In the same room, a clock on the mantelpiece sounded its silvery chimes. After the seventh sonorous chime here was an extensive prolongation of subtle vibrations, and silence.
The three young men looked at one another, severe, sullen and anxious at the same time—and Robert Champeau said, duly: “Nothing. He hasn’t come back. He hasn’t telephoned Professor Dorsang, since we haven’t heard the telephone ring.”
“Let’s ask the Professor,” said Croqui.
“All right!” said Champeau. He picked up the transmitter. “Hello!”
It was Monsieur Dorsang himself who answered.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” Champeau murmured—and he hung up, growling: “Nothing!”
“Alert the General, then,” said Croqui.
“Of course!”
The consequences that second telephone call were immediate, and had a prompt sequel that proceeded without any interruption—which is to say that at 8 a.m. on the morning of Wednesday March 20, the Rue du Fossé in the Rive neighborhood of Geneva was invaded by 20 men who had arrived in a van that stopped outside number 18.
Under the deep porch, the door to the building was open. There was a young woman on the threshold who was just about to go out, with a milk-jug in one hand and a basket in the other. She was pushed back to the end of the corridor.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! What’s going on? What do you want?” she complained, in a strong Basle accent.
The men were now filling the corridor. One of them, followed by three young men, stopped in front of the maidservant, from whom the others were immediately separated, sent to form a cordon in the street, where two were stationed in front of the motionless van and two to either side of the door.
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
The trembling maidservant replied volubly to the gentleman who was interrogating her, whom she guessed to be the one in charge of the others. “My name is Frieda Diegmann. I cook and keep house for Madame Doctor Olga Cheminska, who is well-known to everyone in the neighborhood.”
“Very well! We’ll see about that.”
Looking around the rectangular cul-de-sac that formed the extremity of the corridor, the Commissaire only saw one door, to his right. It seemed respectably bourgeois. A well-polished copper plate was gleaming there, on which was engraved in old-fashioned black letters:
MADAME OLGA CHEMINSKA
General Practitioner
Also gleaming, equally well-polished, was a little copper square next to the doorpost, from which projected the button of an electric bell.
“My word,” said the Commissaire. “I’ve never been here before, although this is my native neighborhood, but I know Doctor Cheminska by name.” He was muttering in a very low voice, while looking at the three young men grouped closely around him. “Her reputation is excellent…a great philanthropist, and knowledgeable and charitable physician. Ahem! I’m rather afraid that there’s been another mistake…” Lowering his voice even further, and lowering his head, he added in a confidential tone: “In these affairs of espionage and intrigue, one often comes across empty houses or false addresses. Are you quite certain, you three, that it’s number 18, Rue du Fossé?”
In the same tone, and in unison, Champeau, Croqui and Degains replied: “Quite certain!”
“Ahem! Well, we shall see!” Turning back to the maidservant, who seemed to have recovered her tranquility, the Commissaire asked: “Is Madame the Doctor at home?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“You have the key, of course.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Well, open up and go tell Madame the Doctor that a Commissaire of the Special Police dealing with foreigners is obliged to speak to her without delay. I shall come in with you, and these three gentlemen too. Go on, open up!”
With a gesture, he invited the three young Frenchmen to follow him. The instructions they had received from high places less than half an hour earlier had imposed a duty on them that they were carrying out with good grace and sympathy.
As might have been expected after these preliminaries, however, Madame Doctor Cheminska exclaimed in astonishment, showed herself to be discreetly indignant, but yielded nevertheless to the request of the Commissaire—who, she had to admit, was only doing his duty—and opened all the interior doors of her apartment. The visit had no result. Through one of the kitchen doors they gained access to a rather large courtyard with no other exit, surrounded by the blank walls of other low and dilapidated buildings, which, on investigation, did not offer anything suspicious. There was nothing in the old paved courtyard, between the paving-stones of which grass was growing, but a sort of drain-opening, with a movable trap-door, into which Madame Cheminska’s maidservant threw household rubbish.
