Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “Only a moment more,” the Doctor muttered as leaned out precariously over the shaft. The device was just beyond his reach and only young Telzey’s grip on his other arm kept him from falling to his death.

  It would have been so easy to reach out and shove him in, I thought. Then again, the girl had been kind to me. Besides, I wasn’t about to expose myself. These vampire hunters have a nasty habit of producing deadly weapons at the last moment.

  Across the room, Phryne still led the Puritan in a dance of death. He would strike at her with the cat’s head or stab with the sharp point at the other end of the staff, but always she slipped away with the grace of a luna moth. The old man was beginning to tire.

  The Captain was doing better against his foe. His swords must have been inlaid with silver, or charmed in some other way. The cuts and thrusts left great rents in the wolf’s hide which did not instantly heal as wounds inflicted on a powerful vampire usually do.

  Maciste continued to hold back the horde with his impromptu barrier. This had been difficult enough when they were in human form, but now they were changing into dogs, bats, spiders, serpents, vultures and leeches. The smaller cratures were slipping past, which kept Grost busy stamping on leeches and spiders and dousing the smeared remains with holy water.

  “I have it!” the Doctor crowed with triumph. Telzey pulled him back from the shaft, the alien device was in his hand.

  “No!” Baroness Phryne shot towards him, with murder in her eyes.

  Telzey stepped in front of the Doctor and raised the ultraviolet cross. Neither symbol nor imitation sunlight gave the Baroness pause. She slapped the thing from the girl’s hand and it shattered against a wall.

  “The Heart of the Moon!” the Baroness cried. “Give it to me!”

  At that moment, Solomon finally caught up with Phryne. He drove his staff through her body like a spear.

  “Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen...” he quoted with grim satisfaction.

  Baroness Phryne’s body was engulfed in eldritch flames. She threw her arms around the Puritan and together they fell into the open shaft. The Doctor stepped forward, a stricken look on his face, and there were tears in Telzey’s eyes.

  Gently but firmly, the old man moved his companion aside and began to tinker with the glowing device. Across the room, Baron Iscariot had fallen and reverted back to his human form. The Captain left him to join Maciste and Grost in their defense of the door.

  “Hurry, Doctor!” the Captain cried. “We can’t hold them much longer.”

  “That should do it!” the Doctor replied and raised the glowing device over his head.

  At that moment, something happened that had never occurred since the city was built. With time unfrozen by the old man’s tampering, the Sun rose over Selene.

  There was a terrible cry from all around the city as the vampires felt the rays of light. The Sun is not fatal to all of my kind, but none of us welcome it. Those who didn’t burst into flames or crumble into dust fled back to their tombs, screaming.

  “Hurry!” the Doctor cried. “They may have a way to reverse the effect.”

  With that, the group ran from the tower and I was left alone. I examined the Baron who was badly injured, but would recover. I thought about finishing him off myself to avoid whatever punishment he might have in store for me.

  “You are one of Vseslav’s, aren’t you?”

  I spun to see the voice’s owner. He was thin as death and hairless as a skeleton. In a city of the dead, his pointed ears, sunken eyes and tangle of sharp teeth still distinguished him. Orlok was the oldest of our kind, at least as far as I’m aware. He glided toward me with his long fingers twitching like epileptic spiders.

  “I am Yvgeny, sir,” I stammered.

  “You may leave, Yvgeny. I will tend to the Baron.”

  I wanted nothing more, but I could see that the sunlight was only beginning to fade. I needed to stall for a few moments.

  “Your Highness,” I said. “The humans had an odd story to tell about our race coming from a lost civilization on the Moon. Can you tell me if it is true?”

  “What else did they say about us?” he whispered.

  “One said that vampirism is a disease,” I replied. “Another that we’re a different species of humanity. Yet another said that we are the servitors of dark and ancient gods, or that we are cursed by God for our sins. Can you tell me, sir, which is the true origin of our people?”

