The explosion threw them both to the ground. The fire had finally reached the volatile materials and the effect was much greater than Maigret or de Grandin could have expected.
The next day, the newspapers reported that the blast had shattered windows for a quarter mile in every direction. Thanks to the heroic efforts of the police and Dr. Cornelius Kramm, no lives were lost. Unfortunately, the clinic was blown to bits. Nothing remained of it to show that there had ever been anything like a bulletproof glass barrier or a hidden elevator.
Inside the building, Maigret and de Grandin found the unconscious bodies of several men, including Gaspard, the young knife fighter. Judex had found the hidden door and was struggling to force it. Maigret added his shoulder to the job and the barrier slowly gave way. They hurried down the hidden stair, Maigret in the lead.
When they reached the bottom, they discovered a maze of passages.
“By all the Devils of Hell!” Jules de Grandin swore. “It is a labyrinth, with a beast more terrible than the minotaur at its center!”
They heard a woman’s scream through the passages.
“Louise!” Maigret raced forward.
More through luck than anything else, the three managed to follow the girl’s cries through the maze.
“I hear running water!” Judex said in a low voice.
“The Rue Mouffetard sits above a section of the old Roman sewers of Lutetia,” de Grandin whispered back. “The Red Hand must have connected their passages to it as an escape route. But the sewers are small. A brute like Gouroull would scarcely fit.”
“Then we have him.”
Maigret redoubled his speed and nearly left the others behind. Moments later, he saw the entrance to the old sewer and stepped through.
It was much larger than he had expected. Whether through ancient design or later modification, this section of the sewer was clearly meant to be easy to traverse. The arched ceiling was 12 feet at its highest. Water ran through an eight-foot channel in the center of the tunnel and a narrow walkway flanked it on either side.
All of this, Maigret registered in the fraction of a second before a huge hand closed around his arm and another caught him by the neck. He heard Louise scream his name as the creature lifted him like a child and flung him across the sewer. He hit the stone wall on the far side and fell to the walkway.
He heard pistol shots and cries. Then, there was a louder retort followed by an inhuman howl of pain. Maigret forced his eyes open to a bizarre tableau.
De Grandin was down and Maigret couldn’t tell how badly he might be hurt. Judex stood over him protectively, an electric torch in one hand and his strange pistol in the other. The heavy bullet must have hurt Gouroull. He held Louise in front of him like a shield against Judex’s bullets. His clothing was burned away in many places but his flesh seemed unharmed. Louise was still wearing the pale nightgown she had worn the night before. Maigret thought, absurdly, that it made her seem an angel in a crowd of black-clad devils. Her face and the Monster’s were very close, the warm olive of her skin against the dead pale of his.
Maigret shook his head and tried to think more clearly. Gouroull’s eyes were locked with Judex’s and his mouth was clamped on Louise’s neck. He remembered the dead mastiffs, their throats slashed by those teeth. Lower the gun, those inhuman eyes said. Lower the gun, or I will kill her as I killed the dogs.
Maigret raised his hand. Somehow, he had managed to hold onto his pistol. He aimed as best he could, said a quick prayer and pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck the Monster in the head. It failed to pierce his massive skull but Gouroull cried out with pain and let go of Louise. She twisted away as she fell. He tried to bite her but his teeth merely carved a bloody gash down the side of her face and neck.
Judex fired two more shots. Gouroull clutched his chest and fell backwards into the water. The current was swollen by the heavy rain and began to carry him away. Judex fired another shot and moved after the floating body.
“Louise!” Maigret called, stumbling to his feet.
“I have her,” de Grandin said. “You go with Judex. Try to catch the Monster.”
Jules de Grandin bent over the young woman and daubed the blood from her face.
“It’s not a serious wound, Mademoiselle, though I’m afraid it will leave a scar.”
“It’s all right.” Louise’s voice was distant with shock but still lucid. “A scar is only a kind of mask and masks don’t frighten me.” She tried to smile. Pain and shock were making her giddy.
