The Nyctalope Steps In

by Jean de La Hire

  The Nyctalope sighed. “It would seem my heart can survive anything,” he said, and he disappeared into the darkness of the mine.

  Lord was awakened by the sound of the explosions. They were little more than a rumble of distant thunder, but he was close enough to consciousness that they finished bringing him around.

  He blinked a few times. He was surrounded by complete darkness, manacled securely in a reasonably comfortable chair. His first thoughts were of the Doctor. Was he here after all? Had the pompous dolt captured him at last?

  He rattled the chains, testing their strength. As if in response to this, a door opened and a blade of light sliced into the room, temporarily blinding him.

  A shadow stepped into the door and said, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  Lord recognized the voice. “Hello, Captain Flynn,” he said. “Tell me: are we currently under a state of siege?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be glad to know,” Flynn replied, “that Colonel Evans returned safely, along with most of the unaffected men. We were able to defend this building from the others—the ones who fell under the Martian influence—until they…well…until they began to die of their own accord.”

  “Excellent,” Lord said. “The crisis has passed! I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to release me immediately?”

  “That depends on you,” Flynn said, closing the door and plunging the room back into darkness.

  Lord was intrigued. “Do I take it that you’re about to make some sort of proposition?”

  “You are correct,” said Flynn’s disembodied voice.

  “Pray, do go on,” Lord said.

  “I don’t know if you heard those explosions a moment ago, but it would seem that the man you tortured has succeeded in destroying, or at least burying, the Martian ship. I think it would be best for everyone if it stayed under the ground forever.”

  “And you believe I can help you with that?”

  “I certainly do,” Flynn said. He was a little closer now, and Lord was surprised that he had not heard footsteps. “I have seen that you’re a man with, shall we say, influence. I think you can help me persuade the necessary people that this was a natural disaster brought on by…oh, I don’t know…maybe a cloud of toxic gas released from the Earth by digging at the mine?”

  “What of the OSI?” Lord asked. “Doctor Stuart has already told them a far different story.”

  “Stuart wasn’t thinking clearly. He was suffering from hallucinations, delusions brought on by exposure to the gas.”

  Lord chuckled. “No one will believe that fairy tale.”

  “They will if it’s the finding of the Colonel’s official report, backed up by the scientific expertise of Professor Quatermass, and the testimony of every single survivor.”

  Lord gave a derisive snort. “My dear Captain, you can’t honestly expect me to hypnotize everyone here! Do you have any idea how long that would take?”

  “If what you told me earlier is true,” Flynn said, “time is the one thing you’ve got plenty of.”

  “Very witty,” Lord said. “What are you offering me to go along with this absurd scheme?”

  “Your freedom,” Flynn said. He was almost at Lord’s ear. Lord was startled. How could Flynn get so close without him hearing his approach? “I’ve been thinking about it,” Flynn continued, “and I’ve decided there’s really only two ways to deal with you. One is to let you go. If you cooperate, I give you my word I will do exactly that.”

  “And the other?” Lord said.

  He heard a loud click, and felt cold metal press against his temple.

  “Do you really have to ask?” Flynn said.

  He awakened just before dawn. His eyes fluttered open in time to see the last of the stars fading into the emptiness of the daylight desert sky.

  Still alive, he thought. I guess God isn’t finished with me yet.

  Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. He surveyed the destruction he had wrought with satisfaction. He had made a good job of it. He only hoped that it would last.

  He saw the Sun peeking over the horizon; brilliant bands of orange, yellow and red heralding its arrival. He stood silent and perfectly still as he watched it rise. As the rays washed over him, bathing him in the early morning warmth, he allowed himself to think of things and people that he had not allowed himself to think of for a long, long time. Images danced before his eyes; faithful friends, laughing children.

  I am sorry for denying your memory, he thought. I will not do it anymore. I will keep you with me, in my heart, until the day it finally stops beating.

  Then the Nyctalope took a deep breath of the bracing Mojave air, and began to walk toward the light.