  The ancient creature appeared lost in thought for several moments.

  “People tell many stories about vampires,” he finally answered. “They are all lies.”

  I left then, fearing what might happen if I didn’t. The long years have driven Orlok mad, they say, and even other vampires are not safe around him.

  I stuck to the shadows but I was still badly burned and blistered by the time I came to the city’s exit. I looked back a final time on Selene, the city of wonders and mysteries. I would never see her again.

  Just as well, I thought. I had never really liked the place.

  Tales of the Shadowmen prides itself on its unique international cast of contributors. So far, we have had writers from America, England, Belgium, France, Canada, and we now welcome our first contributor from Italy! Alfredo Castelli, the “father” of Martin Mystère, had his heart set on reconciling a bit of anachronistic information that appeared in Marcel Allain’s 1919 non-Fantômas novel Fantômas of Berlin (a.k.a. The Yellow Document), in which in 1870, Kaiser Wilhelm refers to a Fantômas that obviously could not have been Gurn, the Fantômas of 1910. Castelli decided to “discover” what had happened to that forgotten Fantômas (and why he was forgotten in the first place)...

  Alfredo Castelli: Long Live Fantômas

  Berlin, 1893

  “Do you know what they call you, Krampft?”

  “Will your Majesty deign to tell me?”

  “My Court calls you the Fantômas of Berlin.”

  The Kaiser dropped onto a sofa and continued: “And that title is deserved. You have the audacity and the cunning of the man they nicknamed the Genius of Crime. The Master of Terror.”

  Conversation between Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany and his

  private counselor, Doctor Krampft, as reported by Marcel Allain

  in his novel The Yellow Document or The Fantômas of Berlin,

  New York, Brentano’s, 1919.

  Naples, December 26, 1890

  The Romans, whose eyes were trained to notice beauty, were the first to appreciate the spectacular scenery and temperate climate of Naples. The Grand Hotel was located on the very spot where, it was said, Emperor Augustus had a villa with magnificent views of Mount Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples.

  The Hotel dated back to when Italy was not yet a unified country; from the day it opened, the establishment had been owned and run by the Vampa family. It was tastefully decorated and contained many pieces of antique furniture including some crafted locally, with stunning inlaid decoration.

  A waiter knocked on the door of its celebrated Royal Suite, famous for its terrace and breathtaking view.

  “Dottor Schliemann… Dottor Schliemann, are you in?”

  But there was no reply.

  After a while, the anxious waiter decided to open the door with a skeleton key.

  He entered the tiled suite to search for the guest. At first glance, he wasn’t in the reading room nor in the marble bathroom or on the veranda. The waiter, increasingly concerned, decided to look in the bedroom.

  “Dottor Schliemann–” he began, before screaming in terror.

  “You did a good job, Enrico, not that I would expect anything less from a Gioja,” said the tall, dark-haired man. “According to the Police, Doctor Schliemann died from a severe ear infection. Nobody suspects anything else.”

  The man was dressed fashionably but not ostentatiously, in the manner of a British gentleman traveling abroad. Even though he had just entered his 50s, his face was surprisingly ageless, as young today as it had been 20 year
s before. He was registered at the Parker’s under the identity of Marquis de Rosenthal, but of course, that was not his name. In point of fact, he had never had a name, only aliases.

  “The poison is undetectable, Signor Saladin,” said Enrico Gioja. “Besides, why would anyone suspect that the legendary discoverer of Troy was murdered? People consider him a hero. Why kill a hero?”

  “A hero who has had dealings with some of the world’s darkest powers. The treasures of Troy are priceless, and I’m not merely referring to the mundane value of the gold and jewels. Some of these stones have... power. Kings and anarchists, Masons and Illuminati alike, feared Schliemann. There are many things people didn’t know about him, such as the fact that he’s promised to sell the Stone of Priam to the Black Coats. I made him a good offer, but at the last minute, he chose someone else. A bad choice; for him…and for mankind.”

