Chapter V
A Dangerous Trail
With the skill of a professional detective, Gno Mitang followed the gypsy woman to the Gare d’Austerlitz. He saw her approach a counter and purchase a ticket; then head for the departure platform.
Gno winced. This complicated matters. He now had to choose between abandoning the trail or leave Paris, without having time to notify the Nyctalope.
Another man might have hesitated, but working with Leo Saint-Clair had taught the Japanese the art of making quick decisions, sometimes adventurously, always intuitively.
Saint-Clair himself had instructed him to follow the woman. She was a messenger, but one connecting the gypsies and Philogène Porcien. She’s either brought to him a message or an ultimatum. In any case, her destination was obvious. She was now going to report on her mission.
I must continue to follow her, concluded the Japanese. She will take me to those who are holding Yves Marécourt prisoner. And perhaps Leo, tracking his own quarry, will meet me at the same destination.
His reasoning was the same as the Nyctalope’s when he had launched himself on his own pursuit.
In fact, the similarity of their situations, their decisions, and the risks they were running, was even more complete than Gno could have imagined. For, having purchased a ticket in turn, and having gotten in the same rail car as the gypsy woman, he noticed that the train was going towards Etampes.
Etampes! If the Japanese had had a premonition, or if he could have made a quick phone call to his friend, whose very life was in danger, perhaps he would have gotten off the train. But, like a hound running on a track, nose to the ground, indifferent to any call, Gno Mitang followed the gypsy, turning a deaf ear to the inner voices that might have warned him of the perils ahead. The train passed Etampes, Monerville, Angerville, Toury, Chateau Gaillard, and stopped at Artenay. The gypsy woman got off; so the Japanese did the same.
They left the station. Knowing he faced a cunning, mistrustful opponent, and not wanting to expose himself, Gno displayed as much finesse as he could to ensure that the woman would not become aware that she was being followed. She, on the other hand, was also obviously seeking to lose anyone trailing her. Gno kept his distance. Each of them could believe they had the upper hand in this game of hide and seek, and in truth, it was impossible to tell which had outsmarted the other.
Once they had left the village, and were walking down a lonely road, Gno saw an isolated inn ahead. He hid in a thicket which provided a convenient cover, while allowing him to watch his prey.
If the gypsy woman had turned around, she would have seen only the empty road, and concluded that the other traveler—if she had spotted him—was not following her after all and had arrived at his destination, one of the last houses of the village.
But she did not even do that. Carefree, she entered the inn. Another, older gypsy woman was waiting there, a meager snack on the table before her. The two exchanged a quick glance.
“You can talk. I’m alone,” said the seated woman. “For now, no one can see us or hear us.”
And the woman who had come on the train spoke and said simply:
“He will come.”
Then, she left the inn, with a loaf of bread that the older woman had given her, to make it look as if she’d gone inside to beg.
She walked towards Chevilly, but Gno did not leave his thicket and did not follow her. He felt he would be better off concentrating on the older woman, who was clearly in charge. From his position, he was close enough to the inn that he could see through one of the windows and watch the gypsy seated at her table.
This is exactly what I expected, he thought. The girl has made her report to her boss. It’s this other woman I must now watch. It’s only a matter of patience.
And Gno Mitang needed plenty of patience. The hours passed. The gypsy woman did not leave the inn. The Japanese remained in hiding.
Finally, from the village, and probably from the station, Monsieur Philogène Porcien appeared.
He entered the inn. Gno Mitang moved closer. He had read on the face of the suspect, and in his hesitant attitude, a clear discomfort, which betrayed his fear.
This was an interesting clue. It confirmed one of the Nyctalope’s hypotheses, namely, that Monsieur Porcien had not called for this meeting, and was not going to it without some concern. It meant he was not on the best of terms with the gypsies who had kidnapped Yves Marécourt, Madame Andrézieux’s ward.
