Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “How could Djanko trust that Swede so implicitly?”

  “The Swede is one of Djanko’s bastards. In fact, he’s the spitting image of his father except his hair is blonde. Illegitimate children can’t always be trusted by their parents. This is a painful fact that you are about to learn, Father.”

  “Stop it with those lies! Bielowsky told me the truth!”

  “Bielowsky made that supposed revelation as part of a deal that we made. His old friendship for you is outweighed by his need to please Queen Antinea. He needed to procure at least one of Malaki’s statues to keep her content. I sold him one of the seven idols before the auction, and then he competed unsuccessfully for the other six. Part of the price of that one idol was the telling of a lie to you.”

  “Is Leonard then really your uncle?”

  “No, that part of Bielowsky’s story was true. However, don’t harbor any doubt about my parentage. My mother told me that you were my father on her deathbed.”

  “What was the point in having Bielowsky pretend that you aren’t my daughter?”

  “To cause you to suffer, Father. I want you to suffer.”

  “Why do you hate me so?”

  “You incarcerated me at the Fourneau College! A purgatory for the unwanted daughters of the wealthy! You can’t imagine the depravities that I had to endure there in order to survive!”

  Josephine removed the phony ammo from the Mauser. She then inserted a real bullet into the gun and gave the weapon to Aguirre.

  “Do what you do best,” she advised.

  Aguirre pressed the barrel of the Mauser against Arthur Gordon’s forehead.

  “Give my regards to your grandson when you see him in Hell.”

  Dear Mr. Djanko,

  Mr. Peterson has graciously agreed to deliver you this letter. As you have probably heard by now, my beloved father has tragically perished.

  My father was overjoyed to see me when he arrived at the auction. Together we both plotted to avenge the death of my nephew. Unknown to us, Aguirre had discovered my father’s relationship to the Mute Shootist. He was betrayed by an old friend, Count Bielowsky, who was acting on the instructions of Queen Antinea of Ahaggar. The price of the Count’s treachery was an ivory idol.

  When the auction concluded, my father and I were alone with Aguirre in my office. My nephew’s Mauser was lying on my desk. Aguirre put out a revolver. I grabbed the Mauser, but I was too late. Aguirre shot my fath

  Peterson explained why the letter ended abruptly to Djanko.

  “She was so overcome with grief that she just couldn’t finish writing it, Dad. She loved her father with her whole soul.”

  “Did Aguirre die a painful death at least?”

  “She shot off both his thumbs, and then drilled him through the head.”

  “What a woman! It’s too bad, son, that you don’t have a sister like her. Where is this Ahaggar?”

  “It is located in the Hoggar Mountains of North Africa.”

  “You remember my saying that if any harm came to Arthur, I would slaughter those responsible. I am packing my machine gun and taking a trip to North Africa.”

  Belgium is so important to the field of French-language popular fiction–from Harry Dickson to Tintin to publisher Marabout–that it simply had to be represented here. And it could have no better spokesman than Alain le Bussy, a renowned author who is also an authority on Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin–it is about the latter that le Bussy has chosen to write here…

  Alain le Bussy: The Sainte-Geneviève Caper

  Paris, 1920

  Count Sainte-Geneviève was justifiably proud of his ancestors. One of those had fought alongside Godefroid of Bouillon, the first Christian King of Jerusalem, at the Crusades. Another had had the honor of being beheaded the same day as Louis XVI. Although he did not dare mention it in his wife’s presence, he was far less proud of her ancestors. In fact, he only knew one: her father. It was unclear where he had been born, at what he had studied and what kind of job he held between the ages of ten and 30. Sometimes, the Count thought that it was better not to inquire. In any event, if he was not proud of his father-in-law, he was at least grateful to him. For without his money, his castle would have long become a ruin and he would have had to work for a living, a ghastly fate which no true gentleman could contemplate without a feeling of horror.