The Commissaire’s investigations, aided by Champeau, Croqui and Degains, were scrupulous, since they lasted until midday. It was necessary to accept that Madame the Doctor was above suspicion and that nothing supported the belief that a den of nihilists and criminal spies was established at number 18, Rue du Fossé. On interrogation, the neighbors declared that Madame Cheminska received a great many visitors at all hours, but that they had never seen anything abnormal, suspicious or even particularly remarkable.
At 1 p.m., when Champeau, Croqui and Degains returned to their chalet in the Sanatorium, where Genera Le Breuil was waiting for them, they were in despair, although not all equally so. And the General, who shared a meal of cold meat and fruit brought from the Sanatorium by a trusted servant, observed throughout the meal that the face and attitude of Jean Degains differed noticeably from those of his companions. Champeau and Croqui were downcast and somber, while Degains was meditative and intense.
In the end, the General could bear it no longer. As they got up to go into the garden and stroll around it while talking over the situation, he clapped the young Briard on the shoulder and said, in a paternally authoritative fashion: “Come on, my friend, you’ve thought of something your comrades haven’t. What is it?”
On these words, Champeau and Croqui, who were walking in front, stopped and turned round. They saw Degains smile slightly, and heard him reply: “It’s a question of chimneys, General.”
“What?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you got an idea?”
Degains shook his slender head, with its slightly superabundant red hair, and said, calmly: “Let’s not go out yet, if you please. I need a table, some blank paper and a pencil. We’ve got all that in the study.”
“Well, let’s go in then,” said the General.
Two minutes later, Le Breuil and the three youths were seated around the table in the study, from which Degains had removed the telephone apparatus in order to make more room. He spread out a large sheet of blank paper in front of him and, with his pencil in his hand, he set about making a line-drawing, and then another, and yet another—which were, in reality, architectural plans in elevation, in profile and in surface.
While drawing, he talked. “This is how numbers 16, 18 and 20, Rue du Fossé, presented themselves to us, with their facades connected to one another: the doors, the windows, the roofs. Good! I’m sure of my memory. When my eyes see something, there’s a photograph in my brain…
“Look—here, on the roofs, are all the chimneys that I saw, counted and observed. This one and this one belong to house number 16, and these two to number 20. All right, nothing more to say. This other one, here, is the collective chimney of the two hearths that are in the doctor’s apartment; again, nothing more to say. But do you see? There are three more chimneys here, in the very center, two of them narrow earthenware pipes, one very broad, built of stone. They must belong, without any possible doubt, to house number 18. Now, inside that house, we only saw the doctor’s two hearths—hearths whose flues, coming together in the wall, have only one outlet on the roof.
“So, the question arises: to what are the three supplementary chimneys connected? And one conclusion imposes itself—one alone. House number
18 is deceptive. To the view of a police search, it only offers the doctor’s apartment: living rooms on the ground floor, bedrooms on the first floor, attic store-rooms under the roof. All well and good. But what about the supplementary chimneys?”
He fell silent, and looked at General Le Breuil, Robert Champeau and René Croqui one after the other, all of whom were stupefied. Then, with a little smile at the corners of his mouth, he went on: “My father is an architect. I’ve learned from him that quite often, as a chance result of successive constructions, the layouts of houses can offer one or more optical illusions that, by virtue of lack of a distant standpoint or the impossibility of seeing the whole from a bird’s eye view, prevent one from getting an exact, complete and detailed impression of the buildings, especially if one is inside them. The only thing that can reveal the trickery, if there is some trickery, is a study of the quantity and position of the chimneys, relative to the number of hearths in the building…
“So, when I saw that there were three chimneys too many on the roof, relative to the interior hearths and their flues, the idea occurred to me that number 18 was deceptive, and that the trickery concealed an apartment. In consequence, that’s where Saint-Clair is imprisoned. That’s all.”
“Good God!” cried Champeau. “Why didn’t you say all that when we were out there with the police?”