  We now turn to the 1920s with a story whose heroine is none other than the Phantom Angel—in reality, Sleeping Beauty awakened by Doc Ardan in the 1920s (see The Reluctant Princess in Tales of the Shadowmen 4). As was the case with The Season of the Shark, the Nyctalope is only peripherally involved in this tale, which is about his future wife, Sylvie MacDhul...

  Randy Lofficier: The English Gentleman’s Ball

  Paris, The 1920s

  Once upon a time, she had been called Beauty and had slept for a thousand years. But ever since being awoken, not by a handsome prince, but by a dashing scientist, she was used to being referred to as “The Phantom Angel.”

  This new, modern world in which she found herself pleased her most of the time. Certainly she realized that the role of women had undergone a drastic change from when she had last been awake in a time of darkness and ignorance.

  As the Phantom Angel, she was free to do as she pleased. Go where she desired. Dress as the mood took her. The world was far from a paradise, but it was a vast improvement on what she had known before, even if she had been a princess in those days.

  But Angel was not satisfied with her adventures of derring-do; she felt that there should be more to her life on some level, but could not quite put her finger on what that might be. Part of it was the awareness that she was still privileged in comparison to many in this brave new world. Poverty, ignorance and darkness were still out there, but the rich pretended not to see the ugliness in the corner.

  Because of her own past, Angel was particularly aware that the lot of women and children still needed great improvement. She knew that she could not save them all, but hoped that she could at least aid a few individuals. Thus she kept her ears open for cases where she could intervene.

  Her sources in the Secret Society of Adventurers told her that a Gregor Mac Dhul, a wealthy man with a daughter, had lost his wife in childbirth. He had hired a housekeeper to look after the child, and in the course of time, this woman, Simone Desroches, had become his new wife. What he didn’t know was that Simone was in reality the notorious masked criminal known as Belphegor. She had targeted the industrialist to gain access to his fortune.

  Because Gregor Mac Dhul traveled frequently, his new wife was often left alone with his daughter, Sylvie. But Simone was not a good mother, nor even a kind woman, and treated the girl as little more than a servant.

  To keep Sylvie from telling her father of her treatment, Simone told her young charge that she would kill the Professor if ever he heard a word of the truth.

  The Phantom Angel decided that this would be her next “project;” to save Sylvie from her evil stepmother and allow her to step out into the sunlight once again.

  Angel tracked down the mansion where Sylvie practically had to clean the cinders from the fireplace in order to earn a meal while her father was away. It was clear that Simone ruled with an iron hand.

  The woman once known as Beauty decided to use her contacts to gain an introduction to the household and to see the situation first hand. Because of Simone’s desire to flaunt her wealth, it proved an easy task to be invited one afternoon for tea.

  Once there, it was clear that the rumors about Sylvie’s treatment were accurate. The 17-year-old girl was forced to wait on Simone and
Angel, and was barely introduced as “my wretched stepdaughter” before being dismissed back to the kitchens to scrub out pots and pans. Poor Sylvie dared a pleading gaze at Angel, as if begging her for help.

  The Phantom Angel was quickly able to turn the conversation to the subject of a lavish ball that was soon to be held by a visiting English aristocrat who had taken up temporary residence in a hôtel particulier in the fashionable Marais district of Paris. Word had it that his family was eager for him to wed, and had sent him to France to find a suitable candidate; thus all of Paris–the part that counted, at least–had been invited.

  Simone was clearly interested in this new “opportunity” to enhance her own wealth. It was obvious to Angel that the evil stepmother was suddenly aware that she had a powerful trump card in Sylvie; for although she treated the girl as a scullery maid, underneath the hand-me-down clothes and ashes was a stunning beauty.

  Clearly wanting to get rid of her visitor so that she could further her plot, Simone suddenly claimed a headache and called Sylvie to show her visitor out. Taking advantage of the short time they were able to spend alone, the Phantom Angel whispered: “Don’t worry, I’m here to help. Think of me as your fairy Godmother!”

  Our heroine was satisfied with the turning of events and began her own plot to save her new-found friend from the clutches of the evil woman who controlled her. Indeed, she immediately went to the very same hôtel and knocked at the entrance, where a truly British Gentleman’s Gentleman opened the door with great courtesy.

