“It was a long echoing space within the brewery, with the smell of ancient malt and hops, barely illuminated by a few bare bulbs.” The thugs were strangely genteel with him, indicating his path further into what must have been the thickest darkness to them.
The Nyctalope had smiled. The darkness hid no terrors for him.
“They didn’t know, gentlemen, that I had powers of sight in the darkness. Soon they were stumbling around while I made my way to a steel stairway to the upper levels.” In his chest, he felt the resonance of the steel frameworks and brewing vats with the magnetic fields of the electro-magnets of his artificial heart. It was disquieting. Saint-Clair had never felt anything like it even in the Hertzian radio-planes that he had ridden to Mars or on the Eiffel Tower. “I heard my captors stumbling about until a doorway opened, flooding the space with light and the yells of the three men. They’d spotted me and I barely stayed away of them while I found the door to the roof.”
He barricaded the steel roof door with a wooden chair and ran to the edge below the water tank. Below were the streets and tenements, offices and factories, of Lower Manhattan.
“I heard the crash of the smashed wooden chair and leapt for the next building before I could think. I skidded on the tarpaper of the next roof and turned to look. I could see my pursuers hesitate. Harry the Horse fired twice with a pistol, and then leapt after me.”
The next building’s roof was a story shorter and he ran down the steel access ladder until he could jump again. The taller building after that only gave him a bedroom window to access. The young lady there had been very gracious.
“Finally, I was running down the street, through back alleyways and private back gardens, draped with drying laundry, with the occasional accompaniment of gunfire.”
Wolfe had his eyes closed throughout this, his lips pursing in and out. To anyone else, it would appear that he had fallen asleep, but I knew that his analysis continued with all extraneous distractions excluded.
“Suddenly, I saw that I had turned onto Centre Street and I could see the white dome of the Beaux-Arts palace where Inspector Cramer was supposed to be waiting for me. The men were still in pursuit, so I had to run away from Police Headquarters and onto the pedestrian walkway of a great bridge.”
“The Brooklyn Bridge,” I wrote in my notebook, “and 240 Centre Street.” This was quite a tour that the Nyctalope had gotten. I was surprised that he had missed Chinatown and Greenwich Village! That “white city” pile at 240 Centre Street had been designed “to impress both the officer and the prisoner with the majesty of the law.” It certainly had always impressed me—especially that amazing lobby. The structure had housed the headquarters of the New York Police Department from 1909 to the present, replacing an older building nearby on Mulberry Street. When the NYPD had shifted to Centre Street, all the gun shops, cop saloons, and police reporters had followed suit.
“I ran up the boardwalk of the pedestrian way onto the bridge,” explained Saint-Clair, “heading for the great Gothic stone tower supports. The three boys from Brooklyn were still on my tail despite it all.”
Fritz entered with a silver tray holding a coffee pot, creamer and cups, a glass of milk, an empty glass and two bottle of Remmers beer and a dish of his small apple tarts, placing it on my desk. I poured for Saint-Clair and took the glass of ice-cold milk for myself. The beer was Wolfe’s and he looked please to open one and pour it out.
“I ran up the main bridge cable using the guide wires to steady me,” Saint-Clair continued after a sip of his coffee, holding the cup in both hands as if to absorb its warmth. “I’m not sure now what I thought I was going to do because I was not about planning to climb to the summit of the tower. There was a crowd gathering below on the walkway and the flow of traffic over the bridge stopped.”
“No New Yorker can resist a free show,” I diagnosed.
“The view from up there was extraordinary, gentlemen. Up and down on either side of New York the bright sun-lit water lay rippling, while to the south it merged into the great bay and disappeared toward the sea. All up and down the harbor, the shipping, piers and buildings were crystal-clear and the flotilla of ships and ferries in motion. The streets of both Brooklyn and New York were full of multitudes of people.”
“Archie, do you recall that stanza of Hart Crane’s poem To Brooklyn Bridge?”