“For two reasons,” Degains replied, without hesitation. “The first is that all this wasn’t very clear or definite in my mind. The second is that, since there’s trickery, it might very well include a secret means of escape, through which the criminals would have fled, perhaps even being able to take Saint-Clair with them, if they hadn’t killed him when the lady doctor, alerted by my revelations or by the Commissaire’s new attitude, had discreetly sent some signal. For, despite all appearances, I believe that Madame Cheminska is an accomplice of the spies. She’s cunning, of course—but when it comes to cunning, I’m as good as anyone, and I observed a gleam in the doctor’s eyes the whole time. A little glimmer in their utmost depths, which made me think: You’re telling us tales, buxom lady, you’re stringing us along and you’re laughing inside.” He thumped the table with his fist and got to his feet, saying, in a duly menacing tone: “But he who laughs last laughs longest.”
Champeau, Croqui and the General had also risen to their feet, excitedly. The first-named cried, violently: “Let’s go back there right away!”
“No,” said Degains, with stubborn quietness. “No, old chap, we must have patience. Precipitate and ill-considered action might get Saint-Clair killed. In my opinion, they will be content to hold him to get more out of his father, who is known to have more inventions in his head than just Radiant Z. Saint-Clair is a prisoner. A few hours more won’t aggravate the conditions of his captivity much more, but rather than risk being denounced by him—who must know a great deal about them by now—the bandits won’t hesitate to kill him if the alarm is raised.”
“What then?” sighed Croqui, tremulously.
“We use cunning, cunning and more cunning! Which doesn’t exclude audacity—on the contrary; I therefore add: audacity, audacity, and more audacity! But if it’s not completely dressed up beforehand in cunning, audacity might ruin everything!”
That was pure Jean Degains.
The General recognized therein the mark of a genius for the warfare of surprise attacks and ambushes. Immediately, he gave his approval: “Degains is right.”
“So be it!” said Champeau, still quivering with emotion. “But what are we going to do, exactly?”
“Patience!” murmured Degains, intensely meditative again. “I have an idea; we must let it mature. Go into the garden, will you? Leave me alone. I need to work, estimating certain measurements, by means of guesswork and memory, relative to the plans I’ve just drawn.”
Without paying any more heed to the compliant general, Champeau and Croqui, Jean Degains sat down again at the table, took up the pencil once again and leaned over the white sheet of paper streaked horizontally and vertically by judiciously-assembled black lines.
Chapter IV: Murder?
When night fell on that Thursday March 21, Leo Saint-Clair was only able to take approximate account of it by the time indicated by the ticking clock on the mantelpiece of the sealed studio, which had been nothing to him but a torture chamber since the morning.
Collapsed in an armchair, feverish, sometimes drowsy but always reawakened with a start by some cruel brutality on the part of the abominable Grigoryi, the unfortunate youth retained all his courage. He was suffering direly from thirst, and hunger was beginning to twist his stomach with dull cramps—which, he knew, would soon become sharper. He was also suffering from the numerous burns that his torturer had inflicted on his arms, his throat, the back of his neck and all over his naked torso, with matches, cigarettes or cigars. In spite of everything, though, his courage was still intact, and his soul was rigid, resolute and invincible.
Besides, a tenacious hope sustained him.
A hundred times during that terrible day he had told himself: In spite of all the walls, my friends and the police will get in here. Robert, René and Jean can’t have forgotten the address that I gave them as I left. The subterfuge mounted by Madame Cheminska will put them off momentarily, but won’t obliterate the idea that I put into their heads: that it’s at 18, Rue du Fossé, in the Rive neighborhood, that they must look for me. They’ll look for me and they’ll find me. Until then, I’ll be in pain—so be it! Pain is nothing. The real, the great, the only danger is that Grigoryi might have the time to stab me, strangle me or blow my brains out when my friends’ intervention occurs.
Then he would meditate, not without a frightful sadness and an invasive anguish: To die at 20! My dear Mama, my poor Papa! And what regrets I’d have, deep down! That those I love, and who love me, will be so unhappy! The life—the life that I saw before me, so vast, so rich in promises, tasks, exploits…and so beautiful! To die…the future life…eternal life…yes. Well, at least I shall die without talking, and my executioner, his masters and accomplices will have the rage of knowing nothing, of not being able to use my father’s invention, the genius of the engineer Pierre Saint-Clair, against France and the civilized world!
