Leo Saint-Clair’s grey roadster had been found abandoned on the lakeside road near Nyon; the bodywork was intact but all the more-or-less movable parts, principal or accessory, assembled around the engine-housing had been deformed, broken or even pulverized with hammer blows. Immediately alerted, Champeau had had the automobile sent to the best garage-mechanic in Geneva, who sent a foreman to the factory in Sochaux to bring back all the relevant spare parts. It was certain that the roadster, scrupulously repaired, would be at its owner’s disposition by midday on Tuesday March 12.
The lakeside house, known as the Villa Chimène, belonged to a Genevan insurance company and had been rented furnished three months before, for a year—paid in advance—by an old lady. That person had used a letting agency, and was said to be a Belgian national named Madame Berthe Romain. As she had paid a year’s rent in advance, without bargaining, non further information had been sought and the keys to the Villa Chimène had been sent to her immediately.
The house was quite isolated, its nearest neighbor being a small family hotel 1500 meters away. No one could say anything about the old lady, whom no one except the manager of the agency had ever seen, and the searches mounted by the police in the Villa Chimène showed that, although unknown individuals had eaten and slept in the now-suspect house several times in the previous three months, they had only eaten tinned goods and slept on beds without sheets or blankets. They had found not the slightest object or the tiniest sheet of paper that might provide any sort of clue.
The result of all this, of which he had been informed by General Le Breuil and his three comrades, was that Leo Saint-Clair, when he opened his Council of War, was able to set out the parameters of the difficult problem by saying: “Where and to whom has Sadi Khan taken to documents stolen from my father? We don’t know. Under what names have Sadi Khan and his companions been living since entering Switzerland? We don’t know. What has become of Madame Berthe Romain? The police have been unable to find out. Is Wenceslas Polki dead or alive? If the latter is the case, where is he being held? A mystery. What is the name of the motor-boat in which the criminals we surprised in the Villa Chimène fled, and where is it? An enigma. And that’s all!”
Champeau added, with soft emphasis: “That all is composed of presently-insoluble questions—but since we’re safe and sound at your side, and you’ve become more powerful, my dear Leo, we’ll solve them.”
“We must!” pronounced the Nyctalope, in his most incisive tone.
Leo Saint-Clair was animated by a new moral force, not only because of his prodigious nyctalopia but also by the fact that he had received a letter that his mother had written three days earlier in the afternoon post: a long letter giving rather good news of his father, whose life, at any rate, was definitely out of danger. Doctor Champeau could not yet guarantee the complete recovery of the engineer’s scientific and creative faculties, but he was sure that there were very good reasons for hope in that regard.
“We must!” After pronouncing these words, which expressed all of his invincible will, Leo Saint-Clair looked at General Le Breuil. From that eminent man, who had been Professor of Strategy at the Ecole de Guerre in Paris, and who, having spent half the year since his retirement in Switzerland, knew the country very well, the sage and ardent young man expected fruitful ideas, advice and instructions.
Thus mutely interrogated, however, the General replied with evident sadness: “My young friend, I understand the meaning of your gaze. Alas, if I had had to summarize the problem, I would not have done so any differently from you—and there is nothing in that summary but unknowns. I don’t know anything; I can’t think of anything—and it’s the same for my brother-in-law, with whom I spent a good part of last night discussing all this.”
Doctor de Villiers-Pagan could only nod his head in acquiescence. Those words and that acquiescence were a confession of impotence.
“As for the Swiss police,” the General went on, “they’re continuing their search, but in my opinion, they’ve reached a dead end that has very high walls and no doors or windows. They won’t find anything more.”
“Well, General,” said Saint-Clair, in a deliberate tone, I can see that my friends and I must count, first and foremost on the aid of Providence and our own resources. So be it! But we can at least ask you respectfully, with gratitude for all that you and the doctor have done for us, to give the young men that we are by comparison with both of you an assurance of aid, assistance, advice, friendship, and perhaps even refuge, if the necessity should arise.”
