“Your pardon,” said a voice from the shadows, and Mrs. Wayne leapt a few inches into the air, her heart in her throat.
“I mean you no harm,” the voice continued, and Judex stepped out from a darkened corner, silent as a ghost.
“W-who are you?” Mrs. Wayne clutched a black leotard to her chest, wringing the fabric in her hands, her packing forgotten.
“You can call me Judex.”
“Did you say… justice?”
Something like a smile played across Judex’s mouth.
“No. Judex. But it is about justice that I’ve come. I know what you have done, Mrs. Wayne.”
Judex pointed to the black leotard in her hands, with scalloped-edge bat wings attached at the shoulders and wrists.
“I see that you even kept the costume you wore that night.”
Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“I hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt, honestly. But that man chased me out onto the ledge, and then he fell, and then… But I just had to... I had to get it back…”
Judex held out his hand and opened his palm, revealing a fire-opal with a faint purple cast and lights dancing deep within. The Gotham Girasol.
“I broke into Oreno’s rooms,” Judex explained, “and found what remained of the loot from the Avenue Maillot robbery. Ironically, the Girasol had ended up in amongst the other pilfered goods, despite the falsity of your claims. I find that somewhat… amusing.”
Mrs. Wayne looked with wide eyes at the gem in Judex’s palm, and then met his eyes.
“You mean…?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wayne, I know that you gave away the Gotham Girasol some time before the night of the ball.”
Mrs. Wayne struggled to take a breath.
“What will you…?” She paused, swallowing hard. “That is, what will you do with…?”
“I have given the pilfered goods to the Public Assistance Bureau, where they will no doubt serve society better than they ever could have done in the hands of their rightful owners. I am, however, prepared to return the Girasol to you.”
“No,” she said, turning her eyes away. “I could not bear to hold it. There is another who should have it, who should always keep…” Her words choked off in a stifled sob.
“Allard,” Judex said simply.
Mrs. Wayne was shocked, but she nodded, slowly.
“You met him at a cabaret, unless I miss my guess,” Judex went on, “and you found him a welcome change to your somewhat brusque and acerbic husband, the good doctor. You wanted to give him a token of your affection, one which you prized above all others. Otherwise, the gesture would be meaningless, no?”
Mrs. Wayne nodded still, as though hypnotized.
“No,” she said, then shook her head, as if to clear away cobwebs. “I mean, yes. I mean…” She drew a deep breath, collecting herself. “I met… him… a few weeks ago. My husband had been so busy with his meetings that it was almost as if we weren’t going to have a honeymoon at all. I started going out on my own, to the restaurants and cabarets. It was at the Veuve Joyeuse that I met… Mr. Allard. So intense, and an aviator. How dashing he was. I suppose you could say that we fell in love. I gave him the gem in a moment of passion, symbol of my feelings for him. But I’d soon have reason to regret it.”
Mrs. Wayne glanced at the gem, still resting in Judex’s palm.
“The next day, my husband told me that we might need the gem for collateral. I knew that any day he might come and ask me for it, and I wouldn’t have it. As soon as I could, I rushed to see Mr. Allard, to get it back, but he told me that it had been stolen by this Oreno character. He promised he’d get it back from Oreno, but the next thing I knew Mr. Allard had been arrested.”
“So you had no choice but to steal it yourself,” Judex said.
“Yes. I’d heard all the stories about the infamous gang, the Vampires. I hired a costume from the Costumier Pugenc, the same I’d seen in the ballet weeks ago, with the idea that if anyone saw me breaking into Oreno’s apartments, the blame would be cast on the Vampires gang. The man came upon me just as I was entering the room, though, and then he fell to his death. After that, I knew I’d never have another chance at stealing it back, so I told my husband it had been stolen that night at the Avenue Maillot ball.”
Mrs. Wayne took a deep breath and sighed. She smoothed the fabric of the black leotard in her hands, and then set it gently back on the bed.
