The pretended old man marched up to the young man, took him by the arm and drew him rapidly towards the guard-rail. In the immense yawning gulf beneath the dirigible the waves of the sea were crashing into one another, their spray rising into their air.
“Why have you come here?” said Bastien, in a rapid and slightly anxious voice. “It’s not yet midnight, and our meeting was fixed for 2 a.m.”
“Everything is discovered!” breathed Saint-Clair, rendering his voice unrecognizable.
“Koynos!” Bastien exclaimed. “Is it possible? How can it be?”
All of a sudden, though, the old man stood up straight, let his fur-lined cloak fall away, tore away his white hair and beard with an abrupt gesture, and the Nyctalope, shoving the spy into the beam of the navigation-light, revealed himself to Bastien. The latter opened his mouth, petrified—but before the instinctive cry could spring forth, Saint-Clair growled: “Silence, Bastien! Silence, or you’re a dead man!” And he pressed the point of his dagger to the young man’s throat.
Bastien opened his eyes wide; his entire body was seized by a terrible tremor.
“You…you!” he stammered.
“Yes, me,” said Saint-Clair, in a contained voice. “I was suspicious. The name Koynos that sprang from your lips has made me certain, Bastien. If you value your life, do as I say—for I swear to you that I won’t hesitate to bury this dagger in your throat and throw you overboard immediately afterwards.”
The event was so extraordinary, however, and so unexpected, that Bastien did not even dream of resisting. He stammered again: “It’s you, Saint-Clair!” And his eyes expressed a mad terror. He sensed confusedly that he was lost; he saw everything discovered, his projects destroyed forever, and Koynos arrested.
“Who is Koynos?” growled the Nyctalope.
“He’s the Commander-in-chief of the Fifteen.”
“Are you obedient to him?”
“Yes.”
“What does he plan to do?”
“Fight!” exclaimed a new voice, dully—and a colossus loomed up behind Saint-Clair, who felt a hand grip his neck while another closed over his mouth.
“Koynos!” breathed Bastien.
“Yes—help me!”
In less than a minute, Saint-Clair was knocked down, and rolled up in his own fur cloak. Koynos lifted up the shapeless mass, ran to the guard-rail, leaned over, extended his arms and threw the Nyctalope overboard.
Koynos remained there for a moment, leaning over the gulf, at the bottom of which the invisible sea was breaking; then, with a satisfied laugh, he turned round. He saw Bastien tottering; overwhelmed by violent and contradictory emotions, the young man was on the point of fainting.
Koynos shivered. He’s the only one, outside the Fifteen, who knows everything, he said to himself. He has betrayed Sanglier; he might betray us. Besides, Oxus has condemned him. I’ll do without him—he might as well disappear! I’d have had to kill him before leaving—the sea’s better than a dagger!
Without hesitating for a second, Koynos seized Bastien, lifted him up, and with a single movement threw him over the rail.
“One enemy and one traitor less,” Koynos murmured, “and all in one night. Good work! The Master will be pleased—and Xavière is mine!”
At that moment, a terrible scream, a long and heart-rending cry of anguish, rose up from the dark profundity. Who was it—Saint-Clair or Bastien? The murderer shivered, and hid in a corner beyond the each of any of the dirigible’s lights. He waited, listening—but the cry was not repeated and there was no sign aboard La Gironde to suggest that the desperate appeal had been heard. Perhaps the dreams of the officer of the watch had been troubled, but he might have taken the scream for the call of a sea-bird, or even the product of a hallucination.
At any rate, when a few peaceful minutes had gone by, the old man with the white beard who had taken such an interested in Bontemps and Tory’s billiard game went quietly back into his cabin, hunched over his stick with the silver pommel. He went through the door marked with the number 17. He had not encountered anyone on the deck, the staircases or in the corridors.
A quarter of an hour later, a man came out of that same cabin carrying a light valise in his left hand. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a clean-shaven face, with neither beard not moustache, an aquiline nose and large, intimidating black eyes. The man looked around rapidly, and slid rapidly along the floor to the door marked with the number 15. He introduced they key that he was holding in his right hand into the lock; the door opened and the man went in, closing it quietly behind him.
