Write back soon, and send some more pictures. Believe me when I say you’ve got a great eye. I’m expecting great things from you.
I love you, Jenny.
Yours,
Grandpa Mike
David Vineyard’s contribution to this collection is an exciting adventure romp, featuring the Nyctalope (rehabilitated since Emmanuel Gorlier’s The Three Sisters) fighting alongside a colorful cast of heroes and villains, reminiscent of an action movie of the 1960s. It finds its raison d’être in one of Jules Verne’s lesser-known novels, Mathias Sandorf, which he wrote as a variation on the theme of The Count of Monte-Cristo—Verne greatly admired Dumas—while adding super-science to the mix. Like Edmond Dantes, Sandorf is unjustly imprisoned and returns as a Captain Nemo-like science pirate named “Dr. Antekirtt,” whose lair is the prodigious island where the story takes place…
David L. Vineyard: The Mysterious Island of Dr. Antekirtt
Antekirtta, 1954
The Captain swore steadily through teeth clamped on the blackened stem of his pipe as he fought the helm of the fishing boat. His breath, indeed everything about him, reeked of alcohol, and his eyes had the far-away, unfocused look of a man lost in drink. He was a burly black bearded man in a dark blue sweater and pea coat wearing a peaked cap pulled low over his red-rimmed eyes. Outside the wind howled at near gale force as the small craft fought through the rough waters of the Eastern Mediterranean.
Leo Saint-Clair stood in the shadows of the deck house, his keen, strangely colored eyes seeing through the darkness, picking out the details of the ship’s bow as it plunged into the rough sea through the slanting wall of rain that whipped them. The tires roped to the bow as a guard were thrown like so many pillows by wind and sea. He studied the Captain dubiously, and thought about taking over the helm before they all drowned.
The Boy came through the hatch just then. He wore a slicker over an absurd outfit of plus fours and a blue sweater over a white shirt. His fair hair stood up in a cowlick in front, even in the downpour; the small white terrier that always accompanied him stood by his leg, shaking the excess moisture from his fur. Ordinarily neither the Boy nor the Dog should be on this voyage, much less the sodden sailor at the helm, but it was the Boy who had initiated this desperate adventure, and he was, after all, no ordinary youth, no more than Leo Saint-Clair, sometimes known as the Nyctalope, was an ordinary man.
“Good dog,” the Boy chided as the dog shook off the last of the rain. He looked up apologetically at Saint-Clair, but the broad-chested man only glared on. He didn’t mind the Dog or the Captain half as much as the Boy’s obvious hero worship. Perhaps there had been a time when he would have welcomed that look—indeed had welcomed it from all comers, but now... Things had changed. Mistakes were made; men made them and lived with the consequences, even heroes, and the more public the mistakes, the more painful the consequences.
“You shouldn’t be up on deck in this blow,” Saint-Clair said.
“Mr. Prince and Mr. Morane asked me to fetch you. Anyway, my dog and I are pretty fair sailors; you can ask the Captain...”
“What do they want below?”
“They have the charts out. They thought that, perhaps, a council of war…”
The Captain had begun to sing a vaguely obscene sea shanty of dubious origins in a low voice. He looked as if he would pass out any moment.
The Boy sensed the Nyctalope’s concern. “I’ll stay with the Captain,” he boy volunteered. “We’ve weathered much worse storms than this. Anyway, this is practically sober—for him.”
Saint-Clair nodded. He was less than reassured, but he had all of the drunken sailor he could stomach. He turned the collar of his coat up and pulled a cloth cap down over his hair. He stepped out in the storm, fought to close the hatch, and fell into the natural rolling walk of the sailor as he rode the storm. Even though his eyes could pierce the darkest night, the slanting rain meant he had to keep a keen watch.
Below, the cabin was lit by a yellow light, wan and sallow. Two men sat around a crude table. One was tall, lean, well muscled, with dark hair, steel-grey eyes and a pleasantly chiseled face. He wore a campaign shirt with epaulets and buttoned down pockets, the sleeves rolled up to reveal lean bronzed forearms. He looked up as Saint-Clair entered.
“Morane, Prince,” Saint-Clair said, acknowledging his companions with a nod.