  “Is there any news of–our man?”

  “No. Just as we were about to lure him into a trap in London two years ago, after those dreadful murders in Whitechapel, he suddenly vanished. We have no idea of his identity. But I’m pretty sure he’ll show himself again soon. Those butcheries were only a rehearsal. I think he has greater ambitions. We must stay alert, Enrico, and when he makes a mistake, we must be ready to strike!”

  Paris, 1894

  Hyppolite Marinoni, director of Le Petit Journal, could have been a character in one of the romans feuilletons that the readers of his newspaper devoured daily. The son of a Corsican gendarme, he had kept pigs as a child and was inordinately proud of his humble beginnings.

  When two agents of the Sûreté rather unceremoniously asked to speak with him that morning, his first reaction was one of surprise. Le Petit Journal made it a point to stay away from anything controversial or political so as not to incur the wrath, or the heavy fines, of the censors. The men asked to see a proof of the next issue of the popular Supplément Illustré, which was published on Sundays. That week, the eight-page color supplement featured a particularly funny comic strip by Draner, but otherwise contained only its usual medley of lurid news and risqué feuilletons, all garishly illustrated. These were redeemed by helpful, industrious advice for the hard-working families of France.

  Marinoni pulled out the cover; it was a color engraving of a masked man holding a dagger as he towered over Paris. The caption read: Fantômas: Il fait peur.

  In Marinoni’s professional opinion, the accompanying article had everything needed to cause sales to jump by at least 10,000 extra copies:

  “For the last four years, Paris has been devastated by a wave of cruel, unsolved murders. Some of these crimes were motivated by the clear and obvious purpose of stealing money or jewelry from the unfortunate victims. But many appear to have been committed for no other reasons than the pure, sadistic pleasure of the murderer, who has displayed a terrifying and twisted appetite for blood. Such horrors may have failed to attract the attention they ought to command, because in our decadent times, we take such aberrations for granted; they are all too often considered the natural product of the diseased minds which now plague our once-healthy cities. But Le Petit Journal has discovered that all these crimes are, in fact, the appalling work of a single man, a man whose name is whispered in fear by even the most dreadful figures of the underworld. Few have seen his face, and all those who did have died under the most horrible circumstances. Who is this grim wraith, this Fantômas? How did he come to be? The origin of the name ‘Fantômas’ remains mysterious; it is as if it merely bloomed, full-grown, from the Underworld like some dark, evil flower...”

  The Sûreté agent stopped reading and slowly tore the journal from cover to cover.

  “Fantômas doesn’t exist, Monsieur. It is merely another of those idiotic urban legends which spring up from time to time and spread like wildfire, like Loup-Garou of Paris or the Phantom of the Opera.”

  “But, it was written by one of our most diligent reporters,” Marinoni tried to interject, his mind already calculating what he could use as a replacement in the Supplément. “Claudius Bombarnac. He’s accumulated notes, interviews...”

  “After the Ravachol affair, the last thing we need is another criminal as hero, especially one who doesn’t exist. Forget your Fantômas, Monsieur Marinoni, that is if you wish to continue publishing your lurid rag.”

  When the two agents left Marinoni’s office, the editor looked at the shredded proof dejectedly. “At least they didn’t destroy the cover illustration. I’ll just have that artist... whatever-his-name-is... replace the dagger with a cornucopia full of cough drops so we can use it as an advertisement for that patent medicine.”

  Outside, the two agents had a brief conversation that would have much surprised the worthy Monsieur Marinoni had he been able to hear it.

  “Who doesn’t exist, hah! Do you think he believed me, Monsieur Clampin?” said one.

  “I don’t think so,” said the man who had once gone by the name of “Pistolet” but was now an éminence grise of the Sûreté. “But you shouldn’t give a damn either way, as long as he doesn’t publish that article. Until now, we’ve managed to keep his existence hidden from the public. If people learned of him, he might become a much worse threat than Ravachol. He isn’t a mindless anarchist with misguided bombs. He has the imagination and the power to really destabilize society.”

