The Nyctalope Steps In

by Jean de La Hire

  “I am only a man, Madame,” said Saint-Clair modestly, “but whatever I can do to help, I will be honored to do. First, we need to know more. You said that you don’t know exactly when the boy left the car, nor the reason why?”

  “That’s right. It was because I was weak, foolish enough to give in to the exhaustion that nearly overwhelmed me. Now, I’m reduced to making the most elaborate guesses… I suppose there could be a simple explanation... Yves—Yves Marécourt is his name and I’m Lise Andrézieux—Yves could have grown tired of sitting for so long, and might have wanted to merely stretch his legs. The surrounding woods, the silvery moonlight could have lured him and caught his fancy… He is such an extraordinary child, so smart, so advanced, too much so perhaps… While trying to satisfy his curiosity and his desire to learn, he might have gotten lost... He’s not just a dreamer, but already a researcher, an experimentalist… He has a prodigious imagination when it comes to science. I’ve always believed that he’ll grow up to become a great scientist, a discoverer of the unknown, perhaps a new Louis Pasteur... If you only knew what he means to me and what dreams I have for his future—wonderful dreams… But such gifts are not without danger. Once inside these woods—if that’s where he went—what discoveries might he have made? Where did his adventurous spirit take him? I fear the worst: an accident. But there are other possibilities. Retracing his steps, crossing the road, he might have been hit by a car… Injured, unconscious perhaps, he might have been picked up by the one who struck him and been taken to the next village to seek medical attention... What should I do? I dare not leave this place in case he returns. I still hope to see him come back, running towards me, apologizing for the distress he unwittingly caused me, as he knows how to do so well…”

  “These are only theories,” interrupted Saint-Clair. “The first, an exploratory walk in the woods during which the child became lost, seems rather unlikely. I’m sure you’ve already gone and called for him…?”

  “Of course!”

  “Yves can’t have gone so far that he wouldn’t have heard you. As for the possibility of an accident, where the driver took the child away, if it’s not entirely out of the question, it still strikes me as at least doubtful. The driver would have noticed your car parked beside the road. Logically, he would have come and woken you up to ask about the boy... It’s true that we’re living in traumatic and unusual times. Panic seems to have taken hold of the crowd and that could upset the balance and distort the judgment of even the soundest minds... On the other hand, I admit that, right now, I can’t think of any other plausible explanation…”

  The green eyes of Lise Andrézieux nevertheless detected a secret anguish hidden in the Nyctalope’s face.

  “Yves means so much to me!” she murmured. “I fear the worst.”

  She hesitated, seemingly afraid of blurting out ill-omened words, but finally felt reassured by the sagacious and penetrating glances of Leo Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang, full of compassion. She could read sincere concern on their faces. Now, what was needed was confidence.

  “Yves isn’t just a child prodigy,” she said. “He is also worth ten million francs, bequeathed to him by his grandfather. As the child’s guardian, I have the use of this fortune, and employ it to develop his gifts and foster his future. Of course, some could believe that I derive more personal benefit from it…”

  Serious and thoughtful, the Nyctalope listened to the woman without responding, trying not to let her read his secret thoughts. That attitude eventually discouraged her, and her voice began to tremble. Desperate to be understood and share her secret fears, she let her last words expire on her lips.

  “That fortune, you see... It’s possible… I don’t know what to think...”

  The Japanese diplomat had gone to inspect the woman’s car and its surroundings. Saint-Clair, from whom nothing escaped, had seen him bend down and pick up an object from the ground.

  Gno Mitang returned and made an imperceptible sign to his friend, who immediately understood its meaning.

  “Well, Madam, here is what we’re going to do,” he announced suddenly. “Assuming, as you yourself have suggested, that the child, injured or not, was taken by a motorist, we will follow that trail and try to catch the hypothetical car. Whatever the outcome of our investigation, we will return to inform you of its results.”