The second man was younger, not a great deal older than the Boy above. He was bronzed and weathered, with thick, near white hair and sharp blue eyes. He wore a blue pullover shirt and white denims. He was smaller than Morane, just below Saint-Clair’s medium height. Despite his youth, he was a trusted agent of Interpol.
As Saint-Clair entered and shucked off his cap and coat in the close cabin, the younger man stood and took a blackened pot off the stove.
“Coffee?”
Saint-Clair nodded and straddled a chair resting his arms on the back. His chefs at home would be horrified by this foul steaming mixture, but the Nyctalope had drunk worse during his adventurous life. He thought of the foul tea served by his Nepalese guides at the roof of the world, or the potent Arab coffee served to him in Algeria, or even the black tea so popular in Chile, served in a covered metal cup…
Prince handed him a cup of foul-looking, thick black mud, and took his own seat. This was even worse than the tea he had drunk during the curiously formal ceremony of the caravan-sari along the Silk Road on the way to ancient, blue-domed Samarkand.
They had picked up Prince in Tripoli 15 hours earlier. The American Bonisseur de La Bath had suggested Prince to them when Morane’s Scot friend, Ballantine, had been sidelined by a twisted ankle. So far, it seemed a good choice, though one could never be certain until the crucible of fire tested a man’s flesh as well as his will. Saint-Clair would have preferred to have had the ex-OSS man with them, but the American had assignments for his CIA to worry about, and no time for what might prove a fruitless adventure.
“How’s it look up top?” Bernard Prince asked.
Saint-Clair sipped the foul brew and shrugged. “Bad. We’ll be lucky if the drunk doesn’t run us aground.”
Prince smiled. “I know he doesn’t seem like much, but we’re in good hands. He’s a damn fine sailor.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Well,” said Morane, “in any case, we have him. We might as well hope he’s as good as they say—drunk or sober.”
“A damn sight better drunk, I’d wager,” Prince said, “than most sober. Anyway, this is a lucky little boat. I like her name, the Cormorant. Wouldn’t mind having a ship of my own with that name someday.”
“The Boy said something about a council of war,” Saint-Clair said. He was feeling old in this company. Even the Captain was younger than he was, though he looked no older than Morane. Physiologically, he might be 30ish, but mentally... It was the heart, not the mind, that was artificial, and nearly immortal.
“Yes,” Morane said. “I—we, were wondering if our ‘friends’ were very far ahead of us.”
“They have half a day on us,” Prince said, obviously a point he had made before Saint-Clair came down.
“And the same weather,” Morane added. “And I can assure you that, whatever his other skills, the Yellow Shadow is no sailor.”
“Nor that half-German-Chinese with him, I’ll wager,” Prince added.
“You’re both forgetting Largo,” Saint-Clair said. “He may sail a desk now, but he made his fortune running waters as rough as these as a smuggler, black marketeer, and running refugees—the ones he didn’t drown whenever the authorities got too close. No, he’s every bit as good as our drunken friend at the helm. Still, we can move faster in this fishing vessel than the freighter they’re taking, and we can get in much closer. We should beat them to it, but not by much.”
Prince seemed relieved. More hero worship, Saint-Clair thought. He would feel more secure if Prince and the Boy had more of Morane’s reserve. He had had too many lives depend on his actions
, and there had been too many dead in his wake. There was a time that didn’t worry him, but now... His return to France from semi-self-imposed exile had been done quietly, as discreetly as a celebrity as he had once been could manage. Things changed, but governments still had needs. Malraux, a friend who had become an enemy, was now a friend again--of sorts. Others had been forgiven, so why not a man as useful as the Nyctalope? Hadn’t he saved countless lives during the war while seeming to collaborate? He was, after all, a legend, and the current government dealt in legends. The useful ones, at least. One advantage of being nearly immortal was the ability to outlive the tides of fortune. If he was no longer the living symbol of the old Imperial France that he once was, he still had his uses. A flag too old to be waved in public could still prove useful as a shroud for the Republic’s enemies. And there were always enemies. Old and new.
“What do you think we’ll find on Dr. Antekirtt’s island?” Bernard Prince asked.