After all, he killed one of them, and may legitimately fear their vengeance, theorized Gno Mitang. But then, he thought: But if that’s the case, why is he taking the risk of coming here?
Only one answer was possible: He still needs them.
The conversation promised to be very interesting. Yet, as eager he was to hear them, the Japanese did not try to enter the inn. He merely crossed the road quickly. At a distance sufficient to avoid being seen, he crept along the wall and crouched right under the window. The road was deserted, but the ratty clothes he was wearing would be enough—or so he hoped!—to make him look like a tramp taking a nap if he were to be spotted.
Philogène Porcien crossed the room and walked towards the table where the gypsy woman sat. She greeted him with a scornful laugh.
“There you are! You finally decided to come!” she said jeeringly.
Hiding his fear, which knotted his bowels, the man with the tiger eyes responded gruffly:
“Yes, I’m here. What do you want?”
“You didn’t come all this way to ask me that. Another question burns on your lips. You want news of the child?”
“It’s only natural. What have you done with him?”
“I’ll tell you... when we reach an agreement. But first, let’s deal with other things. You killed my husband.”
Monsieur Porcien jumped back and, putting his hand inside his pocket, pulled out a gun.
“Is that why you asked me to come? Is this a trap? I warn you: I’m armed and I’m not going to let myself be slaughtered like a beast.”
The gypsy woman shrugged.
“Don’t worry! If my only intention was avenging Miarko, it would already be done. Look!”
A thin blade miraculously came out from under one of the folds of her multicolored skirt, flashed and flew through the air. It planted itself into the opposite wall from Monsieur Porcien, a mere millimeter away from the edge of a rustic earthenware plate hanging there. Thrown just as nimbly, another blade followed, then another and another, until the entire plate was surrounded by a ring of knives.
A final blade was thrown and stuck the plate right in the middle, causing it to shatter and the pieces to fall.
“You can reimburse the innkeeper for the plate,” said the woman. “That was a demonstration. I have no rival in the art of knife-throwing. Do you think I would have left you enough time to use your gun? If I had wished, my first knife would have pierced your heart right where you stand. So stop trembling! I don’t want your life. We have another account to settle than Miarko’s death.”
Monsieur Philogène Porcien was green with terror. His jaw trembled nervously and he tried in vain to stop the rattling of his teeth.
“What other account are you talking about?” he stammered.
“Don’t play the fool,” she retorted scornfully. “Do you think I don’t know why you killed Miarko? It was because he had just heard from the lips of two strangers, who came to the farm, the boy’s value. You had cleverly hidden that fact from us and only offered us a miserable sum of money for our services.”
“I paid you very well for the service you rendered me, but I did intend to give you more later...”
“As little as possible, I’m sure. And you were afraid that the two strangers might have offered us more. You thought Miarko might betray you—that’s why you killed him.”
“Can you assure me that he wouldn’t have done so?”
The black eyes of the gypsy woman flashed with anger.
“Yes, the clumsy oaf might
have tried it,” she admitted with a wicked voice. “Be he was much too stupid to manage this business alone. You swindled him the first time, when you paid him to kidnap the child—and the others would have gotten the best of him too. He was a brute, who never listened to anyone’s advice. He only knew how to hit. He was violent, jealous and stupid—that’s what he was. José and I were glad when you got rid of him. Without knowing it, you did us a great service.”
“Who is José?” asked Philogène Porcien, perplexed.
The gypsy gave him a look that seemed to challenge the gods themselves.
“My lover. Now, thanks to you, I can proclaim it to all and no longer fear that Miarko would strangle or stab us in the night!”
“Your affairs are your business,” cut Porcien, “but since you owe me a measure of gratitude, I think you shouldn’t refuse to tell me what you’ve done with the child.”
“He’s safe and well kept. Now that we know his real worth, he’s well treated. Don’t worry; we won’t let him wither away.”
“That would suit me fine, in fact,” grumbled Yves’ evil cousin. “Listen, I have a proposal for you, something that could make you a fortune...”