“No matter,” he said. “I was lucky to catch sight that old man who resembled me so closely coming out of the smoking-room, without being seen by him. Without that stroke of luck I’d have been lost, and Bastien too. Poor Bastien—his destiny hasn’t changed, but mine…ah, that Saint-Clair was a powerful man. Fortunately, I was as strong as he was. Poor Admiral! No one will fight me for Xavière now.”
Moments later, lying down fully-dressed on the bunk of cabin No. 15, the man smiled and murmured: “The Captain will have a surprise in the morning. Damn! Three passengers vanished in a single night. And what passengers: Saint-Clair, the celebrated explorer; Monsieur Bastien, secret delegate of the Parisian Sûreté; and Monsieur Devispontain, the rich old cosmopolite, the original occupant of cabin No. 17. Yes—but by way of compensation, the Captain will make the acquaintance of the Marquis de Briage, the previously-invisible inhabitant of cabin No. 15.”
And with these words, Koynos allowed a smile of satisfaction to wander silently over his lips.
The following day, at 10 a.m., Quartermaster Bontemps, under the Admiral’s orders, went to knock on the door of Saint-Clair’s cabin. Not receiving any response, he turned the handle. The cabin was empty. In order to find out more, Bontemps knocked at the door of Bastien’s cabin and then went in; there was no one there. Then he went to the library, the smoking-room, the bathroom and the dining-room; he went up to the deck, interrogated the crew, the officers and the passengers—Saint-Clair and Bastien were nowhere to be found. Tory, once alerted, immediately joined him in an equally futile search.
When the mariner and the domestic went into the Admiral’s cabin to inform him, with some astonishment regarding the negative result of their research, Ensign Damprich was there.
The Admiral and the Ensign listened to the two men with increasing surprise.
“Damn!” said Admiral de Ciserat. “A dirigible isn’t a jungle. You’ve looked everywhere?”
“Everywhere.”
“You’ve asked around?”
“Yes, Admiral; we’ve interrogated everyone who knows Messieurs Saint-Clair and Bastien.”
“Strange, strange!” said Ciserat, becoming anxious. His surprise became anguish, though, when Tory and Bontemps told him that, at about 11 p.m. on the previous evening, while they were playing cards, Monsieur Saint-Clair had come in and, with their aid, dressed himself up in a disguise that rendered him absolutely similar to the old man with such an interest in billiards.
“My master even took a dagger,” Tory said.
“A dagger!” said the admiral. “So he thought he might need to defend himself—and you didn’t accompany him!”
“He specifically forbade me to follow him!”
“There’s a terrible drama behind this!” cried Damprich. “Admiral, let’s go talk to the Captain. But first, listen!” And he told them about his suspicions of Bastien, the discoveries that had let to those suspicions, and, finally, the conversation he had had with Saint-Clair the previous evening.
“Come on!” said the Admiral, emotionally. “Come with me, Bontemps; follow us, Tory!”
The four men headed for the cabin occupied by Captain Le Rohec, the dirigible’s commander. They asked for a private audience, which was immediately granted to them.
Le Rohec listened to the Admiral, who told him everything he knew on his own account and everything he had heard from Bontemps, Tory and Damprich.
And the Captain went out.
A quarter of an hour went by, 20 minutes, then half an hour. An inexpressible anguish gripped the four men, especially the Admiral and the Ensign—who, being more interested than the Quartermaster and the domestic in the expedition’s success and more conscious of its dangers, were asking themselves whether Saint-Clair and Bastien might have fallen into a trap, and whether they…
Finally, after three-quarters of an hour, the Captain came back into the cabin. He was frowning, and the pallor of his face testified to his extreme emotion. “Gentlemen,” he said, without preamble, “some terrible drama was played out last night on my vessel.” The Captain drew his passengers into a corner of the cabin and said, in a low voice: “The dirigible has been explored to its most obscure corners. Messieurs Saint-Clair and Bastien cannot be found. As for the mysterious old man, Monsieur Devispontain, he too has disappeared. His cabin is deserted; everything in his trunk is in order, nothing suspicious has been found. His disappearance remains as mysterious as that of your friends…”
“But at the end of the day,” exclaimed the Admiral, “three passengers can’t have disappeared like that without…”
“They have disappeared, Admiral,” Captain Le Rohec continued, “and I am certain—absolutely certain—that they are not hidden on the dirigible. Besides, that’s not all…”
“Ah!”