  He bowed and cut short Madame Andrézieux’s expressions of gratitude. Ten seconds later, he and Gno Mitang were back in their car, again driving towards Orleans.

  “Well?” Leo asked his friend. “What did you find?”

  “Some kind of heavy vehicle—but not a car—was parked near that of Madame Andrézieux last night,” explained the Japanese. “I found its tracks on the road. It then drove towards Orleans. And I also found this on the ground near the door of her car…”

  He presented a notebook, the first page of which contained a name and address: Yves Marécourt, Manoir de Folembray. Its pages were filled with equations and chemical formulas. One unfinished last sentence, written in a hesitant hand, said: Why is thewre the smell of chlo...

  The Nyctalope closed the notebook and pocketed it.

  “Let’s look for those gypsies whom we saw going into the Orleans forest,” he suggested.

  But several hours of fruitless searching proved the futility of their efforts.

  “Let’s go back,” ordered Saint-Clair. “I have one more question for Madame Andrézieux.

  But as they returned to the main highway, they saw two cars drive by at a breakneck speed, one of which seemed to be pursuing the other. Madame Andrézieux was driving the second car.

  “Let’s follow them!” cried the Nyctalope.

  The pursuit took them to Orleans, which they crossed from one end to the other. As they arrived near the river front, they saw Madame Andrézieux’s car take a bridge that crossed the Loire. Seconds later, the bridge exploded.

  Horrified, the two friends saw the car and its driver sink into the river, amongst a rain of stones and debris from the explosion. The other car had disappeared.

  “Now I’ll never get the answer to the question I wanted to ask her,” whispered Leo Saint-Clair, very pale.

  Chapter II

  The Mysterious Farm

  Two years later, the Nyctalope and Gno Mitang had all but forgotten that adventure, so tragically cut short.

  After the death of Madame Andrézieux, the human torrent that was carrying endless crowds of fugitives south of the river made it futile to continue searching. Where was the child worth ten million—the future genius? No one knew. The compassionate quest that had, until then, propelled the two men, had been brutally severed by the destruction of the bridge of Orleans. They still remembered the interest and curiosity that had been awakened in them by Yves Marécourt’s small face, but that, too gradually faded away, replaced by more urgent concerns requiring their complete attention.

  The mystery, if mystery there was, had lost its appeal with the disappearance of any element that might have enabled them to solve it.

  “If he is still alive, the child will eventually be found,” had murmured St. Clair, turning his back to the river. “Interest, if not affection, will guide the investigation that his family—if he has one—will not fail to undertake”

  The Nyctalope was not being totally truthful when he uttered those words. For a long time, the regret at having been obliged to give up his efforts to locate the boy nagged at him in the deepest recesses of his soul.

  A new Louis Pasteur perhaps, the child’s guardian had said, a few hours before disappearing into the waters of the Loire.

  Ah, if only she could have answered the question that Leo Saint-Clair wanted to ask her! Then, perhaps, as had happened so often in the past, he would have launched himself on a prodigious quest to find the missing boy.

  But Fate itself seemed to have intervened, forever closing the lips of Madame Andrézieux. And then, he had been required elsewhere and the memory of the Lost Child had gradually faded.


  Two years later, the Nyctalope and Gno Mitang found themselves occupied with very different concerns. Once again, Leo and his friend were driving along the road, this time in Southern France.

  They had left Pau in the Japanese’s powerful car, had ascended the valley of the Aspe and were on the winding road that leads from the Forges d’Abel towards Somport and the Spanish border.

  It was the middle of a very hot summer and, around noon, they decided to stop and picnic by the side of the road in the shade of a clump of trees, a short distance from their car. They enjoyed a substantial lunch while feasting their eyes on the magnificent Pyrenean landscape.

  Suddenly, abandoning his usual pose of apparent nonchalance, Gno Mitang straightened up.

  “I think someone just got inside our car,” he said, rushing towards the road.

  “I can’t believe someone would want to rob us,” said Saint-Clair, following him. “The local people have a well-deserved reputation for honesty.”