“There are many kinds of masks, aren’t there, Monsieur?” she added. “I thought his concealed his true nature but the mask was his real face after all. His soul was more horrible than his face could ever be.”
“Perhaps so, little one,” de Grandin said, “but there is no need to think such morbid thoughts. You are safe and Gouroull’s moments are numbered. You should think only of getting better.”
“What about...?”
“Maigret? Your young man will be all right I think. And I believe he would love you no matter what your scars. Happily, there is no need to put that to the test. You have the promise of Jules de Grandin that your face shall be as lovely as ever. Tomorrow, I will call on the greatest surgeon in Europe. He is a German living in Paris and they say he is a veritable ‘sculptor of human flesh.’ ”
Maigret had kept pace with Judex as they had moved down the walkways, but neither man could keep pace with the current. Maigret saw the giant raise his arm to grab at the embankment but he failed to get a good grip.
“He’s still alive!” he shouted.
Judex fired another shot. It was impossible to tell if it struck home.
“No!” Maigret shouted.
“Are you insane?” the caped man shouted back. “You want to save this thing’s life?”
“If we can.”
The look in Gouroull’s eyes had chilled Maigret to the soul. There had been intelligence there, but no sign of the higher qualities of compassion or empathy. He sensed that this was a creature that would kill without remorse for its own, strange purposes. There was no room for dialogue with such a creature.
Still, it was alive, and he couldn’t help but sympathize with its struggle to continue living. In his own way, Gouroull had even reached beyond the need for survival and sought some kind of meaning in his existence.
“We must turn back!” Judex yelled. “The water is rising too quickly.”
“But the creature,” Maigret returned, “we may still be able to catch him!”
“He’ll drown soon. We’ll join him unless we go back now.”
Maigret nodded. He had mixed feelings about giving up but he saw the necessity of what his companion said.
Judex trained his light on Gouroull’s bobbing form again. As the two men watched, he was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
Bill Cunningham’s approach to Tales of the Shadowmen was to find one of the most obscure characters in French pulp fiction, the short-lived Fascinax (only 22 issues were ever published), and make it entirely his own. In Bill’s story, the gentle world of pulp battles between Hero and Villain is replaced by a more gruesome, modern reality…
Bill Cunningham: Cadavres Exquis
Fascinax is really George Leicester, M.D., a young surgeon who saved the life of the mystic Nadir Kritchna while in the Philippines. Kritchna rewarded the young doctor through a mystic ritual, which expanded the doctor’s mind to nearly 100 percent, giving him superhuman capabilities. Fascinax has dedicated his mystic abilities to stopping Numa Pergyll, Fascinax’s doppelganger in mental prowess. Pergyll has utilized his abilities to become the hidden puppet master behind all of the world’s crime and villainy. Aiding Fascinax in his quest to stop Pergyll is the young Detective Simon Scott of Scotland Yard, and Fascinax’s fiancée–the beautiful and adventuresome Françoise de la Cruz.
London, 1928
It began, as with all things, in a storm.
In the brick
-faced townhouse, the butler opened the door to the evening to see the familiar dripping-wet figure standing in the entry. He quietly nodded his head, knowing of the shadow’s business.
“I’ll get the Doctor presently, please come inside, sir.”
“Thank you. I wouldn’t come, but it is of the utmost importance,” said the figure.
“Of course, sir. I’m sure the master understands. If you would?” The butler motioned to the carpet for the figure to wipe his shoes. He thought that it was a much easier time when the master lived in the Philippines–hardly anyone wore shoes…
The dark figure stepped into the townhouse, revealing the nervous features of Scotland Yard’s Detective Simon Scott. A broad-shouldered and handsome man in his late twenties, Scott had recently risen in the ranks of the Yard, due in no small part to the personage he had come to visit.
“And I’m telling you, George, that a woman likes to hear those things once in a while–at least in between your ‘adventures.’ ” The feminine voice boomed throughout the house. Scott had come at a bad time.
