Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  We slipped from the carriage, which the driver then removed from sight, as the three of us found solid hiding places overlooking the point where the exchange would take place. It was then merely a matter of waiting, and trying to quell the doubts that my feverish mind kept raising. Had we planned well enough? Would there be sufficient of us? What might the villains arrange? Since there was no way of deducing the answers to any of these questions until the moment of truth arrived, speculation was pointless–but still my troubled mind insisted on making it.

  And then the two carriages slowly approached from opposite directions. I knew ours because of the figure of Jacopo, acting the part of the driver. Michel, then, was inside the coach with his mistress. The carriage of the Black Coats had two men on the outside–and who knew how many more within. Both conveyances drew to a rest some 40 meters apart. There was a brief moment of inactivity as both sides regarded the other–and we three in hiding regarded both sides. I was concealed in bushes some 50 meters from the Black Coats’ coach, and had an excellent view of what was to transpire.

  The door to our coach opened, and the Countess stepped down. Haydée was as close as her shadow, and a flash of light at the Countess’s throat showed that Haydée had her knife at the ready. I watched the other vehicle intently, praying that this was not some treachery. The door opened, and an unfamiliar, yet beautiful young woman stepped down, followed closely by a man with a pistol at the ready. This, I assumed, was Valentine Morrel. She looked shaken and haggard, but otherwise unhurt.

  “We will both release our prisoners,” the man called out. “They will then walk toward each other.”

  “Agreed,” I heard Haydée reply, her voice firm and resolute. She took the knife from the neck of the Countess, and prodded her forward with the point. Valentine, also, began to walk steadily away from her captor.

  I kept flickering my eyes all about, though I wished to follow the drama occurring before me. If there was to be treachery, this was the moment. As the two women’s paths crossed, the Countess suddenly sprang forward, her arm wrapping about Valentine, attempting to make her a captive once again.

  There was a rush of movement as Monte-Cristo leaped from his hiding place, and he rushed to where the two women had begun to struggle. Madame Morrel might be a sweet flower, but she was determined not to fall into the hands of the gang again. As the Count dashed forward, the man by the Black Coat coach whirled, his pistol at the ready. There was a flicker of movement from the carriage also, and two more armed men dropped to the ground.

  I ran from concealment, the first of my pistols in my hand and ready to fire. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Dupin had done the same. The Black Coat men caught sight of us, and held their fire for a second, unsure where the greatest threat lay. I fired my pistol, not expecting at this range to hit anyone, but to draw their attention to me and away from the struggling women.

  My ruse worked, fortunately for them, but not so for me. The man at the coach spun about and discharged his pistol at me. The bullet went as wide as mine had, but then he ran toward me, drawing a second weapon. I discarded my spent pistol and drew the second. Now that battle was joined, I would have to be more careful. I heard two further shots, but dared not break my concentration to see what was happening elsewhere. My attacker fired his second shot, and this time I heard the bullet whistle past my ear, and felt the breeze of its passage. Dropping to one knee, I steadied my pistol across my left arm, and fired carefully.

  The man leaped into the air as if startled, and then fell to the ground, bleeding copiously from a wound high in his chest. I did not dare see what I had done, but came to my feet again, throwing aside the pistol and taking my last fresh weapon in hand. I looked for further targets, but there were none. Both men beside the coach were down, either dead or severely wounded. One had been shot by Dupin, the other had a knife in his stomach, clearly thrown by Jacopo, who was reclaiming it and wiping the blood from it.

  Monte-Cristo had reached the struggling women, and immediately struck down the Countess with the butt of his unfired pistol. The villainous beauty collapsed with a cry, and Valentine finally broke free. She ran with a gasp of relief to clutch at her friend Haydée, and the two women hugged and greeted one another.

  Panting somewhat, I reached the Count at about the same instant as Dupin. We looked down at the Countess, who was dazed, but conscious. “Shall we take her again?” I asked Monte-Cristo.