“No. Last night, 11 p.m., the Officer of the watch heard a loud scream from behind the airship, to starboard. The sound was not repeated and the Officer thought that it was the cry of a sea-bird, or perhaps the blare of a siren from some ship passing beneath us—at present, profiting from a propitious wind, the dirigible is only 100 meters or so above the waves. The Officer limited himself to alerting the Helmsman and keeping a sharp lookout.”
“Which tells us?” said Admiral de Ciserat.
“Nothing, except to continue our investigation. My opinion is that the three vanished men have been thrown into the sea. How? By whom? Perhaps by themselves, in the course of a fight in which the aggressors have been victims as well as those attacked, who dragged them to the guard-rail. Gentlemen, I asked you to keep this business secret. We shall work together to elucidate it…”
It was in mortal dread that the Admiral and Damprich took their leave of the Captain; Bontemps was furious, Tory desperate.
The investigation continued, discreetly. It yielded no result. The dirigible set down at the dock hastily erected at Brazzaville without any further light being shed on the frightful mystery—a mystery kept strictly secret by the Captain, with the Admiral’s formal consent. The passengers were led to believe that Messieurs Saint-Clair, Bastien and Devispontain, feeling slightly unwell, were confined to their cabins.
After the customary formalities, the first passenger who set foot on the gangway linking the dirigible to the docking-platform was the Marquis de Briage, a perfect gentleman. Initially airsick, he had taken no part in the communal life of the vessel until the second part of its journey, but he had quickly won everyone’s heart with the simultaneous gravity and joviality of his character, by his bon vivant’s gaiety and the casual ease with which he lost 20 louis at poker every night.
As he left the dirigible, Monsieur de Briage shook the Captain’s hand, the latter having accompanied him as far as the head of the gangway. To Admiral de Ciserat, who happened to be there—and with whom the Marquis had often chatted about the military arts—the noble passenger made an affectionate gesture of farewell, saying: “I hope we’ll meet again, Admiral, in some remote corner of the jungle.” Everyone aboard knew that the exceedingly rich Marquis de Briage, bored with Paris, was going in search of distraction by hunting game in the virgin forests of the Congo. He had left on his own, on a whim, he said, counting on putting together a company of native servants in Brazzaville, which he would take with him on his adventures.
Admiral de Ciserat did not respond to Monsieur de Briage’s invitation. He thought, dolorously, that that the quest that had brought him to the Congo—to recover Xavière, Yvonne and the 13 other young women from their kidnappers—did not, alas, have as much chance of success as the Marquis’ hunting expedition.
Once disembarked at Brazzaville, Admiral de Ciserat, Ensign Damprich, Bontemps, Tory and Maximilien Jolivet went to Governor’s palace, where apartments had been reserved for them. They were received by the Governor himself, who, after the preliminary greetings, presented a piece of paper to the Admiral, saying: “This radiotelegram arrived 20 minutes ago.”
The surprised Admiral unfolded the sheet and, in a voice suddenly broken by joy, exclaimed: “Saint-Clair’s code! He’s alive! He’s alive!”
In fact, the two leaders of the expedition had formulated a numerical alphabet, with the aid of which, if the occasion arose, they could correspond with the certainty of secrecy. Feverishly, the Admiral took out his portfolio and brought out a card covered in symbols. He put the card next to the cablegram, laid flat on a table. In front of the astonished Governor—who did not know about the disappearance of the three passengers from La Gironde—and with the passionate attention of his companions, he deciphered the message. Despite the slowness with which he effectuated this reading, he was not interrupted once.
Saint-Clair to Admiral de Ciserat.