  “We’re lucky he didn’t respond to the Kaiser’s overtures last year. To think of him working for the Boche–it’s too awful to contemplate.”

  “I don’t think he wants to work for anyone. He much prefers doing evil for the sheer pleasure of it. Maybe he derives some grim, perverse pleasure from flaunting the rules, customs and laws of society and knowing we’re powerless to stop him. And if it appears we’re ignoring him, he might do something foolish, you understand?”

  Pistolet was right, as always.

  While he was musing about the mysterious outcast’s elusive motivations, at the Royal Palace Hotel, he brooded.

  He realized that in London, he had been foolish to boast of his crimes. He had sent macabre messages to the press, defied Scotland Yard. Nevertheless, he knew that he had been lucky that day in 1889 to escape with his life. He had suddenly become aware that there were mysterious persons lurking in the shadows near his intended victim–a victim whom, upon reflection, he realized he had found much too easily. It had been too perfect. Too inviting.

  It was a trap.

  Luckily, swift as a phantom, he had escaped, giving his pursuers the slip in the fog-shrouded back alleys of Whitechapel, which he knew better than anyone.

  Nobody knew his real identity: he had been extremely careful about that.

  Yet, still there were men sniffing at his tracks: the Detectives, the Gentlemen of the Night, the forces of both light and darkness were arrayed against him.

  He stopped killing, left London and came to Paris, deciding to be wiser–and more cautious. This time, he didn’t choose a nickname as he had in London. But somebody had chosen one for him. The junior editor at Le Petit Journal thought he was only selling an advance copy of the paper to the competition. “Fantômas.” A good name, much better than the one he had devised in London. Yes, he liked it.

  But why had the paper not published the article? Was it possible that the Sûreté was so naive as to not realize that a single man was behind all those crimes? Unless it was, perhaps, another trap, one more subtle than the crude snares that had been laid for him in London...

  He touched the jewel, which had been owned by King Priam and his son Paris. The stone gave him a new boost of energy. He must not succumb to his ego this time. Yes, they were deliberately teasing him in the hope he would make a mistake. Yes, it was another trap.

  This time, he would disappear without giving them the satisfaction of ever catching him, ever learning who he really was. After all, the world was big enough.

  Sartene, 1898

  Saladin had celebrated his 60th birthday, but still looked ageless as ever. Enrico Gioja wondered if the old rogu
e hadn’t somehow managed to find the Colonel’s secret, the Colonel whom, they said, had never died.

  “I think I have good news at last, Godfather.”

  “I need good news, Enrico,” said the man known locally as Count Corona. “I do not like the ways of the world these days. I need something to warm my heart.”

  “We’ve followed his tracks all across Europe, Asia and Africa. As you know, when he was in Russia recently, he helped Pavel Krushevan write that pamphlet...”

  “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.”

  “The same. He seems to think that ridiculous tract he stole from Father Rodin will somehow affect the destiny of...”

  “Make it short, Enrico. Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes. He’s a member of the English aristocracy, connected to the Royal Family, virtually untouchable. A man of great rank, great power.”

  “I see. Are you certain it’s him?”

  “We’ve checked the dates: London, Paris, New York, Cuba, Manila, Moscow, Cape Town. It all fits.”

  “Then you know my orders, Enrico. Cut the branch. How do you plan to pay the law?”

  “He has an estate in England and a garçonniere in Paris, where he indulges in his vices. The estate is like a fortress; too well guarded. And since the Professor’s death, our resources in England are not what they once were. We’d better act in Paris. But he is always very careful, as if he was afraid of something...”

  “So? There must be a way. There always is.”

  “Yes. He can be gotten to, but only by someone he knows, someone he trusts. I think I have found that man.”

  “Enrico, you share the deplorable habit of never getting to the point with your late and regretted father, the Viscount Annibal. Who is he?”