General Le Breuil got to his feet and took Leo Saint-Clair’s hands, very emotionally, and shook them affectionately.
“You and your comrades can count on us, my boy. Your appeal will never be made in vain.”
Doctor de Villiers Pagan added:
“And if you’re ever in the vicinity of Lausanne, and don’t want to stay at a hotel, this house is yours, my friends. At my clinic, night and day, you’ll find rooms ready, the table set and everything else you that might be useful to you on hand.”
He too shook the hands of Leo Saint-Clair and his comrades.
“Thank you! Thank you!” said the Nyctalope. But when he and his three friends had overcome their emotion, he sat down, along with the General and his brother-in-law, and said: “Well, let’s deliberate all the same. Let’s revisit the questions I’ve posed one by one. In the light of the facts we have, we might see some hypotheses emerging, and one or more plans of action. Is that agreeable to you, General and Doctor?”
“Of course!”
“Yes, yes!”
“All right!” put in Degains.
And in an abruptly-calmed atmosphere, Leo Saint-Clair the Nyctalope, his three friends, the General and the doctor ardently set about reexamining all the parameters of the problem one by one, in order to extract their deepest essence. Naturally, it was Saint-Clair who took the lead.
Chapter III: The Author of the Crime
On the evening of that same day, at precisely 10:47 p.m., in the middle of a performance at the Grand Theater in Geneva, a bomb was thrown from one of the boxes on the balcony into the midst of the orchestra stalls. By some extraordinary chance, it did not explode—but the burning fuse with which it was equipped continued to throw off showers of sparks while the bomb rolled along the central aisle. Cries of terror were released by the spectators who saw it, and panic began to break out.
Then a thunderous voice resounded: “Be quiet! Don’t move! There’s no more danger!” And in the central aisle, a tall man was seen to lift the round black bomb—whose fuse he had extinguished—above his head. Policemen and foremen came running. The man and the bomb disappeared within the variously-unformed group that immediately formed around him, which headed rapidly for the nearest exit.
On the stage, meanwhile, the performance was interrupted, and actors and scene-shifters emerged from the wings to mingle with the individuals already on stage. All of them were perplexed and frightened. In the great silence that had fallen over the auditorium, from one end to the other, sounds of running and shouting were heard coming from the balcony corridor. This significant noise was brief, though; the unknown individual who had thrown the bomb must have reached one of the large staircases, and the pursuit continued beyond the acoustic range of the hall.
Then, from among the spectators occupying the orchestra stalls—almost all of whom were standing up—a calm and authoritative voice said: “Ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of the good name of the city of Geneva and its theater, the performance must continue.”
There was an astonished silence, which lasted for a few seconds—then, suddenly, people cried out from all sides:
“Yes! Yes!”
“The gentleman is right!”
“Exactly! Bravo!”
Rising above the hubbub, the same calm and authoritative voice went on: “Messieurs the actors and Mesdames the actresses, we beg you to continue!”
There were more “Bravos!” and cries of “Yes! Yes!�
� There was also some nervous laughter, but it was all drowned out by a deluge of applause. Then there were cries of “Sit down! Sit down!” from all sides.
On the stage, the actors, actresses, stage-hands and mechanics retreated into the wings; only two remained, resuming their positions and their roles. A vibrant voice spoke out in an ironic tone, saying: “My compliments to you, who are so happy! As for me, my fate is decided in advance; since I have escaped madness, I have dedicated all the deliria of passion to you. You can, without conceit, be assured of my warmest gratitude!” For they were playing François de Curel’s La Nouvelle Idole,7 and had reached the third scene of the second act, in which Louise Donnat and Maurice Cormier are alone before the public.