But the gypsy woman seemed to not pay any attention this tempting speech. Her gaze was directed towards a mirror which reflected the window. And glued to one of the window panes was the face of Gno Mitang, whose eyes easily betrayed the interest he was taking in the scene.
The gypsy remained impassive, cold as ice, and her eyes returned to face Monsieur Philogène Porcien, her attitude seemingly wonderfully indifferent.
“Shut up,” she said, barely moving her lips. “Someone’s spying on us.”
Monsieur Porcien turned as if stung by a fly. His gaze went first to the door, then to the window. But by now, the Japanese had gone.
“Idiot!” muttered the gypsy.
“I didn’t see anyone,” said Monsieur Porcien. “Why do you suppose someone would be spying on us? Besides, the door and the windows are shut. Even if there was someone, he couldn’t have heard us.”
“Let’s not talk here anymore,” said the gypsy. “Come with me! Our caravans are waiting for us not far away in the forest. We’d better continue our conversation there.”
“As you wish,” Monsieur Porcien replied, nodding.
Approaching the wall, the woman removed the knives, which had been planted there, and made them disappear beneath her clothes.
“Call the inn-keeper,” she ordered, “and pay him for my meal and the broken plate. Don’t be stingy. It wouldn’t do for him to call the gendarmes. That wouldn’t help your business.”
Meekly, Monsieur Porcien went to the kitchen and did as he had been instructed. He then joined the gypsy outside on the road.
She had taken the lead without seeming to worry about the man whose face she had seen pressed against the window.
Gno Mitang had quickly returned to the thicket behind which he had carefully hidden earlier and was lying there in wait, crouched silently. He waited until Porcien and his accomplice had a good lead, and then he began to follow them, continuing to use the bushes and trees that lined the road for cover.
Arriving near the forest of Orleans, the couple entered it. It then became easier for the Japanese to tail them without being noticed.
Walking alongside the gypsy, Philogène Porcien was initially silent. But after a while, he could not stand it any longer and began to talk:
“Where are you taking me?” he asked. “Why did you insist on leaving that inn, where we could talk quietly? What are you afraid of?”
The gypsy smiled oddly.
“Are you sure you weren’t being followed?” she questioned. “Could someone be interested in finding out what you and I had to discuss?”
“Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact,” replied Porcien. “The two men who came to the farm somehow managed to find me, but they have lost your trail. And I took good care of at least one of them. He won’t bother us anymore.”
“But they were two of them.”
“I’m sure the other one didn’t follow me. I took precautions.”
“Perhaps he preceded you. I saw an ugly snout watching us at that window, from outside. It’s quite likely that he is still on our tail... No, don’t look back! Don’t give the impression that we’ve noticed his presence and that we’re suspicious... Come here!” the woman suddenly said, with a gesture of appeal.
Another gypsy—a young man—jumped out from behind a tree and ran towards them. She whispered a few words in his ear, to which he replied with a nod.
Leaving him, the gypsy woman led Monsieur Porcien to the edge of a clearing and sat him down at the foot of a tree.
“Stay here!” she ordered.
She then listened intently. Deep inside the thicket of the forest, one could hear the slight rustling of branches coming ever closer. Despite all his skills and cautiousness, it was Gno Mitant who, crawling through the bushes, was trying to get closer to the spot where he hoped to overhear Porcien and the woman’s conversation.
A flame kindled in the gypsy woman’s eyes. She smiled mysteriously. One of the trailers opened and the young gypsy came out, dragging behind him an iron chain that was attached to a huge black panther.
The gypsy woman nodded with satisfaction. She gave a whistle and said:
“Myrrha! Go!”
The young bohemian released the beast.
Immediately, the sound of running was heard in the thicket. Aware of the danger, and having realized what the woman’s plan was, Gno Mitang had not waited to abandon his observation post and was beating a hasty retreat through the woods.
