“What?” cried the man, not hiding his surprise. “Does Saint-Clair know something?”
“He’s guessed everything! Gamma’s imprudence has borne fruit. The wretch fully deserved the dozen bullets that punctured his chest. Get on with it! The monoplane, quickly!”
When the man had gone, though, disappearing into one of the buildings, Koynos continued, soliloquizing: “I was afraid of this! The Nyctalope is powerful, I know that. He alone has explored these regions sufficiently to discover the radiomotive station. Everything must be destroyed before he gets here—for he can embark on the Bordeaux-Timbuktu dirigible that leaves Bordeaux on the ninth and 20th of every month, and continue from Timbuktu by airplane. Oh, if only I could go back to Mars straight away! But I have to obey Oxus and see Bastien. Besides, to tell the truth, I’m not displeased by the prospect of pitting myself against the Nyctalope. He has beaten me, previously, in the field of geographical exploration; I shall be proud to beat him, in my turn, on ground that is much more dangerous. I’ve already take Xavière from him. I still have to hold on to her, for that Devil of a man is fully capable of coming all the way to Mars to fight me for her. Fortunately, apart from the two mechanics that are here, no one in the world knows about the invention of radioplanes. This time, thanks of Oxus, I shall be much the stronger—but there’s the small matter of preventing the Nyctalope from getting here before I’m well and truly ensconced in our place on the Argyre Island...”
Koynos was so preoccupied that this monologue, uttered in a low voice, would have continued if a sort of large white bird had not suddenly emerged on to the terrace from one of the 16 buildings to come to a graceful halt on the esplanade a few paces away from him. It was a monoplane aircraft very similar to the one that the French aviator Blériot had demonstrated, a few years before, by crossing the channel from Calais to Dover. Its engine was, however, entirely different; the XV had discovered a light and compact electric motor, which extracted the necessary electricity from the surrounding air. It was the perfect solution to the problem of aerial navigation: no breakdowns; no combustible fuel to transport; just a simple machine taking electricity from the atmosphere and using it immediately as a motive force.
The man who had greeted the Commander leapt out of the cockpit, where there was a double seat. Alpha, who had not said a word, installed himself therein without interrupting his silence; Koynos sat next to him, took hold of the steering-apparatus with one hand, and depressed a lever with the other.
“Put the radioplane away and carry out my orders immediately!”
“Don’t worry, sir. Until your return, the esplanade will be bare; Normand and I will only come out in response to your call.”
“Right!” Koynos put his foot on a pedal and pressed down. Immediately, the airplane moved away on three small wheels; its mobile wings shuddered, it took off and hurtled away.
Two minutes later, it had disappeared over the huge trees of the virgin forest, heading north-north-east.
On October 8, at 4 a.m., the buffet at Bordeaux’ railway station, which had been empty since midnight, was suddenly invaded by passengers from the Bayonne train. Their eyes still swollen with sleep or reddened by insomnia, they slumped down at the tables, garnished with wood and porcelain, or stood up impatiently next to the sumptuous counter, behind which waiters in white aprons were hurrying back and forth. Loud voices intermingled with the racket of locomotives rolling and whistling beneath the glass roof, wheelbarrows being pushed along the platforms and the precipitate steps of people running in and out.
When the tide of travelers had suddenly appeared, a man with a tourist’s cap pulled down over his eyes and the collar of his overcoat turned up had already been sitting in front of a steaming glass of coffee at a small table isolated in the darkest corner of the buffet. While nervously stirring the full glass with a spoon, he looked intently at the people coming in. Suddenly, his little eyes brightened; his right hand ceased its turning movement, and he made a rapid gesture with his left. At the same moment, a traveler detached himself from the crowd and marched straight towards the isolated table.
The waiting man got up, held out his hand to the new arrival, and said in a low voice: “God protect the Master! Good day, Koynos!”
“The Master is strong! Good day, Bastien. I’m frozen. Give me a sip of your coffee and let’s go. We’ll talk on the platform.”
“Drink!”