Of course I did, reciting it to myself: “Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft/A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,/Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,/A jest falls from the speechless caravan.”
The cops and the City don’t keep track of suicide attempts or other jumpers from New York City's bridges, so the actual number is not known. One beat cop told me that the hardest part of patrolling the bridges wasn't dealing with the would-be jumper, but the crowds that would gather and yell to egg the person into jumping.
So the Nyctalope jumped from some 200 or 250 feet above the East River.
I didn’t envy him the experience. Once upon a time, the waterways around Manhattan and the 53-year-old bridge had been the home of frolicking dolphins and seals. Two and three quarters centuries of human and industrial effluvia had changed that. And the East River is ridiculously cold as it is just a tidal strait connecting Upper New York Bay and Long Island Sound. The East River can be dangerous to people who fall in or attempt to swim in it, with water moving as fast as four knots, a speed that can push even strong swimmers out to sea.
“I descended rapidly and tried to shape my body to the perfect diving form to minimize my impact on the water surface.” Saint-Clair paused. “I really don’t remember hitting the water. The next thing that I remember is sitting on a police launch covered in blankets while indigo-clad policemen ranted about someone named Steve Brodie. Who’s Steve Brodie?”
“Back In 1886,” I explained, “a barkeeper named Steve Brodie claimed that he jumped off the bridge to win a bet with a bar-owner pal, and whether he really did it or not, Brodie became a New York legend and vaudeville celebrity. He even operated a Bowery saloon-museum dedicated to his feat. George Raft played him in the movie The Bowery.”
“At least that is explained,” said the Nyctalope. “The police wanted to send me to your Bellevue Hospital for observation, but I was recognized and they brought me to Centre Street instead. Finally, Commissioner Wainwright Barth took me to Inspector Cramer.”
“The circle is complete,” said Wolfe. “And now the inspector has kindly given you to us. Wasn’t he able to help you?”
“Inspector Cramer had me checked by a doctor at Headquarters. He also got me a drink at a bistro across from the police building… there is a tunnel that connects the two.”
“I’d call Headquarters a ginmill myself,” I commented, “but they do serve food. They unbricked that tunnel after the repeal of Prohibition.”
The telephone rang again and I took it. It was Cramer again and he was on the way over.
“Archie, enough of these digressions!” Wolfe gave me a glare. “Monsieur Saint-Clair, Mr. Goodwin and I are not bounty hunters. We are private detectives. I entrap criminals, and find evidence for the state to imprison or kill them. I do not hesitate to charge large fees for this service. However, we can do none of this without the straw and clay to make the bricks. I do not know what kind of private inquiry agents operate in France, if this is what you expect of us.”
“I was told that you were a genius, Monsieur.”
Wolfe sat back into his chair and fussed at the perfect knot of his yellow tie.
“We should like to help you, Monsieur Saint-Clair,” he said, after a moment’s contemplation, “but there is nothing with which to help. And I will not be stampeded.”
I was thinking of the state of the checking account. I hoped that more than a meal was at stake here. An idea occurred to me.
“This Zigomar…” I began.
“An odious man!” interrupted the Frenchman. I agreed, since that’s a classification in which most gangland kingpins, fascis
ts and other authoritarians belong.
“It is time to come to the point, Monsieur Saint-Clair,” said Wolfe, “I must let you know that I have spoken with Colonel Dubois of your Military Intelligence.”
The Nyctalope looked stricken.
“Then, you know the full story?”
“I wish that someone would tell me,” I said. Apparently Wolfe had reserved this for his star turn.
“The colonel had full information about the case through your attorney, Maître Lepicq. Your friend Magistrate Coméliau was not the only person affected; he had the mildest dose and is expected to have a full recovery. His secretary—one of your many girl-friends, Monsieur Saint-Clair—was sadly the real victims of the sausage gas attack. It was analogous to a milder form of chlorine gas. Monsieur Coméliau only got a merest whiff while his secretary and cook were severely exposed, and the latter has, in fact, died. You may be a great hero, Monsieur, but you are the prince of witlings and an unspeakable ass for running off across the Atlantic in search of a wraith without clues or authority while your girl-friend lies in the hospital and may not survive!”
