto Yoshimuta watched it leave.

  She kept her promise. She did think.

  She thought about Nippon.

  She thought about America.

  She thought of the centuries of the samurai; the glory of a world won by blood and battle.

  She thought about he
r husband and children, killed in an instant flash of atomic power; the only thing left to remind her of their existence photographic after-images on a brick wall.

  She thought about her work, and how it might have save them all.

  How the Americans…

  Then, very deliberately, she turned her back and faced the retreating dark.

  Peace is for fools and cowards, she thought, not me. I am not that kind of woman. She paused, and smiled ironically. Who made me such a woman?

  I did. And I shall make myself such a woman as this world has never seen.

  For Hiroshima.

  For Nagasaki.

  For myself and what they took from me. My family and my…

  For my family.

  Courtesy of the Madame of the Atom.

  No. That sounds terrible.

  Courtesy of Madame Atomos.

  Sacrebleu!

  It was child’s play to break into the Louvre, despite its much-vaunted (and highly publicized) alarm systems.

  Like a sleek black angel fallen from above, the dark-clad woman known as Irma Vep slipped across the rooftops, and paused before a skylight hidden within the ceiling of the famed museum. She heard the shrill wail of a police car raising a warning, but it was moving to the south. Irma Vep smiled drily. Rumor had it that some more of Moreau’s vile concoctions were loose on the streets; she didn’t know if this was true, but it provided a convenient distraction. Within seconds, she had disabled the skylight’s security systems, opened the glass and, seconds later, she was ratcheting herself downward with a silk cord all the way to the floor below.

  Silently, she smiled again, wondering what her old mentor might have thought. She had learned much from Arsène Lupin, before he discovered her true nature. That was the weakness Ganimard would never grasp: a beautiful face and supple body could lure even the most famous men into more traps than they would ever know.

  The great museum was coldly silent in the darkness. Irma Vep refused to risk a light; she had already memorized every step she would need. She knew that the diamond was there. The diamond. The Pink Panther.

  And she meant to have it.

  The footfalls of a cat would have been less silent than the black-clad siren as she slipped down the hall. Her eyes were already beginning to adjust to the inky blackness, and her every sense was pricked to the fullest. There was the slightest scent of a peculiarly acrid smell coming from somewhere, but it was very faint.

  Probably harmless, she thought.

  Then, slow, methodical footsteps rang out ploddingly ahead. Irma Vep swiftly ducked beneath a velvet rope separating a small construction area from the main lobby. She hugged tensely to the wall.

  A guard. Just be careful, nothing to worry about.

  Her slim, gloved hand dipped into a pouch slung across her hip, and tossed what appeared to be a small marble across the floor. The flash from the guard’s lamp reflected against it, and she saw two feet cautiously, but curiously approach the sphere. Then the gas seeped out and the night watchman slumped helplessly to the ground.

  That was easy enough. Irma Vep slipped back under the rope, pausing just long enough to glance back toward her hiding place. With the small, soft glow of the guard’s discarded flashlight, she could just make out the placard: WET PAINT. Damn! Now the back of her body stocking probably had a nice line of white paint right down the center of it. Ah well. She could always get another. With the Pink Panther in hand, she could buy millions of…

  Enough. Back to the steps. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…

  The wires and bells of the security system were laughable. A midnight cloud, Irma Vep slinked to the center of the room and stood for a moment, regarding her prize. Men had killed for the Pink Panther. And now the germ was hers—only hers.

  Expertly, she began to cut through the glass case protecting the diamond. Her back felt damp and sticky, but that was small price to pay. Odd how that acrid smell seemed to becoming stronger—

  —And that’s when the giant skunk hit her!.

  “Ahhhh, my darling, you have been waiting all ze life for someone such as I, no? Mmm mmm mmm! You may call me Pépé of ze Moulin Rouge, for I intend to be making ze beautiful music with you, mmm mmm mmm…”

  A-A-A-Au Revoir, Folks!

