And finally, the formula had been found! The man from Barcelona had it, but he had been disposed of. Men had been sent to fetch it and should be back any minute!
The bell rang.
Fisturn carefully looked through the spy hole: it was his two acolytes, the same men whom the dead agent would have recognized as the two guests who had checked into the hotel in Barcelona late at night. Pressing on a hidden button in his chair, he let them in. Once they were in his sanctum, he asked:
“Do you have it?”
The taller of the two men looked afraid and finally muttered:
“Er, no. The Nyctalope took it.”
Fisturn blanched.
“What happened?”
”We followed your instructions to the letter. We checked in at his hotel, bribed the staff and managed to slip the bacillus into his food. But he left suddenly and we missed him at the station. We were forced to take the train after his. By the time we got to the Gare d’Austerlitz, he was already dead and the police had cordoned off the platform, so we hid in the rail yard and kept watch. A doctor arrived, then the Président du Conseil with the Nyctalope. I recognized him at once because I’ve seen his picture in the newspapers. He took the document and left…”
“Where were you while you were watching all this?” asked Fisturn, suddenly seized by a horrible presentment.
“Safe in the darkest portion of the rail yard.”
“Fools!” shouted the scientist. “Don’t you know that…”
“…Darkness does not exist for the Nyctalope!” concluded a strong voice from the other side of the room.
The three men turned round and saw the Nyctalope, smiling, pointing a Browning at them.
“Shoot him!” screamed Fisturn. “He can’t get us all before we kill him!”
As the two gangsters grabbed their guns, the Nyctalope shot out the electric array. The room was immediately plunged into total darkness.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said the Nyctalope.
In the dark, the Nyctalope saw Fisturn pull a test tube from his breast pocket.
“I’ve just been vaccinated by Doctor Yersin,” he said. “It won’t work.”
Fisturn recognized the name of the great French scientist who had vanquished the horrors of the plague and, with a gesture of defeat, placed the test tube on the table.
“We surrender,” he said, beaten.
That evening. 7:30 p.m. Leo had just finished dressing for an evening at the Opéra. After straightening his white tie, he grabbed his hat, then the invitation. I’m impatient to see Aida sung by that new diva, he thought. She’s become the toast of Paris. What’s her name already?... Ah yes, Laurence Païli…
Translated by Jean-Marc Lofficier
MARGUERITE
By Jean-Marc Lofficier
January 1942. Vichy had ordered a sweep of the region of Combefontaine, North of Lyon, for members of the Resistance. The Nyctalope was asked to go along; he was not happy because he despised the Milice, but when Jacques de Bernonville had told him that Hugues Mezarek might have returned, he felt he had no choice. He feared that the carnage the fearsome Belzebuth might wreak far exceeded that of Klaus Barbie.
They had been searching the village for an hour when the Nyctalope entered the Loubets’ house. The old farmer and his wife looked at him with the hostility he had come to recognize; in a corner, he noticed a small girl playing with a doll.
“What’s your name?” he asked the child.
“Laurence,” she replied.
“And what’s her name?” he said, pointing at the doll.
“Marguerite.”
“Can I hold her?”
The child reluctantly gave him the doll. He looked under its skirt. It was made in England.
“Where did you get it?” he said, giving the doll back.
“Yesterday was my twelfth birthday. The Tooth Fairy came in the middle of the night and brought me the doll. He said her name was Marguerite. He kissed me and told me to go back to sleep and not tell anyone.”
The Nyctalope stood up. The Milice was about to enter the Loubet house. He looked at the child. He looked at Marguerite.
“Please, Monsieur, take Marguerite for your daughter,” said Laurence, shyly handing him the doll. “Maybe she doesn’t have a Marguerite.”
The Nyctalope took the doll.
“I already searched this house,” he told the Milice. “There’s no one here except a couple of farmers and their granddaughter. False alarm.” Then, he whispered to Laurence: “I’ll take Marguerite but only because someone else might wonder what a British doll is doing here. Tell the Tooth Fairy that tonight, the border will be unguarded near Chaumont.”