And then, another voice, male this time, echoed throughout the foyer, “Tell the Detective I’ll receive him in my study, Carstairs.”
Scott turned to see the object of his visit standing at the top of the stairs. A tall dark shadow of a man with the most piercing blue eyes Scott had ever seen. Crystals that glowed with an intensity of purpose no man had ever known before. Scott was always relieved that such eyes were on the side of the law.
The butler gestured and Scott took off up the wood paneled stairs to the familiar second floor study. He had been here many times before. Too many times, thought the detective.
With each step, Scott thought of the groove he must have worn in the floor by now. Many of their adventures had begun with Scott paying a call on his host just as he was doing now. The Doctor had introduced himself to Scott’s superiors at the Yard saying he had an interest in any of the Unsolved Files at the “morgue.” The good Doctor, just returned from living in Southeast Asia, and without ever leaving the file room, had opened up lines of questioning that broke many of the most baffling cases. Those that were still unsolved he attributed to a scoundrel he named as Numa Pergyll. It wasn’t until months later, when he intervened and saved the life of the Royal Family itself, that the Yard took the Doctor’s involvement and abilities seriously.
The PM and the Home Office instructed Scotland Yard to give the Doctor their every assistance. Thus, Detective Simon Scott was assigned as liaison–a duty that never fell into boredom. Especially now, thought Scott.
His host sat by the fireplace as Scott quietly closed the oak door of the study behind him. A small library and meditation center, the study fit the man staring at the ebb and flow of the fire before him. Scott knew better than to come right out with it. It was their game–he would deduce everything from Scott’s words, his gestures, body language, and something that Scott always found hard to believe–his aura. Over the many months of “investigations,” Scott came to realize that the man he regarded as an oddity, was indeed a “superman”–one of rare body and spirit who accomplished the impossible.
George Leicester, M.D. a.k.a. Fascinax, was in tune with forces and energies (within his body and without) that science had yet to explain, but nonetheless existed. Scott had witnessed it with his own eyes in their “Case of the Terrible Templars.” Fascinax had been able to remain under the icy cold current of the Thames for over seven minutes, evading the guns of a secret sect that planned to steal a hidden treasure of the Crusades.
“Fasc–,” he started, but caught himself. He almost broke their second rule–“Never call me by that silly name the tabloids have saddled me with. I’m simply glad they have given me a secret identity to hide behind. Imagine the talk…”
“Excuse me, Doctor Leicester,” he began again, “I was wondering if we could speak?”
“You most certainly may not,” came the irritated voice behind Scott.
The lovely Françoise de la Cruz, Leicester’s fiancée, stood in a separate doorway of the study. Stunning in her tightly wrapped lavender gown, she walked over to her man and stood beside him as he rose to his feet. Scott, even with his limited human abilities, could tell they had been arguing.
“Good evening, Miss de la Cruz,” stammered the awestruck detective, “I wasn’t aware I was interrupting. That is a lovely gown.” She held out her hand and he kissed it, instantly satisfying her in some way that she had been missing.
Scott couldn’t believe that she could be dissatisfied. Looking at the couple, and they were a couple–they were together in every sense of the word. They finished each other’s sentences and each knew exactly the location of the other at an event. They were of one mind, one heart, but often Scott wondered, in light of her tone, “whose mind and whose heart?”
They had been the talk of the social pages, attending many an event together–charities, opera, grand balls–the things that Scott was usually assigned to guard, not attend. Scott often looked at the headlines where the exploits of the supernatural superman “Fascinax” had solved some dire mystery, only to find the calm and unassuming Doctor Leicester’s name mentioned in the gossip column regarding he and his fiancée’s polite social graces. If they only knew that in addition to Leicester being the superhuman Fascinax, the lovely Françoise de la Cruz was a crack shot, could ride in the steeplechase, and was a pupil of martial arts taught by her lover and mentor. She was the perfect woman for Fascinax, the perfect man.
Oops, there goes that name again, thought Scott. I swear, he knows every time I even think the word, as if he were reading my mind.