“I suppose you will turn me over to the police now,” she said, sounding resigned. “I am wanted by the law, after all.”
“I wouldn’t give a bent sou for the law,” Judex said, tightening his hand into a fist around the gem. “The law turns a blind eye while villains prosper, allowing a cancer to eat away at society’s heart. No, I care nothing for the law. I care only for justice.”
Mrs. Wayne shook her head, looking like she wanted to spit.
“Justice? Do you want to know about justice, Monsieur Judex? Then I will tell you. I have just learned today that I am with child. Pregnant. And I don’t know whether my husband or my beloved is the father.”
“You talk to me of justice? What are your sordid affairs to me or to Lady Justice?”
Mrs. Wayne lifted her chin, defiant.
“Because even if the law never lays a hand on me, I still pay the price for my deeds. My own life is ended here, for the sake of my unborn child. Were it otherwise, I would leave my husband, and my beloved and I would be together forever. But what kind of life would my child have, with a penniless aviator as a father? Always at the fringes of society, living forever in the shadows. No, better to return home with my husband, letting him think the child is his, so that my baby can grow up in comfort, with all the opportunity in the world. So what if my heart belongs to another, and I die inside a little every moment we are apart? I live now for the sake of my child.”
Judex stood silent, appraising her, and found he had nothing to say. Justice, the only god Judex worshipped, indeed moved in mysterious ways.
Tucking the gem back into his pocket, Judex strode to the door, making to leave. He drew his cape around him, already seeming to blend into the shadows.
“Wait!” Mrs. Wayne said, stepping forward, raising a tremulous hand. “Will you see…?” Her breath caught in her chest, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “Will you see Mr. Allard again?”
Judex shrugged beneath his cape.
“I do not know, madam.”
“If you should see him, could you give him the Girasol for me? As a keepsake to remember me by?”
Judex’s expression remained hard, but he nodded. He turned to the door.
“Only,” Mrs. Wayne said, taking another step forward, “please don’t tell him about the child. He has his own life to lead, and doesn’t need a shadow hanging over him.”
Judex did not turn around, but nodded again.
“I will,” he said softly, and then disappeared into the night, leaving Mrs. Wayne alone with her memories.
The next day, an anonymous party posted bail for the American aviator, and Allard was released on his own recognizance. When his possessions were returned to him, Allard was surprised to find among them an envelope containing a near-priceless fire-opal and a railway ticket. The train left Paris that afternoon, heading east. Allard would take it as far as the state of combat would allow, and make it the rest of the way to Moscow on foot, if need be.
That same afternoon, Dr. Wayne and his wife were already in Le Havre, boarding a luxury liner that would carry them back to the United States.
In the home offices of the banker Favraux, Judex hid behind the mask of Vallières, waiting for his moment to strike.
And in the streets of Paris, the Vampires still prowled the shadows, and the search for them continued.
Robert Sheckley, the masterful author of The Seventh Victim and Dimension of Miracles, walks to his own drummer. Rather than casting his mind’s eye towards the past, it is in the future that he chose to locate his story, a future in w
hich pulp heroes–or their descendants!–are still confronted with variations of the same age-old mysteries …
Robert Sheckley: The Paris-Ganymede Clock
Paris, The Future
For Arthur Wimsey, the Fantômas matter began one morning in the office of Mr. Fairr, representative of Lloyd’s of London. Wimsey had not met Fairr before. Fairr was thin and red-headed, with bright blue eyes that seemed to be gazing at the furthest shores of insurance heaven. Fairr lost no time getting straight to the point:
“We would like you to go to Paris to look into the safety arrangements that are in place for the Paris-Ganymede clock.”
Wimsey nodded. “The newspapers say the French are taking unusual precautions.”
“No doubt. But we want specifics. Only that will satisfy our underwriters.”
“The exhibition opens tomorrow, in Paris.”