Koynos took the glass from the hands of the man he had called Bastien—and who, in Paris, was secretary to Monsieur Sanglier, the chief of the Sûreté. He drank a few sips eagerly, and then returned the glass to Bastien, who emptied it in one draught. The coffee had been purchased in advance, which permitted the two companions to make an immediate exit.
On the platform, they marched to a shadowed corner, stopping in the embrasure of a sealed-up door; there, once they had made sure that no one was within earshot, they voiced the same thought simultaneously: “This will do.”
“Your telegram worried me, Bastien”, the traveler said, immediately. “I got it the day before yesterday, via the wireless telegraph in Leopoldville. I came at once, covering the 5000 kilometers that separate the Congo station from Bordeaux in 27hours.
“Did you come in the Lightning?”
“Yes, it’s hovering at his moment above the Bassin d’Arcachon; tomorrow night, dead on midnight, I have to be at a prearranged spot on the shore between Arcachon and La Teste. The aircraft will pick me up there.”
“Who’s piloting it?”
“Alpha. Talk, though—your telegram was more alarming than explanatory. What’s up?”
“Well,” said Bastien, “the thing is that Saint-Clair has discovered…”
“That’s Saint-Clair the Nyctalope, the African explorer?”
“Yes. He knows that the abductions were carried out by means of 15 airplanes. That dagger in Jolivet’s heart was a stupid move—it put Saint-Clair’s keen mind on the trail.”
“The stupidity has been punished. Gamma, who left the dagger in Jolivet’s heart, has been shot.”
“Good!”
“Is that all, then? What does it matter, after all, if the Nyctalope…?”
“Wait! Read this. It’s a paragraph from the Brussels Petit Bleu.”
Koynos took the piece of paper that Bastien handed him, and by the vague light of a distant electric lamp, he read the following lines:
INDEPENDENT STATE OF THE CONGO
Leopoldville, September 21. A messenger from Louholcha reports that, at the beginning of August, the natives living on the shores of Lake Leopold II in Aquilonda saw 15 large white birds of a species unknown in this country flying over the lake. It is presumed that they were eagles or horned owls from the unexplored regions of Basanga and the great equatorial forest. If the information was exact in every particular, it proves that eagles and African horned owls do not only live in couples—but the indigenous shore-dwellers of Lake Leopold II and the inhabitants of Aquilonda are notoriously untrustworthy.
“That’s clear enough!” said Bastien. “For a fellow as clever as the Nyctalope, that information’s worth a 100-page report.”
“So what?” muttered Koynos.
“So this, in a few words—listen! Saint-Clair; Admiral de Ciserat; his orderly, the naval Ensign Damprich; Roger Bontemps, the Quartermaster; Tory, Saint-Clair’s valet; and Maximilien Jolivet, the brother of the young woman whose father was stabbed by Gamma—six solid and resolute men in all—are in Bordeaux.”
“What about you, Bastien?”
“After worming half the secret of the expedition out of Monsieur Sanglier, I guessed the rest and had myself seconded to the Admiral. It wasn’t easy! I finally succeeded, though.”
“Good. And now?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow for Brazzaville, by the service dirigible.”
“But it only goes as far as Timbuktu!”
“Don’t you know? Four days ago, the line was extended to Brazzaville. In the Congo, on orders cabled by
the Admiral—who’s the Minister of Marine, remember—an expeditionary troop will be ready, marine infantry and native riflemen. The military aircraft in service in the colony, which is as French as it is Belgian, have been requisitioned. Four others are disassembled in the baggage-holds of the dirigible. On the other hand, for some time now, the radiographic stations in France and England have been detecting Hertzian waves of considerable power radiating from the Congolese region… There’s been a great deal of speculation. That has tickled the nostrils of the Nyctalope, who knows Central Africa so well. Within a week, he’ll be in the heart of the place. How many men do you have out there?”
“Two,” Koynos replied, in a furious tone. “The technicians Breton and Normand.”
“Everyone else is already on Mars?”
“Everyone—and but for you, I’d be on my way to Argyre Island and laughing at the Nyctalope, but Oxus didn’t want me to leave Earth without asking you whether you’re coming or staying.”