  “Are you Monsieur Jeeves?” she asked.

  “Indeed I am, Madam,” he replied.

  “Then it is you I am here to see.”

  The door closed behind her.

  The night of the grand ball arrived, and Simone had worked hard on Sylvie to make sure that the “prize” was secured by her and no other. The young girl looked nothing like a scullery maid and could have been a fairy princess in her exquisite gown and jewels. But her eyes were still sad and she had the air of a rabbit in the snare of a hunter in her manner.

  The Phantom Angel, of course, was also at the ball. She nodded towards Sylvie and received a nod of acknowledgment from that most distinguished of valets, Jeeves. What she knew from him, and what no one else present realized, was that Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, the aristocrat in question, had no intention of marrying anyone at the ball, no matter what his family desired. However, as always, he was up for a good time, and the Phantom Angel’s plot as recounted to him by his “man” Jeeves sounded as if it would be the highlight of his Parisian visit.

  As the evening wore on, the wheels began to turn. Belphegor tried her best to put Sylvie into Bertie’s path, but each time something was contrived to interfere. The evil stepmother became more and more frustrated as she had visions of the Woosters’ fortune slipping ever farther away. Each time her plot failed she reached for another glass of champagne. Soon it was clear that she was more than a little drunk and she was having trouble controlling her temper. She grabbed hold of Sylvie’s arm, her scarlet claws leaving marks on the porcelain flesh and hissed, “Get over there and dance with that man or you’ll be sorry!”

  That was the moment for the plan to reach its climax. Standing directly behind Simone had been her husband, Gregor Mac Dhul, whom she had been told was on business far, far away. The Phantom Angel had flown her plane to fetch him and Jeeves and Wooster had sequestered him in the house, making sure that each time his wife had threatened or abused his daughter during the evening, he had been in a perfect position to observe her.

  “That’s enough, Simone!” Gregor cried in anger. “It’s clear you’re not the woman you pretended to be and it’s over. You’ll not get another penny from me and you will never come near me or my daughter again!”

  Belphegor stared at him in drunken astonishment, then turned to see the Phantom Angel, Jeeves and Wooster watching her in triumph.

  Sylvie ran into her father’s arms and began to cry tears of happiness as she realized that she was at least free of the evil woman who had ruled her life so cruelly.

  Angel turned to her allies, “Gentlemen, you’ve done a fine thing tonight. I’m afraid, Mr. Wooster, that if word of this gets out, you’re reputation as a drone may be damaged forever.”

  “No fear of that, Madam,” said Jeeves. “Mr. Wooster knows precisely how to tell a story so that he is able to continue in his life of pointless pleasure.”

  “What ho, Jeeves,” said Bertie.

  And they all lived happily ever after.

  There is nothing like a good Egyptian yarn to evoke images of pyramids, animal-headed gods, tombs hidden in the desert and ancient curses… Following in the footsteps of Talbot Mundy, Sax Rohmer and others, and echoing some of the revelations contained in Emmanuel Gorlier’s tales Fiat Lux! and The Three Sisters, Paul Hugli takes us back to the 1920s—the Nyctalope’s greatest era—and the magical land of the Pharaohs in…

  Paul Hugli: Death to the Heretic!

  Egypt, October 1929

  He’s fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphs…

  Edgar Allen Poe

  The Murders in the Rue Morgue

  Ra’s Solar Barge had barely begun its journey from the East to the West and, already, the heat was oppressive. Yet that was expected at 8 a.m. just a score miles south of Cairo. Removing his broad-beamed straw hat, Bruce Wayne fanned his face, hoping to cool himself, to shoo away the sandy dust which had caked his sweaty face. He stared at his manic driver, Alfred Pennyworth, man-servant, guardian and oldest friend. The butler was taking the ride all in stride, dressed in an abayyah, cloth face mask, goggles and aviator cap. The 1907 Daimler bumped and groaned as it traversed a barely utilitarian desert road. Having spent time in Egypt during the Great War, he knew the proper attire for surviving a motorized jaunt through the desert in an open touring motor-car, although Bruce doubted Alfred had driven such a sporty motor-car during the War to End All Wars.