“And you will be there.”
Wimsey flew into Paris early the next morning and taxied directly to the Louvre, where the Paris-Ganymede clock was being exhibited. It had been called that since the Ecole Polytechnique-sponsored expedition to the Moons of Jupiter had returned from Ganymede with what was arguably mankind’s most important discovery: an artifact attesting to the existence of an alien civilization.
Wimsey was a man of medium height, stockily built, with a full head off close-cut sandy hair, just beginning to go bald on the crown. He was dressed in a tweed suit and solid leather shoes. He carried a small overnight bag and a furled umbrella, both of which he checked as soon as he entered the Louvre. He showed his special pass at the door. He noted the helicopter circling slowly, high overhead. There were a surprising number of armed guards in dark blue uniforms.
Inside the Louvre, Wimsey joined a group moving slowly toward the Paris-Ganymede exhibit, situated not far from Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, previously the main attraction. The natural movement of the crowd, urged along by the guards and attendants, carried him to the line in front of the exhibit room. He joined it.
Wimsey had read extensively about the clock before making this trip. Nevertheless, he wasn’t prepared for the shock he received once he got a good look at it. Although roughly circular, there was something about its curves, something about the carefully sculpted irregularities of its surface. It was a large clock, running on no detectable power source, with three hands moving clockwise at different speeds and two moving counterclockwise. The sum of its qualities said that this machine was no product of Earth, nor of any place that Earth had ever visited. No human had built this thing, which was discovered under a mound of slag on the uninhabited world Ganymede. It was proof positive of the existence of an intelligent race other than humans.
Looking over the crowd, Wimsey paid no special attention to the people. He didn’t stare at anyone; his eyes were wide and unfocused. Other detectives might look for someone suspicious; Wimsey was looking for quite the opposite. He wanted to find the least suspicious person in the room, the one you could not possibly suspect.
There were several old people in the room. They walked slowly and with evident pain. You could see that they had barely made their way up the steps, much less be suspected of anything more dire. His gaze rested for a moment on them: an old man who walked with the aid of two canes. An obese woman, supported on the arm of a young man, who appeared to be a paid attendant. Another old man, walking with difficulty, this one accompanied by a young girl of 10 or 12, with long blonde hair, dressed in nice clothing and with black patent leather shoes.
The exhibit was held in an almost square room with a door at either end, one an entrance, the other an exit. In the middle of the room, on a raised dais, there was a metal table. On that table, resting on a bronze tray, was the clock.
There were guards in the corridor outside the room, and three guards within the exhibit room itself. They all carried walkie-talkies. There was a huge crowd trying to get to see the artifact. It was the symbol of the new religion of space. For years, this religion had languished, a religion nearly everyone gave lip service to, but few expected to see in any tangible form. But now it was different. The Paris-Ganymede clock was a genuine alien artifact-proof positive of the existence of alien others.
There were about 50 people in the room. Hundreds more were standing in line in the corridor outside, waiting for guards to let them go in. It was 11 a.m. The people waited patiently: this was their appointment with the unknowable future.
Some people took photographs. Some made little sketches on pads. One man was creating a watercolor. He had a pad of watercolor paper, a tiny easel, little tins of paints and pans of tinted water. The guards were suspicious of him at first, thinking he might be a fanatic, prepared to hurl his paints at the clock. But they had grown used to him now; he seemed to represent no danger.
It was all quiet, serene, almost holy. The electric clock on the wall ticked from 11:05 to 11:06. And, at that moment, the lights went out.
There was a moment of stunned silence. A woman gasped. A man essayed a feeble joke. A guard’s loud voice called out, “No panic, if you please! Remain calm! Temporary power failure! The lights will return in a moment.” There was a rustle of movement. Someone has fainted. Someone said, “Mother! Are you all right?”