“I’m staying!” Bastien replied, curtly. “I’d rather have a fortune on Earth than adventures on Mars. I’m not a conqueror of worlds, myself.”
The spy had just pronounced the words that were his death-warrant, although he did not suspect it. The indifferent tone with which Koynos replied “All right, stay then!” could not have caused him any apprehension.
There was a brief silence between the two men.
“What are you going to do?” asked Bastien.
“Prevent the Nyctalope from reaching the radiomotive station for ten full days, at whatever cost. I need that time to carry out Oxus’ wishes and get back to Argyre Island. After that, the Admiral’s expedition is irrelevant to me. The station will be destroyed at midnight on the tenth day. It’s now October 8, so that will be on October 18. Listen, Bastien! Here’s my plan. What’s the dirigible called?”
“La Gironde.”
“Are there any seats available?”
“No, but to prepare in advance for any eventuality, I’ve booked two cabins, one in the name of the Marquis de Briage, property-owner, the other in the name of Monsieur Devispontain, businessman, and…”
At that moment, a train arrived, very noisily, and stopped in front of the two men, flooding the platform with the light of its carriages.
“Come on!” said Koynos, putting his arm under Bastien’s.
They drew away, resuming their whispered conversation. They disappeared into the darkness of the wooden buildings adjacent to the station. A quarter of an hour later, when they reappeared on the platform, not far from the door of the buffet, the train had gone.
“It’s understood, then,” said Koynos. “I’ll send the aircraft back without me, and embark on the dirigible.”
“Disguised and made up, though? Saint-Clair knows you—don’t forget that you were rivals in Africa.”
“Don’t worry, my dear Bastien. You won’t recognize me yourself. But once La Gironde is on its way, keep your eyes open!”
“Of course!”
“And let’s not miss the first opportunity to throw the Nyctalope overboard!”
“I’ll create the opportunity, and without delay.”
“In any case, it’s necessary that Saint-Clair doesn’t reach Brazzaville. As for the Admiral’s expedition, it’s a matter of indifference to me. With the Nyctalope gone, no one will be able to discover the station before October 18; after that, they’ll find nothing but ruins.”
“That’s understood, my dear Koynos. It will cause considerable distress to Mademoiselle Xavière, who appeared to me to be singularly fond of the Nyctalope. Until tomorrow, Koynos, at La Gironde. Don’t forget that you’re Monsieur Devispontain. Oh, I nearly forgot… Here are the identity papers, which might be necessary. I made them up myself in the chief of the Sûreté’s office! These are for Monsieur Devispontain, these others for Monsieur de Briage.”
Koynos slipped the papers that Bastien handed to him into his pocket.
“Until tomorrow, Koynos, at the dirigible! I’m going back to the hotel.”
“Until tomorrow—God protect the Master!”
“The Master is strong!”
And with these words, the two affiliates separated. While Koynos went into a waiting-room, Bastien went to the exit, gave his platform ticket to the guard, and launched himself into one of the cabs lined up in front of the station. After giving an address to the driver, he pulled his cap down again, raised the collar of his overcoat a little further and murmured: “Finally, I shall be rich and free! With the Nyctalope expedited into the other world, I’ll get off at Timbuktu and embark on the returning dirigible; then I’ll go to the Banque de France, armed with the letter of credit that Koynos will give me. Then it’s on with the high life!”
He remained contemplative for a moment; then, passing on to ideas of a different order, he took out his watch.
“Five o’clock. I hope they’re all asleep and that no one will see me come in.”
Almost immediately, the carriage stopped in front of the concierge, who opened the main door dutifully. Bastien hurried up the stairs.
After turning a corner, he opened his bedroom door, which he had left ajar, and went in without making a sound, murmuring: “No one.”
Just as he closed it, though, a human form emerged from a dark corner and crept forward to place an ear to the lock, inside which a key turned with a slight grating sound. It remained there for a long time, motionless. Then, satisfied that there was nothing more to hear, the mysterious listener stood up and disappeared into the depths of the corridor, treading silently.