  “Professor Krausse” is one of the most interesting of Harry Dickson’s adventures. It was initially published in No. 141 of the French edition, entitled L’Étoile à Sept Branches [The Seven-Pointed Star]. The title story being too short, Jean Ray, then writer/editor/adapter of the series, added two extra stories, one called “Le Rituel de la Mort” [The Ritual of Death], a rather transparent swipe of Maurice Leblanc’s “Sherlock Holmes Arrives Too Late” (included in our edition of The Hollow Needle). The other was “Professor Krausse,” which lifts the veil on Dickson’s activities right after the Great War…

  Professor Krausse

  (adapted by Jean-Marc & Randy Lofficier)

  Preamble

  “In my long career, I have fought many strange and fearsome villains, commonly known as ‘mad scientists,’” said Harry Dickson. “I crossed swords with Doctor Mysteras and Professor Drumm, and others whose names I’ve now forgetten, and no doubt I’ll fight more in the future, but none were as singular as Professor Krausse. With him, we enter a realm of uncertainty worthy of the great E.T.A. Hoffman, in which finding one’s way through the darkness is always difficult…

  “My first encounter with the Professor took place in Berlin soon after the Armistice of November 1918. The Spartacist uprising had just been bloodily put down and the German capital was prey to nameless passions. Misery and debauchery were the twin heralds of the new regime.

  “Men in uniforms begged openly in the streets; newly made widows, who had once belonged to the German aristocracy, were bartering their favors for a meal, a pint of beer, or, worse, a glass of gin. It was a tragic spectacle. As for myself, I was working for British intelligence and had just finished an inspection of the notorious Moabit prison, to check if the rumors that some of our secret agents were still being held there were true. As it turned out, that wasn’t the case, so my visit was rather short.

  “The hours I had spent in that dark and dismal place made me want fresh air, so I decided to stretch my legs and take a stroll through the neighborhood, even though it was a particularly miserable part of the city.

  “As I was walking, I suddenly smelled a rather appetizing odor. Upon investigation, I found that it came from the dark end of a gloomy back alley. I still remember its name, which was embossed on an enameled plate: Nachtrabengasse, or Night Raven Street.

  “It struck me as a rather gothic and melodramatic name, but my curiosity had been awakened and I wanted to learn more—plus, there was that mouth-watering smell…

  “I soon discovered a tavern, the entrance of which opened at the top of a massive flight of stone steps. Its sign swung softly in the night air and read: Zum Treppchen bei Rolff Froschmeier. A blackboard advertised the day’s specials: Kalbs und Schweinebraten, roasted veal and pork; Spickgans, bratkartoffeln und Gemüse, smoked goose, roasted potatoes and vegetables; Wurstsalad, sausage salad; Delikatessen, cold cuts; Klobst, Obst und Kugel, fruits and pastries. After four years of rationing and ersatz foods, it was enough to make anyone salivate. So I went in.

  “Inside, not unexpectedly, the tavern was quite full, and I had trouble finding a table. I ended up sitting next to a former Imperial Guardsman wearing a faded uniform. He was a charming fellow and he soon introduced me to the landlord, Herr Froschmeier, an awful, gnome-like man wearing a silly pink bonnet.

  “Soon, I was served the evening’s special: a plate of excellent vegetables with a slice of roasted pork au jus. I can’t explain why, but I didn’t touch the meat which was too pink and too slimy for my taste. My new acquaintance, however, had no problem eating it voraciously, with my blessings, after he had finished his own portion.

  “The crowd was a mixed lot; I noticed there were many schiebers, war profiteers
and black marketers. A lot of money was being spent freely as if there was no tomorrow.

  “At the next table, I saw a man wearing a dark suit, sitting alone, drinking a bottle of Rhine wine. As I said, the place was packed, but he was the only patron with a table entirely to himself. Herr Froschmeier, who was rude to all his other customers, never missed politely nodding his head when he walked by, without receiving the least acknowledgement in return.

  “That man was over 50; he had a full mane of dirty, grey hair; his forehead was unusually large and shiny; his eyes were a very pale blue and rather large and penetrating; his mouth was thin, harsh, with a sense of droopy bitterness accentuated by the heavy Bavarian pipe he was smoking; his chest was powerful, and he had beautifully chiseled hands. If it wasn’t for the pallor of his skin, he would have looked like a strong and healthy man.

  “He seemed to be looking everywhere and nowhere at once, making his drink last. When he got up to borrow a box of matches from a neighboring table, rather imperiously, I was surprised to discover that he had short legs, as I had expected him to be tall. His walk was, in fact, odd: he waddled on his stubby, knock-kneed legs, and he looked like a strange combination of the torso of an Apollo stuck on the lower appendages of a faun.

  “My table-mate, who had noticed my interest, winked at me, nudged me with his elbow, and said:

  “ ‘That’s the famous Professor Krausse. They say he’s the greatest doctor in all of Germany. He cured the Kaiser when he was sick. They said he bullied him just as he would have done any peasant. He’s quite a character!’

  “The Professor couldn’t have heard what my neighbor had said, but somehow, he noticed that he was being observed. His pale eyes came to rest on me for a few seconds, then he made a gesture to summon the landlord.