Doc Ardan and The Abominable Snowman

by Guy d'Armen

  The dreaded Mongol was bathed in the same murky light that seemed to come from nowhere.

  “The Yellow Shadow,” whispered Ménardier.

  Suddenly, Ming seemed to awaken from his trance. With a gesture, he removed the helmet to which he had been attached. Then a mechanism caused the glass jar to lift upwards.

  Ming rose.

  “Ivana,” he said, addressing the Eurasian woman, “have you accomplished your mission?”

  “Yes, brother,” she replied. “Leclerc will never speak again. But the police are on our track. I’m afraid...”

  “I know her, now,” Ménardier murmured. “She is Ivana Orloff, a Russian princess related to the Counts Boehm of Germany. Much was made of her in the press recently when she arrived in Paris...”

  “Drop your weapons!” said a heavily accented voice.

  Ménardier, Ham and Monk turned around and discovered a horde of dacoits, each more sinister than the other, pointing the barrels of their guns at them. They all wore strange dark glasses. Rather than comply, the police went on the attack and opened fire on the dacoits.

  Taking advantage of the melee, Ming took a small crystal ball filled with a greenish liquid, which had been resting on a work table, and smashed it on the ground. Immediately a ray of blinding white light flooded the room. The brightness of the rays burned the eyes of the police. Ham howled in pain. He understood the reason for the strange glasses worn by the dacoits: they shielded their eyes from effects of the weapon used by their master!

  He heard hurried steps, then words spewed in a dialect unknown to him. The lawyer dropped his sword for fear of hurting his friends. A pair of arms seized him. He delivered a series of blows to defend himself, feeling jaws crunching under his fists. But a hard object hit his head, making him see a thousand stars in the bright afterglow. Ham fell to his knees. His tongue welded to the palate of his mouth, he could not call for help. His legs and arms hurt… The second blow mercifully rendered him unconscious...

  When Ham came to, he felt as if two red-hot pincers were crushing his skull. He saw Ming look at him:

  “Are you in pain, Mister Brooks? Good—but try not to die... You think you may have won the war, but you have won but a single battle! Tell your friend Ardan that I shall ruin his plans for peace! You Americans, you only want to get rich on the backs of the less advantaged... You wish to forget that there are wars and revolutions, but I’m here to remind you... I will foster a future darker than your worst nightmares!”

  Ming laughed a long and cruel laugh, like the growl of a tiger.

  Before passing out again, Ham saw him smile and disappear with his sister, Ivana Orloff in tow. Then he sank back into unconsciousness and a mindscape of fragmented arabesques...

  A policeman lifted his eyelid and shouted something that Ham did not understand.

  The man turned him on his stomach and he felt the blade of a knife sliding between his wrists, cutting the ropes that had hindered him, freeing his hands from behind his back.

  Ham huddled on the cold ground, wet, dazed, vaguely discerning Monk at his side.

  Acrid smoke filled the cavern. He heard a series of explosions and chunks of ceiling crashed near him. The lawyer didn’t care. The only thing that existed for him was his violent headache. He could barely move. The bitter taste of bile was in his mouth... Above all, don’t move, he said to himself.

  He saw Ménardier haranguing his troops... So the Brigades du Tigre had won the battle after all!

  Then, he saw the familiar figure of Francis Ardan, accompanied by Doctor de Grandin, who was busy dismantling Ming’s diabolical machines. Naked filaments hurled showers of sparks in the air.

  We have to get out of here asap, Ham thought in a flash of lucidity. Everything must be booby-trapped. The Yellow Shadow wouldn’t want anyone unlocking his secrets...

  There was another blast, followed by another blackout. Time stretched endlessly. Someone tried to lift him.

  “No! I beg you... Evacuate the room!” urged the lawyer.

  He hardly recognized the man built like a gorilla, his face bloodied, who grabbed him under the arms and carried him to safety.

  A pale sun rose over the rooftops of Paris, dissipating the opalescent dawn.