“I could not handle the situation,” whispered the Nyctalope, his strange eyes filling with tears. “I could not see her so small and in pain. I needed to be active, to strike back at the enemy who had done this. That is what I do, take the battle to my opponent.”
“You are an Agent of Atropos, Monsieur Saint-Clair!” said Nero Wolfe, coming to his feet. “Heroes like you rush out expecting the universe to violate causality and produce coincidences to lead you to a resolution. The problem is that this works for men like you as in this abortive kidnapping incident. I, on the other hand, have a liking for causality and sequence which allows us to pretend that we live in a puzzling but logically constructed reality…”
The doorbell rang again.
“I know that you were devastated by the death of your first wife, and all your relationships since then have been, shall we say, less than happy. I am not an alienist, Monsieur, but I can see that what happened to Judge Coméliau’s secretary triggered some kind of unfortunate emotional reaction in you...”
I heard Fritz scurry along the hallway to answer it.
“Inspector Cramer and some gentlemen here to see you,” announced Fritz, entering some time later. “They say that they are expected.” Wolfe asked him to show them in.
Inspector Cramer stomped in, the first of a parade that included District Attorney William Skinner and his assistant, Anthony Quinn. Athletic with slicked back dark hair, Quinn looked like a guy who spent a lot of his spare time at the Racket Club working on the exercise machines. I directed them to a variety of chairs drawn in front of our desks, introducing Skinner and Quinn to our guest. Fritz took their coats and hats to the front room.
“This isn’t my show,” growled Cramer. “You tell’em, Skinner!”
“Monsieur Saint-Clair,” began the District Attorney in his deep bass after clearing his throat, “we are asking you to return to Paris.”
“He can’t go home yet; he hasn’t been officially greeted by Grover Whalen yet.”
“Cut it, Goodwin,” snapped Cramer, “now is not the time for that nonsense.” He supported his weary head on one fist and bent towards Skinner again.
“We’re here to pass on requests from the French Consul-General and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that you go home. Your dear friend, President Alexandre Prillant, is quite worried about you. “
“But what about Zigomar and the Big Fellow?” asked a plaintive Saint-Clair.
“The last Big Fellow was William Valcross,” explained Skinner. “He was remanded into the custody of Inspector Fernack several years ago, and later executed by electric chair.”
“We checked the Panther Brewery and there is no clue to who was using it,” said Cramer. “There is no evidence that this new Zigomar has come to New York and so nothing to follow up. If we could find the Harry the Horse, it might be different…”
“Your girl-friend needs you; France needs you, Monsieur Saint-Clair,” stated Nero Wolfe. “I’m sure that Dr. Preson will understand cancelling the lecture.”
The Nyctalope sighed, then gave a sharp nod of the head and got up on his feet. Fritz brought his things back to him. Saint-Clair bowed to me and Wolfe and followed the others to the door. Once we heard the door close, Wolfe turned to me.
“Saul should be back soon, Archie. I sent him myself to examine the brewery to look for clues. I have the greatest respect for Inspector Cramer and his police methods, but more faith in Saul’s acuity. While we are waiting, you can bring in the watcher in the alcove.”
I heard Wolfe reciting to himself from Macbeth as I left the office:
“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;
Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?”
There was a man in the alcove, swathed in a black cape with scarlet lining, a wide-brimmed black hat and scarf that only revealed burning eyes and a prominent aquiline nose. He seemed to coalesce out of the shadows.
“He’ll see you now, so follow me.”
I brought the mystery man into the office and gave him the red leather chair.
“You have handled this well, Nero Wolfe. You have a fine way,” said the dark man in sepulchral tones, “of marshalling all the data and resources.”
“Thank you,” replied Wolfe. “I do not have as many sources and agents as you do, but can still assemble my players.”