Saved from death. Am at Palma in Balearics. Await me Brazzaville. Do not go into the jungle on any pretext. Death surrounds you; always go armed. Prepare expedition, airplanes. Above all, admit no one into your party. We have been betrayed by Bastien, but he gave me information, and is dead. If inquiries regarding us, stop them. Am certain of success. Secrecy in everything. Reply Dutot, Hotel Terminus, Palma.
“Read it again!” said Damprich, breathlessly. “Again!”
This joyful piece of paper was re-read 20 times over, in the midst of an excitement that seemed to increase at every reading. Suddenly, the Admiral folded the paper, put it into his pocket, laughing, and said: “Calm down, my lads, calm down! We know it by heart now.”
The Governor was stupefied. Tory, losing all sense of proportion, performed a frenzied dance in the reception-room. Bontemps laughed like a madman, young Jolivet thumped the table repeatedly with his fist, and Damprich, more restrained, contented himself with tugging frenetically at his moustache.
Meanwhile, the Admiral brought the Governor up to date with events; then he succeeded in calming everyone down and sitting them down. Only then did he spread the radiotelegram out on the table again. The silence was absolute.
“Let’s compose ourselves,” he said. “Saint-Clair must have been thrown overboard by the old man and Bastien. But how was Bastien able to give Saint-Clair information before dying? Bastien must have been thrown overboard too. By whom? The old man? Why? A mystery! And what became of the old man? Who is he, first of all? Probably one of the Fifteen that we’re looking for. All this is very obscure! Nevertheless, Saint-Clair’s alive, and that’s the main thing. We have only to wait for him, and to prepare the expedition carefully.”
“I am entirely at your service, Monsieur le Ministre,” said the Governor, who was accustomed to formal modes of address.
“I know that, Monsieur le Gouverneur,” the Admiral replied, joyfully. “But before talking about matters of organization, would you give orders for our luggage to be brought here, while we spruce ourselves up—after a journey in which we have not had the leisure to occupy ourselves with our ‘rags,’ as old Chrysale puts it.” 8
The Governor bowed and went out, but came back in almost immediately. He had a white envelope in is hand. “Someone gave this to the orderly, Monsieur le Ministre,” he said.
Everyone’s attention was solicited again. Standing amid his companions, the Admiral seized the envelope that the Governor was holding out to him. He tore it open on one side and took out a little piece of ruled paper folded in two. He unfolded the paper—and a cry sprang from his throat, while a tide of blood congested his face.
“Xavière!”
Immediately, he read what was written on the paper, which quivered in his tremulous hands. He read it aloud, in the midst of a general stupefaction, with which a great deal of incredulity was mingled.
Father, Yvonne and I are on the planet Mars, victims of the most incredible circumstances. Thirteen other young women are prisoners, like us. I am not mad. I am writing to you freely and as calmly as is possible. Don’t doubt me and come to save me. We are on Mars. Your desperate daughters are appealing to you.
Xavière.
“That’s definitely her handwriting,” stammered the Admiral. “I recognize it—it’s her! Am I not mad, my friends? Did you hear what I just read?” He looked around wildly, searching…
Damprich seized his hand. “Pull yourself together, Admiral!” And, as the Ensign cast his own eyes over the extraordinary piece of paper, he cried: “You haven’t finished, Admiral. There are three more lines, written in another hand…”
The Admiral collected himself in response to the Ensign’s voice, and in a firmer tone, he started reading again:
In violation of my oath to the XV, obedient to Mademoiselle de Ciserat’s prayer, I certify the exactitude of the above information.
Koynos
Commander-in-Chief of the XV.
There was a long moment of silence: a terrified silence, in which mad thoughts flickered in their brains. Overwhelmed, the Admiral had let himself fall into an armchair, and he was staring at the amazing piece of paper with wide eyes brimming with tears. The Governor, Bontemps, Tory and Jolivet, all social distinctions being abolished in these minutes of inexpressible anguish, stared at one another without seeing one another.
The Nyctalope on Mars 1: The Mystery of the Fifteen Page 6