  Still, he joined his friend, but, before they reached the vehicle, they saw a boy jump out and scamper away like a rabbit. He was holding under his arm, wrapped in a blanket, the few personal effects which he had found inside the vehicle.

  “Where does that little bandit come from?” exclaimed the Nyctalope. “I bet he isn’t from here!”

  “I’ll ask him when I catch him,” said Gno Mitang, rushing in pursuit of the young thief.

  Saint-Clair followed suit, but the child had good legs and quite a head start. Without letting go of his booty, he climbed the slopes at a pace that his adult pursuers could not match. Skirting a rocky overhang, which formed a promontory, he disappeared from both men.’s eyes

  “We’ve got to catch up with him,” said Saint-Clair, while continuing to run. “I don’t know what he stole from us, but I left a portfolio with some sensitive documents in it inside the car.”

  They reached the base of the rock. Just then, they heard a tumult of voices over their heads. They were the voices of a man and that of a child, the first growling, the other whimpering. They fell suddenly silent.

  A cautious head appeared over the edge of the cliff for a second then quickly withdrew. Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang had time to glimpse a swarthy face, two dark eyes and a mop of shiny black hair.

  “The alarm has been given,” murmured Saint-Clair. “But if our thief’s lair is up there, he won’t escape us.”

  Resuming their ascent, the two men circled around the rock and discovered a steep path which led them to the top.

  Arriving on a plateau of bare rock, they noted with astonishment the presence of several low buildings which, together, probably made up a small farm.

  Silence weighed heavily upon the scene; the area seemed deserted. Saint-Clair saw no livestock, although he assumed that whatever animals that shabby and dilapidated farm could afford had probably been taken to a pasture higher on the mountains. The children would be keeping an eye on them, with the help of a dog.

  But what had become of the man, whose head Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang had seen—and the boy-thief whom they had followed? Both men were sure of having heard loud voices from the foot of the rock, then the cries of several children, who had been gathered and taken away with the use of threats and slaps. The Nyctalope imagined the scene. Had the entire family taken refuge inside one of the buildings? Were they waiting, perhaps in fear, for the arrival of the strangers, the victims of theft, who were probably ready to summon the gendarmes?

  Leo Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang began to examine the buildings.

  The Nyctalope’s superhuman eyes recorded every detail, observed, noted, evaluated. It was an automatic exercise for him, an innate faculty, maximized beyond that of ordinary men. His eyes, having scrutinized the wall that the two friends were following, suddenly stopped. Leo’s face reflected his powerfully aroused attention.

  “Look,” he murmured, half aloud.

  Gno Mitang obediently looked.

  The wall, which had been used for children’s games, was smeared with black and white markings, made with fragments of charcoal and pieces of plaster.

  Now, these markings did not show the usual mess of scribblings, looking like prehistoric relics or puerile graffiti, made by childish fingers poorly initiated into the mysteries of writing. The letters had been formed by a hand both practiced and quick. They followed each other, in uppercase, interspersed with brackets and algebraic signs, sometimes superposed, and separated by clearly-drawn lines.

  Saint-Clair deciphered them, lingered, then silently solicited the Japanese’s opinion.

  “They look like equations,” said Gno Mitang. “Or perhaps, chemical formulas?”

  “They are indeed chemical formulas,” confirmed Saint-Clair thoughtfully.

  His face contracted by an effort of thought, or memory, and he remained silent for several seconds. Then, slowly, his right hand rummaged inside his pockets and he pulled out a small notebook.

  “This reminds me of something,” said Saint-Clair, opening it. “My friend, do you remember the child who disappeared on the road to Orleans during the Exodus? That notebook belonged to him; you found it near the car from which he was taken. I never could bring myself to get rid of it.”

  “Now I remember,” recalled the diplomat. “The boy whose guardian perished in the explosion which tragically blew up the bridge. His name was Yves Marécourt. I believe you had, at one point, theorized that he might have been kidnapped by a gang of gypsies?”