  Ménardier had been pacing the sidewalk for five minutes when the automobile appeared at the corner of the Rue de Turenne. The Inspector saw the tall figure of Ardan, followed by the massive one of Monk, get out of the vehicle, not without some difficulty.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he grumbled.

  “Sorry,” said Ardan. “We had to go to the emergency room of the Hotel-Dieu to check on Ham and take care of Monk’s head...”

  Monk’s flat forehead was bandaged, and the left side of his face showed numerous scratches. His clothes were spotted with blackened blood stains. Ménardier, turning to Ardan, asked:

  “How is Mr. Brooks?”

  “A skull fracture. He was being taken into the operating room when we left... But I’m assured that his life is not in danger.

  “Thanks for arriving at the last minute with those reinforcements Ardan. Without you…” The Inspector shuddered at the thought of the gruesome fate that the Mongol could have inflicted on them.

  “All the credit should go to Doctor de Grandin,” said Ardan. “It was he who designed a machine capable of tracing the source of that mysterious ‘Mega Wave’ used by Ming to enslave his victims, allowing us to arrive just in time to lend you a helping hand. De Grandin drew on the work of an English physician, Doctor Septimus, whose book on the subject was published in 1922, but…”

  But Ménardier wasn’t listening anymore; the Inspector had turned around and was heading toward the steps of Berthelaux’s home.

  The curtain was about to fall!

  Some police officers stood on guard in the lobby, searching the visitors. In an adjacent room, they saw more policemen and de Grandin seated before his electronic equipment. A small parabolic dish on top of it turned slowly, while the round, grey screen showed a tiny, erratic sinusoid green line.

  Ménardier observed the light patterns without understanding. This modern technology was beyond his comprehension...

  “Still nothing to report, doctor?” he inquired.

  “Nothing,” replied de Grandin; his eyes were underlined with dark circles due to the lack of sleep from the night before.

  He was trying to modulate the reception of the signal when Berthelaux appeared in his dressing gown, walking down the stairs leading to his living room.

  “What’s all this fuss?”

  Ardan, who had hitherto remained silent, jumped on the banker and seized him by the throat, lifting him up off the ground. Berthelaux, his neck caught in that giant grip, kicked at the air with his legs.

  “Help!” he cried. “Who is this madman? I’ll ruin your career, Inspector! I have friends in high places!”

  The man of bronze man forcibly turned the banker’s head, revealing the short white scar on the occipital bone on the back of his head. He then said coldly:

  “Just as I feared, we’re too late. This man has already undergone Ming’s operation. He’s under the control of the Yellow Shadow. It is through this abominable scheme that Ming grabbed the fortunes of the first three bankers who’d robbed him, and tried to frame me for the death of the fourth...”

  Ardan dropped Berthelaux, who fell heavily into a chair, coughed, gasped, struggling to catch his breath. Ardan went on:

  “But now, we’re on to you, Ming! We know the directional nature of the Mega Wave and Doctor de Grandin’s equipment will find you, wherever you are!”

  Berthelaux continued to squirm in his seat, uncomfortable. Ménardier turned towards him.

  “What do you say to that, Monsieur Berthelaux?”

  “Inspector, I have no idea what this man is talking about! I know nothing about a Mega Wave or anything else, I swear... It’s true, I woke up two days ago with that scar, and I can’t remember how I got it. I must have been kidnapped a
nd drugged, but I don’t remember anything!”

  “Of course, you didn’t see fit to call the police...”

  “I was going to, but I was scared! You understand... A man in my position! I thought that it may have been someone upset with his investments... But my intention was always to contact you and help you with your inquiry...”

  “Nonsense, Ming!” interrupted Ardan. “Your plan is subtle, but we now know that you’re in control of Berthelaux through that olive implanted in his skull. I want to know what you real goals are!”

  “You’re crazy! I may have that thing inside me, but right now, I am the banker Berthelaux! I demand a lawyer! Inspector, I order you to take me to a hospital in order to have that thing removed…”

  Suddenly, a bell rang.