“Probably nothing,” Morane said. “Nothing but legends.”
“I don’t know,” Saint-Clair said. “There have always been rumors. Locals say the place is haunted. They won’t even fish in its waters. Though you’d think all those pirate warships sunk back in 1884 would make for good fishing grounds. An artificial reef.” He didn’t add that he had been born only a few years before the great battle. He wondered what these men would say if they realized he had been at this game since 1897…
Prince leaned back. “I’ve heard the stories, but I never really believed them. Who was this Dr. Antekirtt?”
“A genius,” Saint-Clair said. “He was originally a Hungarian patriot, Count Mathias Sandorf. He and his allies were betrayed when they tried to drive the Austro-Hungarian rule out of power back in 1867. They were sentenced to an inescapable prison, the Donjon at Pisino, a dreadful place above a deep cataract and a rushing river. They were left for dead, but they escaped. Of the three, only Sandorf made it to safety. Over the next 15 years, he became Dr. Antekirtt and created his fantastic island fortress of Antekirtta. Apparently, he was a genius of the first class, inventing many remarkable weapons, the likes of which are only now common. His fast little submarines, Electric 1 and 2, were said to be far ahead of their time, and his yacht, the Ferrato, a wonder. My father, a sailor himself, told me of both.
“Over the years, there have been attempts to visit the island and liberate its secrets, but they’ve always met with disaster. The last I know of was during the war. Himmler, that fantastic foul troll, followed one of his visions and sent an SS team to raid it... Skorzeny’s men, though not led by Skorzeny himself, but by a man named Drax...”
“Hugo Drax?” Morane spoke up.
“Yes. That one. The one in the papers a couple of years ago over that rocket business in England. Those famous scars of his were from his visit to Antekirtta. He was the only one to escape alive, and barely at that. Anyway, since then, the place has had an even worse reputation, and it doesn’t help that the currents are tricky and the natural harbors treacherous. Antekirtt no doubt knew a secret way in, but if he did, he didn’t leave the secret with anyone.”
“Tell me, Saint-Clair,” Morane asked, “what do you think we’ll find on Antekirtta?”
Saint-Clair shook his head. “I wish I knew, but I can almost promise that, at the very least, we’ll find...”
“…Death,” the Yellow Shadow said. “I think we can be certain that the island is a deadly trap.”
Julius No, the strange half-German-Chinese, tapped his fingers on the top of the teak table in Largo’s luxurious cabin. “I knew Drax. A fool, but a dangerous one. He spoke of terrors, and he was not a man given to such things. Those burns of his, he attributed to a fire-breathing dragon…”
“Ha!” Emilio Largo barked a sharp unpleasant laugh. “Booby traps perhaps, even wild animals. But dragons? Really, my dear Doctor!” Largo’s dark eyes flashed with contempt.
“Dragons come in many forms,” Dr. No said. Though he showed no anger, it was clear he disliked Largo and his manner.
The Yellow Shadow showed nothing, but inside he seethed. Why must he be plagued with such incompetent lieutenants? It was bad enough that devil Morane was involved in this, but to have to deal with these two... And that fool Tadeus who had tipped that damn Boy Reporter... He should have known better than to consult that brilliant mad Professor, who was one of the Boy’s closest friends. Well, he had paid for his mistake with his life, though not at Monsieur Ming’s hand, but too late to benefit him. By the time he had learned of the leak, the Boy had already approached French Intelligence, and they, in turn, Bob Morane; and the former air force Commandant had brought in the Nyctalope, and now Interpol in the form of the young but already formidable Bernard Prince. What a mess! What an unholy mess! Still, if the island held the secret he suspected... That was why he had brought Dr. No was along—and Largo, for his ships and his knowledge of the sea.
Bob Morane, that upstart Prince from Interpol, the Boy Reporter, and... Leo Saint-Clair... That was the wild card—Saint-Clair.
A light on the phone at Largo’s left hand flashed red. The sailor picked it up. He spoke quickly in Greek, then hung up.
“We’re there,” he said. “No sign of anyone else, though in this storm... The Captain says we seem to be in a brief calm. I suggest we go ashore now before it blows up again.”