Fascinax smiled. “Forgive my Françoise, Scott. She has spent all week finding the right dress for the gallery opening tonight. She is going to let nothing stand in the way of her social standing.” Scott was right. He did walk into the middle of a fight. He hesitated, but off Fascinax’s stare he plunged forth.
“It is I who must be forgiven, Doctor. I know that invitations for tonight’s London Royal Gallery Showing are very hard to come by. My subordinates at the Yard have drawn the duty of guarding the artwork for the event.” Scott hoped that little bit of information would help calm the situation, but Françoise still fumed.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Scott. George is hesitant to go out unless there is some life-threatening peril. He would prefer to sit on the floor and meditate until another danger threatened mankind,” said the young woman. “You would think it would kill him to ‘rub elbows’ every now and then.”
“I know you would want to hear this information immediately,” said the young detective, choosing his words carefully.
“You know Françoise is privy to all of my affairs, Scott,” said the tall Doctor. His face furrowed into a statue of pure concentration. Scott hated that gaze. He always felt he was being dissected, probed by the man like an ant under a magnifying glass, which wasn’t far from the truth. Leicester’s sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste and that elusive sixth sense were all trained on the detective before him.
Leicester’s senses continued their sweep over Scott’s person. His brain analyzing every bit of sensory input he received. He reached out with every sense he had. With uncanny accuracy he knew what Scott had for dinner, where he had been that day, and what sort of tea he preferred. Then he recognized it–No!
Scott stumbled for the words as he looked at Françoise. Her eyes told him everything–you’re ruining our evening.
Leicester held up his hand. He knew why Scott had come. And Scott was right–this was far more important. Françoise de la Cruz saw the grave urgency in Scott’s eyes, and then looked to her fiancé for answers.
“Give me a moment. I shall meet you and your men downstairs in the car.”
Scott nodded and gracefully exited the room. Leicester took a deep breath and exhaled. Françoise was puzzled. What could make her fiancé drop everything–an event they had been planning for months–to go off with Scott? What terror did the London night hold for
her love?
But it wasn’t George Leicester, M.D., who answered that questioning gaze, it was Fascinax. “It’s not a ‘what,’ Françoise, it is a ‘who.’ I can smell him on Scott’s clothes. His presence is unmistakable.” He caught his breath.
“Numa Pergyll is here in London. ”
Before she could utter a sound, she knew her George was lost to her. Fascinax was once again entering the fray.
Cold silence gripped the interior of the car as Fascinax and Scott sped toward their destination. As was their custom, Scott told Fascinax nothing of the “scene of the crime.” The Doctor often found that the police made the wrong assumptions, and he preferred to deal with the facts that his heightened senses revealed to him fantastic as they may be. Lightning flashed by the windows of the vehicle throwing it into white. Scott flinched and hung on. The lightning and driving rain didn’t distract Fascinax as he concentrated on Numa Pergyll. Such was his amazing mind that he could re-experience every encounter he had with his archenemy as if it were happening right then, even with such distractions as a storm.
Numa Pergyll was a scientist, a philosopher, a writer, a supernaturalist, a genius–and a butcher. He had much villainy to answer for. Wherever Fascinax had found chaos in the world–war, poverty, disease and slavery–the unseen hand of Numa Pergyll was often pulling the strings.
Fascinax had also uncovered several hidden “lieutenants”–politicians, generals and heads of business–awaiting a command from their master. It was not known how many were held sway by Numa’s mental powers. But where you find one rat, there are many to be had, thought Fascinax. It was only his superhuman abilities that had, thus far, held Pergyll in check. Trapping them both in a master’s class of world chess–with humanity as the pawns.
But that struggle wasn’t without certain rewards as it was the diabolical machinations of Numa Pergyll that brought Fascinax and Françoise together in India. Pergyll had mesmerized her Spanish ambassador father into exporting rare artifacts from the Thuggees–the Indian cult of assassins. Fascinax was barely able to stop Pergyll from resurrecting a pantheon of demons trapped within the stone statues.
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 5