Emergency lights, set high on the walls, went on. They were dim, colored red, and gave the room and its contents a rather infernal appearance. The room took on the baleful look of a scene from Hell. The crowd’s unease increased. The red lights flickered. Some claimed afterwards that they rippled or flashed. People started moving toward the exit, which quickly became clogged with struggling bodies.
People tried to fight their way through. A guard’s bull-like voice bellowed, “Please! Remain calm!” But his shouts only increased the crowd’s panic.
The guards’ flashlights went on simultaneously. The strong white beams picked out people struggling in the doorways. There was a scream. One of the beams stopped on a small person, lying on the floor. The guard rushed over to help her, shoving several adults out of the way. It was the young girl with long flaxen hair and black patent-leather shoes.
“It will be over soon,” the guard said, helping her to her feet.
“That oaf stepped on me!” she told the guard. She shrugged off his arm. “I’m getting out of here!” the girl declared, and moved into the crowd.
Very faintly, Wimsey could hear the sound of sirens outside. The police! Or was it the army? Somebody bumped him from behind; he staggered, but managed to retain his balance.
The lights came back on. Wimsey looked around, but couldn’t see the girl. There were people lying in the exit. Guards were clearing up the tangle.
People were hustled out of the exhibition room. Armed soldiers entered, pushing the crowd against one wall.
“Make way! This is official business!”
The head guard took a deep breath, turned off his flashlight and walked over to the soldiers.
“No reason to be so rough. It’s all right now.”
“All right?” one of the soldiers said. “In that case, where’s the gadget?”
“What are you talking about? What gadget?”
“The clock! The Paris-Ganymede clock! Where is it?”
The guard looked at the exhibit. The table was there, the tray was there, but the clock, the priceless exotic alien clock, was missing.
There was only one item on the tray. It was a black calling card. Wimsey was able to get a look at it. It contained, in a swirling white script, the single word–Fantômas!
After leaving the Louvre, Wimsey went to the Conciergerie and asked for the officer in charge of the Paris-Ganymede clock case. He was given a name, Commissioner Robin Muscat, but was told that Muscat had no time to see him at present. Wimsey took out his calling card, scribbled a few words on the back and asked that it be delivered to the Commissioner. He waited, and 15 minutes later, a patrolman ushered him to an elevator and then to a room at the end of the third floor. He entered, and took a seat when the receptionist asked him t
o wait for a moment. Ten minutes later, he was in Muscat’s office.
“I didn’t know the British were so interested in this,” Muscat said. He was a large man, soft-looking in carelessly brushed dark clothing. The expression his face was hard, alert, wary.
“It’s an insurance matter,” Wimsey said. “Lloyd’s sent me out to look over the protection you are–I should say were– affording the Paris-Ganymede clock. I am able to report that your measures seemed impeccable.”
“Good of you,” Muscat said dryly. “If I could have a framed copy, it will make a nice souvenir to take into my forced retirement.”
“I have said that no possible blame could attach to you.”
“Yes, but the Ministry will think otherwise. I am supposed to foresee the unforeseeable. Perhaps they will relegate me to some less demanding post–latrine inspector for the New Maginot Line.”
Wimsey didn’t reply.
Muscat said, “May I inquire of your interest in this, Mr. Wimsey? Is Lloyd’s looking for a fall guy?”
“Not at all. Lloyd’s wants to recover the clock.”
“That may prove more difficult than finding it in the first place. How do you propose to do that?”
“By examining all suspects, to begin with.”
“But there are no suspects!” Muscat said.
“Then we need to create some. May I suggest that you look for a girl of 10 or 12 years, with long blonde hair and black patent leather shoes, perhaps accompanied by an older man?”
“How do you know of this girl?”
“She was in the crowd when I visited the exhibition an hour or so ago.”
“And you suspect her?”
“She is the least likely suspect. Therefore, she is a suspect.”
“I suppose that’s to be expected in a case involving the legendary Fantômas. How do you expect me to find this unknown girl?”
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 27