After the War, the Loubets—father and daughter reunited at last—received a package in the mail that contained Marguerite. They searched in vain for the Nyctalope to thank him, but he had vanished.
THE HEART OF A MAN
by Roman Leary
Buenos Aires, 1947. Giraud was enjoying a café chico at Las Violetas when the hectoring voice of the Belgian piped up in his mind. How can you drink that mud, Giraud? You should have a sirop de cassis! There is a drink to delight the senses!
Giraud cringed and set down his cup. “Why don’t you leave me alone?” he muttered to himself. He quickly glanced around when he realized he had spoken aloud, but the other patrons of the elegant coffee house were lost in their own affairs and, to his relief, paid him no heed.
More and more of late, Giraud found himself thinking of the Belgian. It disturbed and annoyed him. He had spent the better part of 20 years trying to forget Hercule Poirot, and now, here, the man was, occupying his mind with all the force and vigor of a memory made only the day before. Worse, he was beginning to carry on active conversations with the little bastard, which was making him worry for his sanity.
Tut, tut, Giraud, the Belgian chided. You should welcome my wise counsel. Perhaps some time in my presence will serve to elevate your modest intellect.
Giraud ground his teeth. Modest intellect! He had once been called the greatest detective in France, hailed as a modern Vidocq, but then…
Ah, but then came the Renault case. You were overconfident, mon ami. If you had listened to Papa Poirot, you would not have arrested the wrong person. What a famous blunder! How fortunate I was there to save that young man from the guillotine!
Giraud closed his eyes and began to rub his temples. “That wouldn’t have happened,” he whispered. “I would have seen the truth in time. I would never send an innocent man to his death. Never…”
“Are you ill, Monsieur Giraud?” a man’s voice asked. He was speaking English, unusual in this city…
“I’m quite all right,” Giraud snapped. He was embarrassed, and was about to tell the man to leave him alone when he was silenced by a sudden chill.
The man had called him by name.
Giraud had been living in Buenos Aires under an assumed name since 1945. There were only two people in Argentina who knew his true identity, and neither of them owned the voice he had just heard.
Giraud slowly opened his eyes. Standing before him was a tall, powerfully built man in a gray double-breasted suit. He was pale, square-jawed and clean shaven, with a wiry crew-cut that gave him a military air. His black eyes, as round and cold as a shark’s, regarded Giraud with analytical detachment. Giraud was a big man, but something in those eyes made him feel small and vulnerable.
Compose yourself, Giraud, Poirot said in a soothing, paternal tone. Let us draw this fellow out, eh? Find out how much he knows.
Giraud had to admit it was a good strategy. He smiled and chuckled, relaxing into a pose of friendly nonchalance. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, sir,” he said. “My name is...”
“I have not made a mistake,” the man interrupted. He spoke in a slightly reproving tone that, despite its gentleness, hummed with an undercurrent of menace. “You are Henri Giraud, formerly of the Sûreté Nationale. During the German occupation, you
worked with SIPO-SD Section Four, the Gestapo in France. When the war was over, you fled here to escape prosecution as a collaborator.”
Our question is answered, Poirot said. He knows everything.
Giraud’s heart was hammering. God, what a disaster! Perhaps he could brazen it out. “Of all the impertinence!” he sputtered. “How dare you insult me with these slanderous allegations! And in a public place, at that!” He made an expansive gesture and took the opportunity to glance at the exits. Had those men been there before? It was a warm day, but they were both wearing long coats… He reached into his own jacket and searched for the comforting heft of his only friend, a .25 Beretta. He found nothing but lint.
“Your pistol was removed earlier by one of my associates,” the man said, his dark eyes boring into Giraud’s skull. “I am sad to say that it was done rather easily.”