  The Count’s happy marriage–financially speaking–enabled him to maintain a proper lifestyle as befitted his rank. Every year, on the eve of the day of Sainte-Geneviève, all the French nobility, as well as some foreigners, were invited for a commemorative fête held in the family castle at Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois, near Paris.

  The following events happened on that fateful day, or rather, that night.

  “I must say, my dear friend, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much beauty gathered under a single roof before,” said one of the guests to another.

  “I agree. Have you ever seen so many diamonds, sapphires, rubies, pearls and emeralds...? And all that gold, too! You’re quite right, my friend. It’s truly a dazzling fête!”

  The two elderly gentlemen who spoke, each with a glass of champagne in hand, were looking down at the castle’s celebrated Knights’ Hall from the gallery on the first floor above. They had thus an unobstructed view of the crowd. Everyone was dressed in lavish 18th century costumes, as if the French Revolution had never happened.

  “I was not referring to that kind of beauty,” said the man who had been introduced as Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron Dunsany. He was slightly taken aback by the other man’s comment. “I thought of all these lovely ladies who, alas, already have husbands and their maiden daughters of marriage age but fiercely protected by those same husbands who turned into fathers years ago. Ah! Were I only 10 years younger, I would risk...”

  “I know someone who, irrespective of age, would risk everything, but for the more tangible beauties I spoke of earlier.”

  “Surely, you don’t mean...? No, even he wouldn’t dare!”

  “It’s precisely because you, and many others, think that he wouldn’t dare that I, for one, believe that he will. He steals from the rich, which if you think about it makes sense, since the poor have nothing worth stealing. But I think it’s also a nearly-sexual experience for him. And his pleasure increases with the danger.”

  “Is there any danger to be found here? Do you think that our host, anticipating that this fête may be the sort of challenge to which he likes to respond, decided to lay a trap for him?”

  “Well, the Count Sainte-Geneviève may sometimes appear somewhat guileless, but his father-in-law, Herman Mayer, is anything but. I believe Monsieur Mayer has hired some private security. I even heard that Sherlock Holmes himself is here, disguised somewhere in that crowd... He’s also enlisted help from the best of French Police...”

  “So that would explain your presence here tonight, Monsieur Ganimard.”

  “How... How did you recognize me?” asked the astonished Chief Inspector.

  “You are a famous man, Monsieur. I’ve often seen your photograph in the newspapers–even the British ones.”

  “These damned reporters! They’re no help to us. Everyone knows my face but I’m never sure of his! He could be anywhere in this crowd and no one would recognize him.”

  “From what I understand, no one seems to know what he really looks like, not even himself. But don’t worry, Monsieur Ganimard, I’m sure you’ll catch your man sooner or later... Now, if you excuse me, I’ve just spotted a Duchess friend of mine whom I must congratulate on her daughter’s recent marriage. Be seeing you.”

  “Be seeing you,” replied Ganimard, who was now busy again scrutinizing the guests in the grand hall; he spotted one of his men here, another one there.

  He was not only trying to find–if only by some kind of miracle–Arsène Lupin (for it was he whom he had been discussing with Lord Dunsany) but also Sherlock Holmes. Although their methods were a world away, he could not help but admire the r
esults obtained by the great British detective. It would be a shame for him if Holmes succeeded in arresting Lupin before he did.

  Most of the dances played that night were from the Ancien Régime, before the Revolution, but these were the “crazy years” that followed the Great War. Sometimes a concession to the spirit of modernity had to be made and the orchestra occasionally performed some of that new-fangled music from the other side of the pond they called “jazz.” And the younger folks contorted to its tunes with primitive movements they claimed constituted “dancing.”

  Count Sainte-Geneviève was proud of the great crystal chandeliers which made the Knights’ Hall as bright as a garden at midsummer noon. His wife, on the other hand, was more attuned to modern sensibilities. Upon her instructions, a footman fiddled with a switch to slowly decrease the light intensity. Therefore, no one was surprised when, just as midnight had tolled, all the chandeliers suddenly stopped flooding the great hall with their glare.