  “Long ways from Gotham, eh, Alfred?” Bruce said, a bit green around the gills, replacing his hat, covering his now dusty jet-black hair, wishing he had listened to his friend: a blue-blazer and white trousers were not proper attire for the open desert. The straw hat was acceptable, but a kuffryah was more practical. Next time he would listen to Alfred

  Maybe…

  “Yes, Master Bruce, a long way from Gotham. A long way from anywhere… civilized, if I may say so,” remarked Alfred, as he skirted the motorcar around a flock of sheep and goats without slowing one iota. “It was kind of Mrs. Emerson to loan us his Daimler.”

  “Yes, kind,” Bruce echoed unconvincingly. He had given up trying to read the Cairo daily about reported incidents of “fire-stick robberies” having set it aside to get a better grip on the dashboard—and his nerves. He swore to himself: When I get back to Gotham, I’m going to sell my Stutz, Ballot, Grand Prix, Hotchkiss, Indian, and DKW, and get a Model A—no a Model T. His need for speed was sated, thanks to Alfred. Ford used to brag that you could get a Model T in any color—as long as that color was black. Yes, a black motorcar… nice and safe.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the Daimler hit a pot-hole and bounced. A “Sorry, Sir,” from Alfred did nothing for Bruce’s nerves.

  They came to a rise, and Alfred stopped. In the morning haze—almost mirage-inducing—was the splendor of the Sakkara plain, stretching out before them, majestically littered with ancient burial ruins of rulers and couriers of Egypt’s Old Kingdom, dominated by the Step Pyramid of King Djoser, over 4500-years-old, consisting of a series of unequal mastabas stacked atop one another, the world’s first large stone structure ever built.

  Shifting the Daimler back into gear, Alfred followed the dusty trail into the Saqqara plain and passed the mastabas of brick-sized stones and stone slab ceilings. Bruce pointed out an encampment of tents. Alfred nodded and slowed the motorcar to a reasonable speed, skirting around workers carrying dirt and stone in baskets upon their heads, avoiding scattering geese and chickens, and down-shifting t
o a safe and successful halt just a few meters from the largest tent, which Bruce surmised was the dig’s headquarters.

  Exiting the Daimler, the Gothamites adjusted themselves to Terra Firma. Bruce used his hat to swipe the dust from his suit as Alfred removed his scarf and goggles, placing them in his up-turned helmet before tucking it under his arm.

  About to make a remark, Bruce was interrupted when a kuffryah-covered head popped up out an ancient walkway buried beneath the ground and said: “Thomas?”

  “No,” Bruce said as the lanky man climbed out of the tunnel.

  “Of course, your father, ah…”

  “Yes,” said Bruce, his face a blank mask.

  “Then you must be Bruce,” the blue-eyed man said, offering him his hand. “I was sorry to hear of your parents’ death. You father was quite generous in funding my research.”

  “Yes, Doctor Jones. And Wayne Enterprises will continue to contribute to you excavations.”

  “As long as I get results?” he said with a crooked smile.

  Allowing himself a reflective smile Bruce said: “Dr. Jones… Henry, if I may… I read your proposal…”

  “Indiana,” he interrupted.

  “Excuse me…”

  “I prefer ‘Indiana’ or ‘Indy.’ Dr. Henry Jones is my father’s name. We are two different persons.”

  “No doubt, er, Indiana. As I was saying, I read your proposal. A search for the tomb of the legendary—I believe you wrote ‘mythical’—Imhotep…” Bruce said with a sweep of his hand, indicating the entire burial complex around them, “the vizier and chief architect of the Djoser Pyramid. If I recall, correctly, he became the patron saint of scribes in Greece, while other cultures consider him the world’s first physician. Quite an achievement for one man.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Jones concurred, absently brushing the dust from his galabeeyah. “People have fanciful goals and beliefs, searching the world, hoping to verify myths: Noah’s Ark, the Ark of the Covenant… or like my father, right now in Alexandria, pouring over Coptic records, believing they will lead him to—of all things!—the Silver Chalice of Christ. As I said: fanciful.”