Giraud felt his front of righteous indignation cracking from the pressure of his rising panic. “I don’t have to tolerate this…this…” Words failed him. He started to rise, but the man held up his hand in an unmistakable warning. He then lowered the hand and Giraud, as if hypnotized, followed the motion back into his chair.
“Are you going to continue with these childish theatrics?” the man asked. “Or would you like to stop while you still have some modicum of dignity?”
Giraud opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his tongue. He sighed heavily, gathered his nerve, and met the stranger’s penetrating gaze. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, Monsieur…?”
“I have the advantage of most people,” the man said. He sat down in the chair opposite Giraud and gestured for a waiter. He ordered water with lemon and stared silently at Giraud while he waited for it to arrive. Giraud began to feel like a naughty schoolboy who had been summoned to the headmaster: What is this I hear about you working with the Nazis, Henri? And don’t tell me everyone else was doing it because that’s not an excuse!
“Do you find something amusing?” the man asked as his water was set before him.
“Merely a random thought,” Giraud said. “I would be surprised if you didn’t know exactly what it was, since you seem to find me so completely transparent.”
“That sounds vaguely like a gibe,” the man said with a cold smile, “but it’s closer to the truth than you think.” He took a sip of his water. “While I may not be able to read your exact thoughts, I certainly know the spirit of them. I have always been able to see into the heart of a man, to know if he is brave or cowardly, honest or a liar.”
“Dare I ask what this penetrating insight tells you about me?”
“Your immediate terror at being recognized tells me that you live in the more or less constant fear that you will be caught and punished for your misdeeds. Logically, this fear is absurd. Your contribution to the Nazi machine was fairly inconsequential and hardly merits the sort of aggressive pursuit that would follow you here. You are intelligent enough to know this, but the fear remains. Why?”
Giraud drank some of his coffee. It was beginning to get cold.
“I submit to you that your fear is merely a symptom of your guilt,” the man continued. “This is unfortunate. I could use a man like you, but I have no patience for those who indulge in...”
“Stop,” Giraud said. “Stop right there. What did you mean by that? That you could use a man like me?”
The man tilted his head slightly. He considered for a moment, then said: “It doesn’t matter. I am afraid this interview has been a waste of your time and mine. There is no room in my organization for a man burdened with a conscience.” He began to rise from his chair. “Good day, Monsieur Giraud.”
“Wait,” Giraud said in a firm voice. “If you really know so much, then you must know how I have made a living for the past two years.”
“Of course,” the man replied. He was standing now, clearly impatient to leave. “You are a private detective.”
“Oh, I call myself that,” Giraud said with a derisive laugh, “but I’m really just a strong-arm, a hired thug. I earn enough to keep myself fed and clothed, but that’s about it.”
“What is this supposed to mean to me?”
“What do you think it means? It means I am in need of money, and more than that, a challenge!”
The man looked at his watch. “So?”
Giraud wanted to grab the man’s lapels and shake him, but he forced himself to be still, to speak in an even tone. “Well, Monsieur, you have gone to the trouble of seeking me out. I think you should at least let me hear your proposition. If my scruples balk at it, then dismiss me for a fool and leave me to languish in my so-called guilt.”
The man looked at Giraud. Was that renewed interest lurking in his eyes, or merely contempt?
He is looking into your heart, mon ami, Poirot said softly. What do you think he sees there?
The man gave a small nod. “Very well,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself, Monsieur Giraud. My name is Ernst Stavro Blofeld, and I would like to hire you to solve a murder.”
In dreams, they love him still…
The party is one of his wife’s usual triumphs. Laure can always find the perfect balance between good taste and gross ostentation. The guests practically stand in line to lavish him with praise for the food, the wine, the extraordinary beauty of the hostess… and he cannot stop wishing he were somewhere else.