  “8:59 sharp!” said the banker. “No one is more punctual than my good man Vallières...”

  Soon, Vallières entered the room, carrying a tray with tea and coffee which exuded a powerful aroma and another, more subtle smell, undetectable by all, except for Ardan’s olfactory sense, trained since birth to uncover traps of all kinds.

  “No!” yelled Ardan, realizing what was happening. “It’s Ming! You mustn’t ...”

  Then, he lapsed into unconsciousness, joining Monk and the police already asleep from the effects of the soporific gas made from a rare species of mushroom of which only Judex knew the secret.

  “Justice is done,” murmured the avenger, carrying the body of Berthelaux and disappearing towards the roof.

  When the police came to, Ménardier rushed into the lobby. Short of breath, his eyes still tearing, he asked the policemen on guard:

  “Tell me that you saw something...?”

  “Nothing, Inspector! We saw nothing at all!”

  Ménardier was about to unleash a volley of oaths when Ardan pointed to something white fluttering through the room. It was a dove, which, cooing, landed on Berthelaux’s desk, then flew away and disappeared through an open window in the morning sky of Paris.

  “Shit!” swore Ménardier, his face crimson. “It’s Judex! He’s got Berthelaux!”

  “Judex?” asked Ardan.

  “A vigilante who goes after crooked businessmen and crazy industrialists... There’s a good chance that we’ll never see Berthelaux again...”

  “The only victim of Judex that we’ve ever identified,” added Jules de Grandin “and that was purely by accident, was located by Chantecoq. It was Gontran, a billionaire and a madman. Judex had performed plastic surgery on him, making him completely unrecognizable. He had also undergone some kind of lobotomy that had left him a wreck. He lived like a bum under a bridge in Paris... He was interned. What a mess... If only this man used his talents to rehabilitate criminals, instead of punishing them...”

  The expression on Ardan’s face became pensive.

  “Rehabilitating... Yes, that’s a thought,” he murmured.

  “What will you do with Bouriet’s fortune, which you now own, albeit unintentionally?”

  “First, I’ll compensate all the victims, of course. Then, I think I’ll set up a fund to support Aristide Briand. I believe in him. He advocates reconciliation between France and Germany... Because I fear that the Yellow Shadow may already be fomenting a new war...”

  (translation by J.-M. & Randy Lofficier)

  Jason Scott Aiken’s tale, previously published in Tales of the Shadowmen 12, is based on The People of the Pole, a remarkable 1907 French proto-Lost World novel by Charles Derennes, translated by Brian Stableford, available from Black Coat Press, ISBN 978-1-934543-39-9. In it, Doc Ardan goes looking for a mysterious race of intelligent reptiles...

  Jason Scott Aiken: Ardan at the Pole

  January 3, 1928, Baltimore, MD

  This afternoon, I had lunch at the Baltimore Gun Club in the company of Mr. Hareton Ironcastle. A naturalist and renowned explorer, he had sponsored my membership into the club several years ago. Although, Michel Ardan (a distant relative of mine) has his picture placed prominently on the wall of the establishment, this connection didn’t guarantee my admission to this selective group. Ironcastle’s heartfelt recommendation, along with my military record and scientific background were vital in acquiring membership.

  Ironcastle, a good friend of my father, related tales from some of their adventures to me. He was able to fill in some gaps about my father’s life that I hadn’t been aware of. Mr. Ironcastle was also interested in my days as a pilot in the Great War. He seemed fascinated with aviation in particular.

  When he asked about the possibility of Arctic flight, I raised my eyebrows. Knowing I was onto his leading questions, he produced a rugged, well-traveled satchel from beneath his chair. The veteran explorer reached in and withdrew a manuscript, then placed it on the table for me to examine. I judged it to be an older document, close to 20 years old. The text was in French, but for the sake of ease, I will list the English translation here.