“The Nyctalope never remembered meeting you before?” This from the mystery man startled me; Wolfe had known the Frenchman before?
“No, he did not recognize me as the slim detective he met in Cairo over ten years ago.”
“You were operating then as Augustus Fennec in North Africa, as I recall.”
Wolfed laced his hands over his belly and smiled to himself. His eyes caught mine to say that he still had enough mysteries of his own in the shadows of his past.
The role played by the Nyctalope during World War II, and his collaboration with the Nazis, was briefly evoked in Marguerite and, retroactively, the subject of Roman Leary’s The Heart of a Man. Emmanuel Gorlier, however, tackles the issue head-on and brings Leo Saint-Clair into the heart of the Nazi Empire for a desperate adventure with some rather remarkable associates…
Emmanuel Gorlier: A Present for Hitler
Berlin, 1941
Comfortably seated in the back of the Mercedes, the Nyctalope gazed with curiosity at the Berlin nightlife. On eother side of the street, buildings were decorated with long, red flags marked with the black swastika. Unlike in Paris, which was subject to strict curfew rules, the capital of the Third Reich seemed joyful and full of life. Preceded by two motorcyclists in Nazi uniform, the official limousine drove him to his appointment.
The affair had begun a few weeks earlier at the Paris Opera Garnier while Leo was attending the premiere of Aida with his friend, Nina Boucher. During the intermission, he was approached by a senior SS officer. The grimness of his black uniform contrasted with the more colorful dress of the revelers. Leo had been surprised to recognize his former foe Otto Von Kubitz, whom he had fought in Morocco in 1934. The SS came towards him with a smile and a glass of champagne in hand.
With a slight snap of his heels, Colonel Von Kubitz had saluted the Nyctalope:
“Monsieur Saint-Clair, I am pleased to meet you again. Truthfully, I came here tonight in the hope of seeing you...”
“Colonel, the pleasure is all mine The occasion is more relaxed than the last time we saw each other.”
“Indeed! Are you enjoying the performance? I know you’re a connoisseur.”
“I’ve been an opera buff since the Great War. But, if you were looking for me, maybe we should discuss what brought you here before the end of the intermission…?”
/>
The colonel glanced at Nina Boucher. The Nyctalope understood and said:
“Nina, would you mind if the colonel and I left you for a few minutes to fetch some champagne?”
“ Of course not, darling,” replied Nina cheerfully. “I’ll wait for you here.”
As they approached the bar, the colonel whispered in the Nyctalope’s ears:
“I have a service to ask. A friend of mine would dearly like to meet you, to make you an offer... I assure you that it will not in any way compromise your principles…”
The Nyctalope remained silent for a moment, standing in line at the bar. He stared at his former enemy with his penetrating gaze.
“Who is your friend?”
“It’s Reichsmarschall Herman Göring. He’s waiting for you in Berlin…”
Three weeks later, the Nyctalope stepped out of the car, followed by Colonel Von Kubitz, and entered the building where his meeting with the Reichsmarschall was to take place. They were saluted by the guards as they made their way through a maze of corridors, their progress punctuated by a seemingly endless series of resounding “Heil Hitlers.” Finally, they crossed a monumental threshold and entered a large room decorated with precious artworks looted from all the museums of Europe. There, the Nyctalope saw three men seated around a conference table.
The Reichsmarschall was the central figure of the trio. The former Luftwaffe ace was now just a fat man, bloated due to his excessive consumption of morphine, a drug he had begun to use to relieve his injuries after the Munich Beer Hall Putsch. Göring wore a white uniform.
To his right sat a man of medium build wearing the uniform of commander in the SS; to his left was a colossus wearing the uniform of a captain in the Bersaglieri corps of the Italian army.
A few steps from the table, Von Kubitz bowed and saluted the Reichsmarschall in the Nazi fashion; the three men returned his salute. The Nyctalope merely nodded.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 23