  Some kisses were exchanged, or stolen, in the darkness. Then, uncertainty began to creep in. The orchestra threw a few false notes. The dancers stopped dancing. There was complete silence for a few seconds.

  “My necklace!” screamed a Duchess.

  “My wife’s broach!” roared a Marquis.

  There were many other similar screams and panic set in, made worse by some noxious fumes out of nowhere that made the guests cough and gasp. Everyone rushed out in the garden. Someone had the good idea of lighting some candles, which had been put there purely for decoration. Finally, the panic subsided and the lights came back.

  Ganimard made an immoderate use of his official police whistle, inside, then outside. That, at least, alerted the men he held in reserve outside. The uniformed policemen, who had been waiting in the park since the fête began, surrounded the castle, making an impressive human fence. It must be noted that Ganimard had been more than cautious: he had brought with him nearly half of the Paris police force, and even men from some of the neighboring precincts.

  Ganimard smiled. This time, he was certain that Lupin had fallen into his trap.

  The next day, the eastern skies were greying. So was Ganimard’s hair. He was staring at a business card that had been found on the electrical switchbox when a footman had gone to turn it back on. It said:

  With the sincere salutations of

  Arsène Lupin,

  Gentleman Burglar

  It was not the first card of that type he had held. Sadly, he had nearly a drawer-full of them in his office. However, it confirmed his suspicions. The master-thief had paid a visit to Castle Sainte-Geneviève the previous night.

  Nearly all of the Count’s guests had to return to their respective homes and hotels. Their identities were double- and triple-checked: Chevalier de **, Marquis de **, Earl **, Viscount **, Duke **. All were not members of the nobility. Some were bankers, high-ranking civil servants, captains of industry–even politicians. They all had to prove that they were not Arsène Lupin.

  They were also searched–a rather delicate job. However, they all agreed to submit without making too much of a fuss after the Count and his wife volunteered to be the first “victims” of such an indignity. No stolen jewels were found.

  Everyone appeared innocent of the nefarious deeds that had happened the previous night.

  But what nefarious deeds exactly, one may ask?

  For the policeman in charge of taking down the complaints and the descriptions of the stolen jewels made the following report to Ganimard, who grew very upset:

  “Sorry, Chief, but no one has filed a complaint yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just as I said. No one has filed a complaint because nothing was stolen.”

  “How could that be? What about the screams? The panic?”

  “Nobody I spoke to admitted to being the ones who screamed.”

  Ganimard suddenly seemed to age, putting on years in the space of a few heartbeats. His composure crumbled like a sand castle assaulted by the rising tide. Then, after a few seconds, he regained control of himself.

  “We’re returning to Paris! Quick, bring the car! And you tell everyone they’re free to go.”

  His driver drove at the breakneck speed of 30 miles an hour and, consequently, they reached the Préfecture de Police only an hour later. Ganimard went to his office and began to wait for the bad news he knew was sure to come.

  He was not disappointed.

  The first man to show up was Herman Mayer, the Count’s father-in-law. He was the kind of man used to giving orders–and having them quickly obeyed. This morning, however, he was just another ordinary poor man.

  “He stole my Rembrandt, my Rubens, my David and a few lesser known paintings,” said Mayer. “I also had a reserve of gold in my safe, Napoleons, double-eagles, pesos, taels, ever bars. He took it all. He just left this.”

  And he put down a familiar business card on Ganimard’s desk.

  He was not the only visitor the Police saw that morning. Taking full advantage of the relative absence of policemen in Paris, Lupin’s gang had been very busy the night before...

  Somewhere else in Paris, an elderly gentleman who had impersonated a Marquis for a few hours and a middle-aged woman who had played the role of a Duchess, but who in reality were unemployed actors were counting banknotes.