In that era, regular dirigible services existed throughout the world. In France, they were organized by the recently-established Compagnie Transatlantique Aérienne. The dirigibles employed were of the primitive République variety so popular in 1909, but much improved. The engine, the ascensional force, the general solidity, the means of wind-resistance and the controls for taking off and landing had all been made as easy, as perfect and as powerful as regular public transport required. The Paris-Bordeaux, Paris-Marseille, Paris-Lyon, Paris-Le Havre and Paris-Lille lines laid on three return journeys per week, the Le Havre-New York and Marseille-Algiers lines one a week, and Marseille-Tenerife and Bordeaux-Timbuktu—which, four days before, had become Bordeaux-Brazzaville with a stopover at Timbuktu—two a week.
Aircraft had progressed even more rapidly. Every regiment in France and every colonial battalion possessed an improved airplane of the “Blériot” type. In addition, public rapid-transport lines, by biplane and monoplane, for passengers without baggage, criss-crossed France, thanks to the initiative of the wealthy Compagnie Aérienne Métropolitaine, which had taken on the Voisin brothers, old Blériot and his son, Farman and 20 other famous aviators as directors of service or construction.7 That company’s aircrafts left France in all directions, for the entire world, crossing seas, oceans and mountain ranges, not following regular timetables or itineraries, but according to the needs and caprices of travelers.
To sustain the competition, the railways had been forced to reduce their transportation tariffs enormously and create special luxury trains powered by electricity. Even passenger ships felt the influence of the aerial trans-Atlantic lines, because, while when they were not obliged to travel with the immediate accompaniment of numerous heavy items of luggage, rich travelers preferred aerial routes, which offered better views, greater comfort and greater rapidity.
It was for these reasons that Admiral de Ciserat, instead of using the ocean-going torpedo-boat that he could have obtained by governmental decree, in view of the national interests at stake in his expedition, had preferred to book places for himself and his staff on the dirigible La Gironde. He had merely asked the Compagnie Transatlantique Aérienne to extend its itinerary as far as Brazzaville, and the company had consented without any objection.
It is true that the mysterious disappearance of 15 young Frenchwomen had provoked considerable consternation. Here, succinctly, are the facts that had emerged between the disap
pearances and the present day, October 8, emerging from multiple simultaneous inquiries carried out by the police and the newspapers, and verified, collated and summarized by the explorer Leo Saint-Clair, who showed himself in these circumstances to be an amateur detective worthy of comparison with the great Sherlock Holmes.
On the night of September 17, in Paris, 15 young women, equally beautiful and equally remarkable for their flourishing health, had disappeared without leaving the slightest trace. No doors or windows had been broken, neither had and money, papers or movable objects been stolen. In only one case had there been violence and bloodshed; Gaston Jolivet, the father of one of the vanished women, had been killed by the abductor, or abductors. This Jolivet, a poor working man, slept in the same room as his daughter, from whose bed his own was only separated by a curtain. A picturesque detail: Jolivet’s daughter, Mademoiselle Félicie, had been elected queen of the beauty queens of Paris on the previous mid-Lent holiday.
In one family—that of Admiral de Ciserat, the Minister of Marine—two young women had been kidnapped. Thirteen other families were in despair.
On the afternoon of September 17, a confectioner’s delivery-boy had presented himself, at brief intervals, at the homes of the 14 families, always for seemingly plausible and natural reasons, and had persuaded them to purchase some exquisite cream cakes. These cream cakes had been consumed by the 14 families, according to the details ascertained on their awakening on the morning of September 18; it was evident that the cakes contained a narcotic drug.
A significant detail: it was proved that the murdered man, Gaston Jolivet, had not eaten any of the cake. He had, therefore, been woken up by the noise of his daughter’s abduction, but a dagger-blow sustained at the time had prevented him from crying out. The dagger remained buried to the guard in the left side of his breast, allowing the sight of the following enigmatic inscription deeply engraved in the steel of the hilt: The Oath of the XV.
The 15 abductions had numerous similarities:
The Nyctalope on Mars 1: The Mystery of the Fifteen Page 4