The Yellow Shadow nodded, and rose. So far things were going well. Still, he felt a certain unease. He’d feel more at ease if he knew what was going on in the mind of...
…The Nyctalope leaped from the bow of the dory into the water and took the line to pull it toward shore. Prince dropped in the water on the other side and grabbed the line to help. In the boat Morane sat with a British-made Sten gun, silenced like the ones used by the commandos during the war. The Boy held his dog under his coat in the stern, by the motor.
The storm had let up briefly, and they had taken advantage of that to come ashore. They had left the Captain back on the fishing boat, snoring raucously. Saint-Clair would have preferred to leave the Boy and the Dog with him, both to keep them out of the way and to watch the old souse. He was by no means sure the old reprobate would still be there when they returned. But he had been outvoted. It was the Boy who had brought them here, Morane pointed out, and Prince agreed.
Fools! This was deadly business, and no place for sentiment or adventure. Men might well die tonight—even boys.
They secured the dory and gathered their gear. Saint-Clair wore his silenced Browning in a shoulder rig under his pea coat and carried a silenced Sten gun like Morane. Prince was carrying a big Browning Automatic Rifle, the BAR, a gun that could shoot concrete to pieces. Even the Boy carried a 9mm automatic that he seemed quite familiar with. Only the Dog went unarmed, but even he was subdued, as if he, too, knew the danger that surrounded them. Both Saint-Clair and Morane carried heavy packs on their back, and Prince had one slung over his shoulder with extra ammo for the BAR.
They were ready for a fight.
They had landed on the northwest corner of Antekirtta. Monsieur Ming and Largo would have to utilize the natural inlet called Kencraf on the southwest side of the island, where the old lighthouse stood and the remnants of the pirate armada lay under the sea. Saint-Clair and Morane had opted for the route Drax and his men had taken after a U-boat had landed them ashore. The added bonus, in Saint-Clair’s view, was a grizzly one. The Drax expedition had not been so long ago that there would be no signs of it. And, even if time had largely erased some of those signs, the Nyctalope’s eyes would spot them. The trail of Drax’s dead would warn them of any booby traps planted on the island, which might still be active and deadly, even after all these years.
They walked in the footsteps of ghosts, damned phantoms whose restless souls were lost to the winds of Antekirtta. Both parties were avoiding the small city Dr. Antekirtt had built and lived in. Their goal was the laboratory located near the center of the island, a Moslem fortress converted by Sandorf for his experiments.
&n
bsp; Saint-Clair took the point. The island was almost certainly loaded with lethal traps. His uncanny eyes were vital to their chances. If anyone could spot a trap... Morane had explained it succinctly: “The Nyctalope’s eyes are our secret weapon. Whatever devices the Yellow Shadow may have with him, he and his associates will move slower—or risk a quick, violent death. We can beat them to it.”
“To what?” Prince had asked. “I’m still not sure what it is that we’re looking for.”
“Power.” It was the Boy who had spoken. “The Professor—well, as best as I could make out, he’s not always clear, the original absent-minded genius—but he said that the man who came to him was asking about power sources. That’s the real secret of Dr. Antekirtt, the power he harnessed. That’s what we’re looking for, I think, what Monsieur Ming and Dr. No are here for—the secret of Antekirtta.”
“Power,” Saint-Clair had said. “That’s always what it’s all about ultimately. Power to create—or destroy, pure unadulterated...
“…Power,” the Yellow Shadow said.
Dr. No looked at Monsieur Ming, but said nothing. He knew what the Mongol was thinking. Antekirtta held secrets, perhaps one especially dear.
They had come ashore in a fast boat lowered from Largo’s ship, with a team of 12 armed and dangerous men recruited from the armies of minions at Ming’s command. Hard men, cold-blooded, ruthless killers, every one. A match for most men—but for Morane—or the Nyctalope? Even in Hong Kong, Dr. No had read of the man Saint-Clair’s exploits, and even if they had been exaggerated by the popular press—and they almost certainly were—he was still a dangerous foe. And while he knew nothing of the Boy, other than that he was a well known journalist despite his youth, and only had Ming’s judgment of the man Morane, it was clear that this was unlikely to be an easy expedition.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 27