  “That swarthy fellow whose head we just saw might be gypsy,” said Saint-Clair.

  With a simple flicker of his eyes, Gno Mitang communicated that he shared his friend’s opinion.

  The Nyctalope leafed through the notebook, the pages of which contained numerous chemical formulas. He compared them with those written on the wall.

  “The same hand could have written them both,” he said.

  Gno Mitang, impassive as always, was waiting for the Nyctalope to reach the inescapable conclusion.

  “Yes, they are by the same hand,” Saint-Clair finally said, replacing the notebook in his pocket. “You know, Gno, that I do not believe in chance, but only in a succession of events, comparable to forces in a mathematical formula, of which, therefore, one can calculate the resulting vector. We call this Fate. It follows its own laws, which no human, consciously or otherwise, can escape. Now, here’s the second time that Fate presents us with the same problem. Don’t you think that, this time, it is impossible to step aside and our duty is clear?”

  The Japanese silently assented.

  “The child whom we promised to find was here,” Saint-Clair continued.

  “He might still be.”

  “He clearly stayed here; these chemical formulas prove that.”

  “We should look for him,” the diplomat suggested.

  “Yes, but we need to thread carefully. We may have grasped only a tenuous strand of the web. We don’t want to alarm or disturb those who may have an interest in breaking it.”

  The Japanese closed his eyes then immediately opened them, indicating that he agreed with Saint-Clair and would be appropriately cautious.

  Leaving the wall, the Nyctalope walked around the corner of the building. Gno followed him. They found themselves facing a courtyard that separated a barn from the main building of the farm itself.

  A door opened and a man appeared on the threshold. The Nyctalope recognized his swarthy face. This was the person they had glimpsed at the edge of the cliff.

  The man’s attitude was surly and gruff, like a wild beast more willing to bite and growl than to befriend a stranger.

  “What are you doing here?” he growled. “This is not the highway, or even a public path which people have the right to take.”

  “We’re looking for a boy who stole from us,” said Saint-Clair, fixing the farmer with a steely gaze. “We know that he’s found refuge here. If you don’t give us back what he took from us, we’ll return with the gendarmes. But we promise to be forgiving if you do.”
/>
  The man bowed his head, but clenched his fists. He wanted to strike at those meddling visitors, but refrained, intimidated by the threat of the gendarmes.

  He grunted, without looking up.

  “If one of the boys took something from you, out of mischief, you’ll get it back.”

  “Bring the children out,” ordered Saint-Clair.

  The farmer hesitated, glanced at him stubbornly, then, apparently subdued, he went back inside and quickly returned, holding a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Is this your property?” he asked, hypocritically. “If so, you can have it back. The child intended no malice, but I will punish him anyway.”

  “I asked you to bring out the children. I wish to scold the thief in your presence,” replied the Nyctalope firmly, taking the package.

  Reluctantly, the farmer stepped over the threshold and called out:

  “Come out, all of you, you little vermin!

  A half-dozen little children, swarthy, wild-looking, dirty and ragged, came out of the farm, elbowing each other.

  Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang exchanged a quick glance. Yves Marécourt was not among them.

  “Is that your whole family?” asked the Nyctalope sternly.

  “Yes,” said the man, nodding.

  “Tell me the truth. Do you have another child? An adopted boy, raised by you, found on the road during the Exodus for example?”

  The face of the gypsy hardened. Did he expect this? It was impossible to tell. He immediately replied, feigning candor:

  “What boy are you talking about? I’ve never been on the road. I’m just a poor farmer, who never leaves his mountain.”

  Without answering, the Nyctalope dragged the man to the wall where the young genius had scratched his chemical formulas.

  “Who wrote this then?” Saint-Clair asked harshly.

  Stubborn, surly, the man only shrugged his shoulders.

  “One of them. My kids go to school. They think it’s fun to scribble on the walls.”