  He shook his head. “I promised to exchange her for Valentine,” he said, “and I always keep my word. I know she attempted to break the deal, but I hold myself to higher standards.”

  “So I note,” Dupin said, a wry smile on his lips. He glanced about the battlefield. “It might be as well to depart now, before the police arrive. The Countess may have some difficulty explaining the situation, and I have no desire to see the inside of the Sûreté from the point of view of a suspect.”

  Monte-Cristo nodded. “Gentlemen, you have my thanks for your assistance in this matter. I will return this lady to her husband. My other carriage is at your convenience. Know that you have made yourself a friend today who will go to great lengths should you ever have need of his services.” He held out his hand to both of us, and we shook it.

  “It seems to me,” Dupin remarked, “that we may have the better part of the bargain. You have shown what your friendship means quite graphically.”

  The coach we had taken to reach the woods had now returned, and Dupin and I hastened into it, and away from the scene. I looked back, and saw that the other coach, driven by Jacopo, also departed.

  “It might have been a mistake to allow the Countess to go free,” I remarked to Dupin.

  “What else could we do with her?” he inquired. “We could not hold her captive, and we have no evidence to offer the police of her guilt in anything. She was, after all, out of town when the kidnapping occurred. No, a woman like that will get herself into further trouble, and we may be able to deal with her at such a time.” He was lost in thought for a few moments, and then sighed. “Well, my friend, there is only one small task left for us to do.” He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and called up to our driver: “To the Sûreté, if you please!”

  Once there, we were ushered into the office of our acquaintance, Inspector Couperin. He glanced up from paperwork he was completing, and then motioned us to take seats and await him. As he finished his work, he laid down his pen and regarded us. “You have further information on the murder at Ste-Mathilde?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Dupin replied. “In fact, I have come to tell you that I now feel I can agree with you, and that I may have been mistaken.”

  Couperin preened himself. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I believe that you were quite correct–the whole business was over the honor of a lady. And I do not think that you will uncover the identity of the other party.”

  The Inspector was almost bursting with pleasure. “Well, Dupin,” he said generously. “It takes a big man to admit that he may have been wrong. So it would seem that, at least on occasion, the romantic view of life might be right.”

  “It would seem so,” Dupin agreed. He rose and shook the policeman’s hand. “Good day, Inspector.”

  As we left, I frowned at my friend. “That was most duplicitous of you, Dupin.”

  “Was it?” he asked, casually. “I told him no lies. And I do not believe that Couperin will uncover the name of the man who threw that villain from the tower.”

  “You allowed him to believe that he was right and you were wrong,” I protested.

  “Let matters lie as they will,” he said, unconcerned. “I have not so feeble an ego that I must be proven right every time. Besides, those who are important know the truth. And there is something else that I know.”

  “What is that?”

  “That there are pipes and glasses of a fine amontillado awaiting us at the house of Monsieur Grunet. Let us not keep him waiting, my friend!”

  Now, it is Judex (last seen in
Matthew Baugh’s tale) who returns, appropriately within the context of another Feuillade classic: Les Vampires. The gifted Chris Roberson happily crosses the lines from pulp to film to comics to show that World War I France was indeed the crucible in which myths were forged…

  Chris Roberson: Penumbra

  Paris, 1916

  The morning papers all carried the story on their front pages, most with huge banner headlines above the fold. Perhaps the various editors thought their readers needed a diversion from another day’s litany about the numbers of young French servicemen dead in a recent military action, or about ground lost to or won back from the Boche. Or perhaps they knew that glamorous crime, particularly so close to home, would always sell newspapers. Either way, over breakfast all of Paris was buzzing.

  Ironically, of all of the reporters covering the event, Philippe Guerande of Le Mondial was the one most skeptical of the proposed connection to the infamous gang, the Vampires. Guerande had been writing about the suspected activities of the Vampires since the spring, even if his reports were buried in the back pages of the metropolitan section before the decapitation of Inspector Dural made front-page headlines. The editors at Le Mondial, though, knowing full well how many copies a Vampires-related lead story could sell, had commissioned one of their staff artists to do a somewhat hasty sketch of the figure clad in skin-tight black slinking away across the rooftop, alongside an inset photo of the victim’s body lying on the pavement, the crushed remains tastefully covered in a white sheet the instant before the photographer had taken the shot.