  “More money that I ever made in two years just to say one line. Marvelous. And I don’t even mind that my name was not on the bill,” said the pseudo-Marquis.

  “Well... in that kind of play, the bill just mentions the star, you know,” replied the pseudo-Duchess.

  [translated by Alain le Bussy & J.-M. Lofficier.]

  It is not becoming to introduce oneself, so suffice it to say that, since 2002, we have written a trilogy of French graphic novels (beautifully drawn by Gil Formosa) starring a more dynamic version of Verne’s notorious science-pirate, Robur the Conqueror. It is that Robur whom we have reused in the story that follows, the concept of which was initially created for a video game…

  Jean-Marc and Randy Lofficier: Journey to the Center of Chaos

  Tibet, 1928

  Even though the Monsoon hadn’t yet come to the Nepalese border, the streets of Gezing were already hot and muggy. In this corner of the western district of Sikkim in the late 1920s, westerners were still a relatively rare occurrence, and the presence of Professor Alexander Whateley of the Miskatonic University of Arkham, Mass., and his companion, John Green, could only attract attention.

  Green alone would have been noticed in any crowd, anywhere. He was a tank of a man, one eighth of a metric ton of bone and muscle; he could go through anything on Earth and come out wondering mildly why other people were so excited. Whateley, on the other hand, was thin, almost skeletal, and bookish. Unlike his companion, he was visibly more at ease locating a rare dusty tome in an ancient library than he was horse-trading with the merchants of Northern India, as he was presently attempting to do.

  Only the most inept observer would have failed to notice that the two foreigners were watched intently by a small posse of natives, one peeking out from behind a doorway, another slithering behind a bead curtain, others peering from a neighboring windowsill. Whateley was blissfully unaware of the spies–but not so Green, whose hard-edged, clean-shaven face began to show some concern.

  “Dahoor... Dahoor,” repeated Whateley, addressing a merchant trying to sell him a vase that was such an obvious forgery it would not have fooled even a first year archeology student at the Louvre. “Surely you must know who he is? I’ve come all the way from America to see him...”

  But the merchant remained obdurately dense. He kept trying to shove the vase in Whateley’s hands. “Beautiful vase. From the Gupta period. Very rare.”

  Green, increasingly concerned about the attention they were getting, tugged at his companion’s arm.

  “Come on, Professor. We’re wasting our time here.”

  The archeologist, resigned to not getting the information he sought, dejectedly
walked away from the merchant’s stall.

  “He was lying to me, Mr. Green. Dahoor is one of the biggest antique dealers in Northern India. He’s been selling to us for years. If anyone can help me put together an expedition to K’n-yan, he can.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Professor, I think you’re chasing after one of those demented heathens’ opium dreams. There is no lost city of the Mi-go. It just doesn’t exist. This is a wild goose chase.”

  Whateley pulled a small carved cylinder from his belt.

  “My map says you’re wrong, Mr. Green.”

  “It’s got to be a forgery. I’ve seen dozens of fake maps sold by unscrupulous babus in the back streets of Benares. Why should this one different from the others?”

  “You insisted on joining me, remember?”

  “Not quite. Meldrum Strange, who financed this expedition, asked me to do it. And he was right, too. It’s not safe for someone like you to travel alone in this part of the world. He’s only protecting his investment.”

  “Please, Mr. Green! This is just as safe as Harvard Square!”

  While the two westerners were crossing the souk market, the mysterious figures that had been shadowing them had gathered into a dangerous-looking mob.

  Suddenly, the thuggees–for that is what they were–pounced on the two explorers. Three of them tried to wrest the map away from Whateley.

  But Green had already detected the threat. His massive fist crashed into the face of one of the men, and with a kick, he sent two of the other would-be thieves flying into the stall of a nearby merchant.

  Green knew what he was doing. The merchant, who looked like a Punjabi, was understandably irate, and better yet, he had five surly brothers ready to rush to his aid.