  The People of the Pole

  Written by Jean-Louis de Venasque

  Transcribed by Charles Derennes

  Completed November 25, 1906

  I looked at Ironcastle inquisitively. Over the years, I had heard rumblings of the de Venasque manuscript, but up to this point, I had never met anyone who had seen it, let alone owned an actual copy of the document. I inquired if this was in fact the original document. Ironcastle stated it wasn’t the original, but the one and only copy of Derennes’ transcription of de Venasque’s original document. This was Derennes’ own copy, and he never produced another.

  According to Ironcastle, the original de Venasque manuscript was in the private collection of the anthropologist who discovered it, Louis Valenton. He is a professor at the College de France. The manuscript was found in a petrol canister by Valenton while on the Yalmal Peninsula, near the mouth of the Ob. It was Valenton who allowed Derennes to make a copy.

  Valenton and Ironcastle were old acquaintances. At some point, three years ago, Derennes sent the copy to Valenton unexpectedly, instructing him to find a proper home for the document. Valenton had no need to have the original manuscript and the copy. He also wanted to follow through on friend’s wishes. This led to him sending the manuscript to Ironcastle.

  Ironcastle asked if I would read it and provide an opinion on the veracity of Jean-Louis de Venasque’s account. He didn’t have to ask me twice, for my curiosity was piqued. He excused himself from the table to allow me time to read the document.

  Although the account was quite lengthy, my skill at speed reading allows me to read, and comprehend, written documents in a quarter of the time as the average person. The contents were engrossing, and I found myself rapidly turning the pages. I will summarize the account of de Venasque below for a frame of reference.

  On April 26, 1905, Jean-Louis de Venasque, a French nobleman, and his acquaintance, Jacques Ceintras, an engineer, departed in their dirigible from Franz-Josef Land in an attempt to reach the North Pole. The pair piloted the vessel across the frozen plain until they reached a violet-lit area that is the North Pole, complete with flora and fauna. They found miniature pterodactyls and a race of intelligent humanoid iguanodons that lived in a subterranean realm beneath the pole.

  The mental state of both men seems to deteriorate over time. Ceintras went mad and eventually killed a number of the iguanodons after they prevented the pair from leaving in their dirigible. This was thanks to a type of magnetic locking mechanism the creatures employed, which anchored the aircraft to the ground. Eventually, Ceintras and Venasque parted company. Ceintras chose to walk across the frozen plain to certain death. Venasque stayed at the pole and chronicled what transpired. He placed his manuscript in a petrol canister and threw it into the nearby river, hoping it would make its way out to sea.

  Once I finished reading the manuscript, I sat at the table in silence for fifteen minutes. There have been a handful of explorers who have claimed to reach the North Pole since de Venasque and Ceintras attempted the feat. The claims of these explorers remain questionable to
this day, but none claimed to have seen the fantastic sights de Venasque described. The situation with the de Venasque account was quite unusual. I had to admit to being a bit skeptical of the source, Valenton. If the claims were true about the iguanodons, the manuscript would support Valenton’s own theories, which weren’t widely accepted by the scientific community.

  In 1906, after returning from an expedition in northern Asia, Valenton brought back the bones of a previously undiscovered creature. He dubbed it the anthroposaurus. He postulated it was an amphibious reptile that possessed both intelligence and reason. Valenton believed the anthroposaurus to be a contemporary of the first humans. He conceded the species was now extinct, but perhaps some had survived and evolved. If true, the iguanadons mentioned in de Venasque’s manuscript could be the descendants of Valenton’s anthroposaurus.

  I can’t say my doubts ended at Valenton. The writings of de Venasque himself were also a bit troubling. Even when taking into account that he was writing these documents in complete human isolation, expecting to perish in the coming days, there was something not quite right regarding his demeanor. This account might very well have been an elaborate fantasy written by a psychotic who murdered his friend, and attempted to justify it by creating his own warped reality. The violet light, iguanadons, the miniature pterodactyls, and underground realm may all have been fictitious. The two explorers didn’t have the friendliest of relationships to begin with. Perhaps their dirigible suffered a catastrophic failure and they became stranded at the North Pole. The animosity between them may have risen to the surface, and a life was taken as a result.