But would he succeed? The panther had sprung into the thicket with the speed of an arrow, traversed it, and disappeared into the depths of the forest.
Suddenly, there was a distant cry—the cry of an animal slain in the night. Monsieur Porcien couldn’t repress a shiver.
“Myrrha caught up with him,” said the gypsy woman, her eyes shining with savage joy. “We’ve got nothing to fear from that one now either.”
“The other man was taken care of too,” Philogène Porcien murmured, turning his eyes away from the dark forest in which an unspeakable drama had just played out. “There were two men at the farm. I settled the account of one of them. You took care of the other. We’re safe now. But how are you going to catch your panther? If the locals see it, it’s going to cause trouble. They’ll organize a hunt and you’ll be held responsible for the ‘unfortunate accident’ that cost the life of the all too curious friend of the late Leo Saint-Clair.”
“Myrrha will return by herself when she’s finished eating,” said the gypsy, with a horrible smile. “Now, back to our business. What do you want me to do with the child and how much are you prepared to offer me?”
“That’s what I’m proposing we discuss,” replied Philogène Porcien, his eyes shining with a sinister glow.
Chapter VI
The Little Martyr
“Acrobats! Jugglers! Clowns!... Come see! They’re coming!”
A band of children, shouting and clapping their hands, ran after the rather pitiful group of caravans that had just entered the village street. They were all excited by the arrival of this carnival. They expected a small circus tent to be set up soon, that would accommodate several performances which they might possibly attend—if seats were not too expensive.
They probably wouldn’t be, because it was a rather tattered-looking circus that was passing through the village. It consisted of three emaciated horses, dragging their miserable trailers. As for the acrobats, jugglers and clowns, they had been recruited from among a dozen gypsies, men, women and children, who appeared and waved at the doors and windows of the trailers.
The caravan stopped in front of the church, and set up camp there.
This circus did not, in fact, have an actual tent. A circle of benches, surrounded by a canvas stretched on poles at ground level, was its only ring. Planted in the center, there was a pole suppor
ting a metal circle, from which were suspended three acetylene lamps, to provide illumination.
While the men worked on setting up, the women, equipped with small Basque drums, were preparing to go around the village to announce the “grrreeeatest show.”
“Dorr! Phoena!” called a gruff voice. “Dress up and take the Gimp with you.”
That order, which couldn’t be ignored, prompted two heads-with tussled hair to appear at the entrance of one of the trailers.
“We’re ready!” shouted a copper-haired boy, accompanied by a ten-year-old girl. Her large black eyes already shone bright in her tender, soft face.
One after another, they jumped out of the trailer. As young Dorr had said, they were indeed ready, meaning that they both wore circus costumes. Standing tall over his sister, the fourteen-year-old Dorr was dressed as a small, white clown, with the classic pointed hat perched on top of his mop. Phoena wore a sequined dress, somewhat faded, making her a horse rider or a miniature ballerina.
Having come outside, they turned back towards the inside of the trailer and seemed to extract from it a pathetic little boy, dressed in the traditional tramp-like style of an Auguste clown.
A shabby, oversized coat, certainly found in a thrift store, wrapped the boy’s thin body down to his feet.
The overlong sleeves, too large for the size of the tiny Auguste, seemed to hide only two stumps. Both his legs were trapped inside the single leg of a doctored pair of worn trousers, causing the little boy to stumble and fall as he tried to move. At any time, his balance had to be restored by his two companions. His eyes were beautiful and moving. However, the perpetually open mouth, frozen in an idiotic and painful grimace, gave his face a permanently bewildered expression.
Was the boy mute? Only inarticulate sounds came out of that mouth, which he could not close. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that an object placed inside prevented him from doing so.
Dragged brutally by Dorr, gently by Phoena, the boy hopped between them on his two shackled legs. To anyone thinking it just an act, such clumsiness would look amusing. Occasionally, incoherent syllables escaped from his open mouth, or rather almost incomprehensible sounds:
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 5