It has been several months since his confrontation with the power-mad Lucifer; months of newlywed bliss and stupefying boredom. He finds himself secretly hoping for some urgent message, some desperate summons to action that will place him at the center of an epic struggle against a deadly foe. Home and hearth and the marriage bed are all well and good, but for a man such as he, they can never be enough. Perhaps he simply was not made for this sort of domestic...
His thoughts are interrupted by an insistent tapping of silver against crystal. “Your attention, everyone,” says a loud, authoritative voice. “Your attention, please.” The crowd falls silent as someone steps unsteadily onto a chair. It is his old friend, Prillant. The banker’s face is flushed with wine and bonhomie as he addresses the crowd. “I have just learned that our host, Monsieur Leo Saint-Clair, is a proud father-to-be!”
There is an eruption of applause and cheers. Leo waves to the gathering, twisting his grimace into a smile. Why did Laure have to start telling people so soon?
“Hear, hear!” someone in the crowd shouts. “Give us a toast, Prillant! A toast to Leo!”
Prillant grins and raises his glass. “To Leo! A young man who embodies the best of France, and therefore the best of the world! Who can match his heroism, his brilliance, his courage?”
“No one!” they respond, almost in unison.
“Who can boast of a stronger heart?” Prillant asks.
“A heart of steel!” someone shouts back, and Leo unconsciously reaches to his chest. His heart is mostly plastic, actually. But there is steel there as well. It is the only one of its kind, a life-saving gift from a medical genius, a man now long dead. Leo often closes his eyes in the night and concentrates on listening to the electric hum beneath its rhythmic pounding. He sometimes wonders if it will beat forever.
“And who, I ask, can match his extraordinary vision?”
They get the pun and reward it with laughter. His unique ability to see in complete darkness is what has earned him his alias, a name by which he is known around the world.
“To Leo Saint-Clair, better known as the Nyctalope! May he give France many fine sons!”
“To the Nyctalope!” they shout.
He raises a glass in acknowledgement and braces himself for the inevitable flood of congratulations, the endless hand-shaking and back-slapping. His eyes roam over the smiling faces, glowing with admiration, and he sees something that gives him pause.
It is the cool, sardonic gaze of a girl, one of the servers hired for the party. She is young—probably a student, most of them are—and astonishingly beautiful. She gives a small wave. Is that the glint
of a wedding ring? No matter. He feels a connection, tenuous but nonetheless immediate and undeniable.
She understands, he thinks. He does not know how he knows this, but he is certain it is true. She knows he does not belong here, and she is amused by the irony of it.
Her full, red lips lift in a wry smile. He has just enough time to smile back before the first of the well-wishers come between them.
It takes a full 30 minutes to find his way to her.
And another ten to get her alone.
“It’s a mistake to have your men wearing long coats in this weather,” Giraud said. “The moment I saw them, I knew they belonged to you.”
“Do you feel this knowledge gave you power over me?” Blofeld asked.
Giraud grunted and looked out the window. They were in the backseat of a sleek black Cadillac Sixty Special. It wasn’t the most luxurious car that Giraud had ever been in, but it came close. Blofeld’s minions—a pair of efficient automatons named Fitz and Carlos—were in the front.
Fitz, the driver, was handsome to point of absurdity. His blonde hair, chiseled jaw, and ice blue eyes were almost a caricature of Hitler’s Aryan ideal. Giraud thought it was little wonder the man had survived the war. He had probably spent the entire time modeling for SS recruiting posters.
Carlos was younger and smaller, but Giraud thought he was infinitely more dangerous. Fitz seemed too aloof to think there could be any real danger to himself or his master, but Carlos’ eyes were always moving; observing and cataloging everything and everyone around him. His long fingers compulsively clenched and unclenched, as if he were yearning to spot a potential threat so that he could have the pleasure of eliminating it. Giraud had not been surprised to discover that it was Carlos who had lifted his gun.
“You could be the best pickpocket I’ve ever met,” Giraud had said when the little man returned it to him, empty of bullets.
Enter the Nyctalope Page 14