Offstage, however, beyond the auditorium, its accessory passages and its exits—in fact, outside the theater—a man was still running away. He was fleeing energetically, skillfully, rapidly and athletically, with prodigious self-composure. With his elbows and fists he had thrust aside the people in the corridors who had immediately set out in pursuit of him, who were soon joined by firemen, theater employees, and policemen in uniform and plain clothes, and also by various individuals who had emerged from the auditorium—several of whom, more alert or more calmly committed, had reached and joined the leading group. Meanwhile, the fugitive leapt up and down staircases, went around a security guard, planted a fist in the face of an usher, knocked over the ticket-collectors and got out of the theater.
To the south-west of the Place Neuve, the Promenade des Bastions extends between the Jardin Botanique and the gardens of the Académie. At that nocturnal hour, in the aftermath of winter, that district of Geneva was absolutely deserted. It was into the Promenade, and then into the meandering pathways of the gardens, that the fleeing man hurled himself. From the composite crowd that was following him, one faster individual became clearly detached, and that runner gained on the fugitive as he got further ahead of the howling crowd.
The runner eventually caught up with the fleeing man on a dark pathway, but he did not grab him or lay a hand on him. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, quite clearly. “I’m a friend.” And he began running alongside him. Then, breathlessly but precisely, he said: “I’m an even better runner than you. Follow me—I’ll take the lead and I’ll take you to a safe refuge. Do you hear me? Trust me. I approve of what you did, and I’m not the only one. Have confidence, comrade, and we’ll save you. Tell me what country you come from, so that I can talk to you in your own language!”
“I entrust myself to you,” panted the fugitive. “I’m French.”
“Good! Know that I’m an amateur running champion, and I’ll use all my resources!” The man made an effort, by virtue of which he pulled ahead. The chase increased his speed.
Behind them, already too far away, the crowd had lost its advantages. Howling curses and threats, it split up, dispersing along the railings of the Jardin Botanique and the breadth of the Promenade des Bastions, into the pathways and on to the lawns of the Académie gardens. Among the most advanced pursuers there was only one policeman; a forceful order, emitted by the familiar voice of a senior officer, had launched the rest of them into a transversal path bordering the American railway.
The result of this was that, when the fugitive and his guide emerged from the western side of the gardens into the Nouvelle Rue Saint-Léger, they could only hear the shouts of the pursuers as a distant rumor of scattered noises. The leader slowed down slightly, letting the other catch up with him, and said: “You’re safe for now. At the end of the street, when we reach the Place des Philosophes, where there are always two policemen on sentry duty, we’ll resume the normal pace of men who are quietly going home.”
“Yes, yes!” panted the fugitive, who was showing the first signs of fatigue.
A quarter of an hour later, the two men went into a house that, at least for a time, might serve as their “home.” That house was a villa in the Rue Sauter, in the south-western part of the new suburb of Saint-Palais. It was a well-to-do villa in the middle of a pretty little garden girdled by a high wall surmounted with railings, which was brightly illuminated by the moon, presently fully round and shining between two clouds.
They had gone into the garden by a service entrance that the runner had opened with a key extracted from one of his pockets. At the main door of the villa however, which was oddly masked by a tightly-knit clump three or four tall trees, the runner had to press his thumb on the button on an electric bell; he did not have a key to that door.
The two men waited on the doorstep in darkness—for a thick cloud had veiled the moon—for a full five minutes.
Finally, the door opened soundlessly and they went in. Immediately, the heavy batten closed behind them. They found themselves in a small, bare vestibule devoid of furniture, a carpet and wall-hangings, brightly illuminated by a ceiling-light, in which nothing could be seen at the far end but a door that was obviously made of thick, dense wood, so great was the impression of solidity it gave.
With the index finger of his right hand, the runner then rapidly made a sign in the air above his head, and pronounced, in a clear and emphatic voice: “1826!”
The door at the back immediately opened, and a man appeared on the threshold. He was short, thin and old, bare-headed and clean-shaven, dressed in a quilted dressing-gown and shod in red leather slippers. He had prominent blue eyes.
Then the runner said something at length in Russian.
The old man replied with a single word.