  Through the black-and-white grain of the photo, faint shadows could be seen appearing on the impromptu shroud, where the blood pooled on the body had begun to seep through the fabric. The editors then placed above the photo and pen-and-ink sketch a headline reading, “VAMPIRES THROW VICTIM FROM HIGH WINDOW–FLEE SCENE.”

  Guerande’s article, however, left open the question of whether the infamous gang was or was not truly involved, stating merely that a man had fallen to his death from a high story window of a residential building, and that a figure clad in skin-tight black from head to toe had been seen fleeing the scene of the crime, running across the rooftops.

  At the home offices of the banker Favraux, the topic was mentioned in passing, dispassionately, as one might discuss the weather or the quality of one’s dinner of the previous night. Not 200 miles away, war raged, and young men bled out their last strung up on wires in No Man’s Land, or huddled for shelter in trenches and hastily-dug foxholes, dreading the whiff of gas that might come drifting across the lines–chlorine, phosgene, or worse yet, mustard gas–but within the cool confines of Favraux’s wood-paneled study, all was peaceful and serene. Favraux and his guest had business to discuss, and the concerns of the wider world dwindled in comparison.

  Favraux’s personal secretary, Vallières, an older man with snow-white beard and hair neatly trimmed, was on hand as he always was on these occasions; but he kept to the shadows at the corner of the room, silent, unobtrusive, never noticed unless and until he was needed. Vallières was the most trusted of all Favraux’s servants and employees, and the only one to whom the banker entrusted his most guarded secrets. Favraux never kept notes during his meetings, or a personal diary. Instead, he looked to Vallières to monitor what was discussed, and to recall specific details on demand. So it was with great care that Vallières followed the conversation between Favraux and his young guest.

  Dr. Wayne, a young American in Paris on an extended honeymoon, had opened discussions with Favraux a few weeks previous about potential European investments for his family fortune. The sole heir of a considerable estate, Wayne was eager to see his fortunes grow, and Favraux had convinced the young American that he was best qualified to assist. On that morning, Wayne and Favraux were in the midst of yet another in a seemingly endless series of meetings about investment opportunities.

  Wayne was prepared to invest some considerable capital into a number of funds selected and managed by Favraux, but he had need of a short-term loan while a cashier’s check was drawn up and sent from the States. In return, he would provide an extremely valuable piece of jewelry as collateral. After feigning reluctance for an appropriate span, the banker Favraux quickly agreed to the arrangement. Vallières well understood why. The gem, which Wayne’s wife was bringing from their rooms at the Park Hotel, was a fire-opal of immense value, mined in the Xinca region of the Republic of Guatemala some years before. Famously known as the Gotham Girasol, it was easily worth one hundred times the loan that it secured. If Wayne paid back the loan–along with the exorbitant interest rate Favraux was charging, compounded weekly–it was all to the good, but if he should default, and the gem remain in Favraux’s possession, so much the better.

  Favraux’s distress was obvious and genuine, then, when Mrs. Wayne arrived in tears and without the gem in her possession.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, throwing herself into her husband’s arms. “You simply must forgive me. I… I no longer have the Gotham Girasol.”

  Dr. Wayne stiffened, and cast an uncomfortable glance to his host before turning his wife’s face upwards and looking her in the eyes.

  “Martha,” he said, trying to sound calm but his voice audibly strained, “whatever do you mean?” His French was as good as hers, which is to say passable, but pronounced with a thick-tongued American accent that fell hard on Gallic ears.