And again, with melancholy irony: Ah! I haven’t been the Nyctalope, the eighth wonder of the world, for very long!
Then he would start, and would be unable help emitting a cry or a groan, Grigoryi having just applied the incandescent tip of a cigar or a cigarette, or the flame of a match, to his living flesh, while sniggering something along the lines of: “But this is only a foretaste of the torture by fire, my lad! Tomorrow, we’ll try the iron bar, red-hot from the blow-torch, and even the moving and penetrating point of the flame projected by the blow-torch. Then, yes, you’ll begin to take account of the fact that there might perhaps by six or seven days of those little games. And if you fall unconscious, you know, I’ll make sure to revive you, and I’ll make you drink a hot and spicy glass of rum, or an infusion of tea, or of mint, and well-sugared and alcoholic condensed milk, in order to build up your strength…so that you can suffer more, and for longer…”
And after a pause, he would conclude, emphasizing his words: “At least until you decide to talk. The secret of Radiant Z, my lad! And then you’ll be saved, cared-for and set free! And who will care for you? Who will coddle you? Who will look at you with her big blue eyes full of compassion and intertwine her perfumed fingers with yours? Who? Aurora! The beautiful Aurora Malianova!”
Ah, what an intelligent, perverse and ferocious torturer! And what a tempter!
At the name of Aurora, and the evocation of what Aurora’s cares, smiles, gazes and caresses might bring—of the young woman in the immaculate nurse’s uniform who had suddenly opened up to him all the perspectives of passion and had caused him to feel the marvelous first stirrings of love—the unfortunate Leo suffered a pain even more violent, profound and tortuous than those of the burns, the thirst and the hunger.
Was he tempted?
Horror! Several times in the course of the long an accursed day he had to struggle, drawing strength from the utmost reaches of his soul, to resist the temptation of letting himself slide down the slope of dangerous dreams and desires…and that was the most difficult and terrible thing of all.
But the hours passed in the progression of that Gehenna. Night finally arrived.
He’ll go to sleep, Saint-Clair told himself, as he watched his torturer eating and drinking at the table, a little after 8 p.m. While he sleeps, I’ll be tranquil—and perhaps I’ll be able to sleep myself, in spite of the hunger, the thirst and the torment of the burns. Dear God, give me that sleep, and then new strength and courage. Dear God, guide my friends to me…
These reflections, prayers and invocations Leo Saint-Clair repeated until he was distracted from them by Grigoryi.
Having slowly finished eating and drinking, the colossus stood up and came over to his victim.
“You’ve certainly guessed,” he said, “that I shan’t be going short of sleep. I need it. It’s also necessary for you to sleep, so you’ll have enough strength tomorrow. But no tricks! Last night, I gave you the divan and I only slept on an armchair, like a night-watchman on his seat—which is to say, badly. Tonight, old chap, I intend to get the benefit of a good night’s sleep, so I’m going to get undressed and go to bed, to surrender myself to the deep and sound sleep to which I’m accustomed. I repeat, though—no tricks. I’ll have to tie you up in such a way that you won’t be able to get loose and do me a bad turn. Don’t move—you’ll be perfectly all right in this armchair, you’ll see.”
He went into the laboratory and came back with cords of various thickness. In a low voice he muttered: “You already have your hands pinned behind you—that’s all right. I’ll tie your feet together at the ankles, and one of them to the leg of the armchair. Good!” When he had finished, he continued in the same soft tone, as if he were talking to himself: “The shoulders now. The cords will pass over your breast and under your armpits and stick you to the back of the armchair. Perfect, eh? There you are, wedged in for the night. Have pleasant dreams, my boy! Imagine that Aurora, the beautiful, the gentle, the smiling Aurora…”
Enter the Nyctalope Page 12