“Come on!” said the runner, immediately, taking the arm of the fugitive he had brought into this mysterious and rather astonishing refuge.
They crossed the threshold, from which the blue-eyed and clean-shaven old man stood aside in order to let them pass, and walked on. After taking several steps along a strangely semi-circular corridor, all three of them went into a large furnished room, which was comfortably—even luxuriously—fitted out as a study and library. The runner went first and the old man brought up the rear; as they entered, the runner and the fugitive removed their hats.
“Sit down,” said the old man, in French. In the same language, he added: “Who is this young man, Vassily, and why have you…?”
“I don’t know who the young man is Monsieur Roudine. I think he’ll inform us himself, not of his identity, which is a matter of indifference to us, but as to his ideas and his objectives. What I do know is this, Monsieur Roudine: this young man has just thrown a bomb into the auditorium of the Grand Theater, in the middle of a performance.”
“Oh!” said the old man, whose emaciated face brightened with pleasure, his large eyes glittering.
“Yes—and if it were not for the courage of one of those accursed police agents who are now creeping in everywhere, there would have been a fine marmalade of capitalists and bourgeois in Geneva tonight—but the agent grabbed the bomb and extinguished the fuse…”
“Young man,” Monsieur Roudine put in, severely, “you have to throw a percussion bomb, which explodes on impact, or on turning upside-down. You’re young. You lack experience. But that will come!”
“Outpacing the people who were pursuing the ‘criminal’—who fortunately got out of the theater,” Vassili went on, “I caught up with him and brought him…to shelter. He’s a brother.”
Then, for a long interval in which no one spoke, the young man was the object of Monsieur Roudine’s and Vassily’s inspection.
He was a tall, handsome fellow who could not have been more than 20 years of age—but he was only handsome by virtue of his stature and he harmonious proportions of his slim and muscular athletic body. His complexion was slightly jaundiced, as if he were unhealthy, and his face was covered with little red spots. His hair was thick, and so discolored that one could not tell whether it was black, brown or blond; it was like a dirty grey mane. There was no moustache of youthful down on his acne-marked upper lip, nor on his chin or his squamous cheeks. Furthermore, his eyes were hidden by round steel-framed spectacles with yellow-tinted
lenses, solidly installed beneath arched eyebrows whose thin hair was indefinable in color.
The youth wore an extremely worn dark suit. His shoes were in good condition, but were of poor quality, with leather laces. The sleeves of his jacket, which were slightly short, revealed slim but solid wrists in perfect harmony with his long, sinewy hands, which were strongly-muscled. In sum, he was a young athlete, but his face was excessively unattractive unprepossessing and even slightly repugnant. The fellow could not be lacking in strength of mind, though, and was obviously self-confident, for, under the keen examination of Monsieur Roudine and Vassily—a typical “Russian student” nearing his 30th year—the enigmatic bomb-thrower maintained the straightforward and easy-going manner that he had assumed as soon as the breathlessness induced by his rapid and sustained flight had eased.
“Monsieur!” darted the old man—who, despite his evident collusion with “comrades,” of whom Vassily was one, had evidently never adopted the intimate form of address habitual in anarchist and Russian nihilist milieux—“you must be French, since Vassily spoke to you in the French language in the vestibule. An affiliated anarchist?”
In a firm, incisive voice, the young man replied: “Anarchist, yes. Affiliated, no. Isolated, independent.”
“Our comrade Vassily, Monsieur,” Roudine went on, “has probably saved your life, and has, in any case, helped you very efficaciously. You don’t owe him any gratitude, however, and you owe me no more for any aid that I might give you with respect to your ambitions and projects. Vassily was doing his duty to a comrade; I am doing and shall do mine. But you’ll doubtless understand, of course, that before discovering your ambitions and your projects in order to help you to facilitate their realization, we need to be fully satisfied of being taken into your confidence—at least with regard to the plan of action that gave us the pleasure of seeing you here.”
Enter the Nyctalope Page 7