  “It was stolen from me nearly a week ago,” Mrs. Wayne answered, her voice quavering. “I was wearing it when we attended that ball on Avenue Maillot, and when I was woken by the police the next morning, I found it gone.” She bit her lip, her eyes flashing. “I wanted to tell you, but I was simply so overwrought by its loss that I couldn’t bring myself to mention it before now.”

  Dr. Wayne held onto his wife for a moment, as his gaze drifted and settled on the middle distance, thoughts racing behind his eyes. Then he released her, and slumped into a chair. Mrs. Wayne, sobbing vocally behind a handkerchief, kept stealing glances at her husband, almost as though gauging his reactions.

  The Waynes did not need to explain to Favraux or to Vallières about the ball on Avenue Maillot the week before. All Paris knew about that night. It had made the front pages of all the papers, just as the murder had done that morning, and in both cases the Vampires were suspected.

  Several days earlier, the Baron de Mortesalgues had held a grand ball at his home on Avenue Maillot, in celebration of his niece’s birthday. Over 100 of the brightest lights of Parisian aristocracy, from financiers to artistes, rushed to the reception. At the stroke of midnight, the doors were locked from the outside and, by all accounts, a strange gas entered the salon. All of those trapped within found themselves succumbing, passing into unconsciousness and not waking until the authorities arrived in the morning. No one was hurt, but the Baron, his niece and all of the jewelry and valuables in the room were missing. Neither the Baron nor his niece had been seen since that night. Authorities feared the worst, that they had fallen prey to the infamous Vampires, or to the criminal organization led by the villainous Moreno, only recently escaped from jail. Parisians had not been so fascinated with criminal exploits since the days of Fantômas, as the circulation figures of the daily newspapers certainly proved.

  After a long moment, Dr. Wayne composed himself, and rose from the chair, straightening his waistcoat.

  “Mr. Favraux, you must accept my apologies,” he said, turning to his host. “It appears that I will not be able to provide you collateral, after all, and as a result my wife and I might be forced to cut short our stay in Paris.”

  Favraux bristled visibly. Vallières knew his employer’s moods and tempers well, and could see that the banker was pained at the thought of not laying hands on the precious gem, to say nothing of the interest he had planned to collect on the loan. However, if Dr. Wayne were to return to the States without first investing in the banker’s funds, Favraux stood to lose a great deal more. Just a few days’ grace, and the cashier’s check w
ould arrive in Paris, but without the short-term loan to cover expenses, Wayne and his wife would have to leave almost immediately.

  “Well, my dear Dr. Wayne,” Favraux answered, visibly pained by what he was about to say, “we cannot allow the criminal element and the capricious whims of fate to interfere with the business of men, now can we? Absent the security of the gem as collateral”–he paused, his face flushing red with suppressed anger and anxiety–“I am still willing to loan you a small sum, sufficient to allow you to stay on in Paris until our business is concluded.”

  Dr. Wayne took Favraux’s hand, visibly relieved.

  “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Favraux,” he said. “It would have been most… unfortunate, if our long negotiations would have been for naught.”

  The hard glance Dr. Wayne gave his wife made it clear to Vallières for whom such an outcome would have been the most unfortunate. Wayne was not the most doting husband, and for all of his wealth and refinement, he had a certain rough edge that Vallières found unsettling. No wonder his wife spent so much of their honeymoon by herself at cabarets and restaurants, while he whiled away his hours in business meetings with Favraux.

  Once the arrangements for the loan were completed, and polite words were exchanged all around, Dr. Wayne and his wife took their leave.

  When they had gone, Favraux dismissed Vallières for the rest of the day. The banker’s daughter Jacqueline, had convinced him that his grandson needed more masculine attention, since her own husband had died nearly three years before. As a result, Favraux had reluctantly agreed to take his daughter and grandson to the circus for the afternoon, though it was obvious that he regretted the decision.

  Vallières, unaccustomed to being at his liberty so early in a working day, saw nothing for it but to go home. Pausing only to pick up a copy each of the day’s papers from the newsagent on the corner, he returned to the apartments he kept in another quarter of the city.