Doc Ardan and The Abominable Snowman

by Guy d'Armen

  Win Scott Eckert: The Eye of Oran

  Oran, Algeria, 1946

  No one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences.

  The Plague, Albert Camus

  FROM: A.L.

  TO: Lieutenant Aristide, Section Afrique du Nord, Service National d’Information Fonctionnelle, Paris.

  DATE: June 16, 1946

  SUBJECT: Oran situation.

  Object, Eye of Oran, reputed to have arcane power. True or false, the gem still has great pecuniary value. Secured object from Natas and have secured it in a temporary but protected location. Am at large in Oran. Natas seeks to recover Eye and utilize as means to control masses who believe in its occult properties.

  British agent Reston missing in mêlée while procuring object; presumed dead, but arranged for delivery of object to me before going missing.

  Oran under strict quarantine due to outbreak of bubonic plague. Plague bacillus has unusual features, according to medical personnel on scene (Doctors Rieux) and is proving difficult to treat with standard serum. Escape from Oran more problematic than anticipated.

  Will report again at designated weekly interval.

  FROM: SNIF.

  TO: Lieutenant Aristide, Section Afrique du Nord, Service National d’Information Fonctionnelle, Paris.

  DATE: June 17, 1946

  SUBJECT: Your report re: Oran.

  Frankly am concerned that you have chosen to engage services of known criminal A.L. in this affair. A.L.’s skills as a thief and ability to escape from precarious situations are as well known as dedication to own self-interests. Furthermore, is not A. L. rather elderly for involvement in this business?

  Against better judgment will grant slight latitude in this matter. If no positive results forthcoming, will be forced to ask SDECE to send FX-18 to Oran.

  The city was yellow and dry. The heavy rains at the end of June had given way to the oppressive and unstinting heat. The sand and dirt whipped through the streets, and the people of Oran, already quarantined by the plague–la peste–secluded themselves even further in the ostensible safety of their homes and cafés.

  In the Kasbah was one such haven, the Café Diable. Behind the Café, a series of tunnels and warrens led underground to a set of interconnected chambers. The Asian opulence of the lair, accented in jade and gold, would have surprised the listless patrons. They would have been even more surprised to learn that the Café and its hidden lair were built over a temple of uncountable age.

  Thousands of years earlier, before recorded history, this had been the site of a Temple of Dagon. When the god’s right eye–the Silver Eye of Dagon–had been stolen, a great warrior princess named Bêlit had ventured into the dark realm of the mound-dwellers to retrieve it. She had succeeded where all others failed and became a queen. In the intervening centuries, it was passed down that only a great woman would be capable of ultimately liberating the silver gem from its homeland.

  As the years passed, the exact location of the temple faded into obscurity. But the legends of the Silver Eye of Oran, as it came to be known, persisted.

  And Doctor Natas knew that there was more to the Eye than its mere financial value. The legend that only a woman could remove the gem from the vicinity of Oran was preposterous, of course. But the other tales of the Eye… To one who had already accomplished impossible wonders, such as the transmutation of base matter to gold, the other stories were a lure impossible to ignore.

  Hordes of monstrous fish-men rising out of the sea, bulging eyes and webbed feet, implacable and inexorable, would be his to command. Others had come close to controlling this power. The ancient Méne cult. The more recent Esoteric Order of Dagon. With the Eye in his possession, Natas would create and control whole armies of the unstoppable amphibians and succeed where the others had failed.

  “Huan Tsung Chao,” he called from the shadows. Only cat-green eyes glittered out of the darkness, the rest of his figure draped in black silks.

  “I am here, Master,” his chief of staff replied.

  “Lupin is still in Oran. I can feel it.”

  “Yes, Master. I agree he cannot have escaped. The city walls are too well-guarded, even for him.”

  “We have spent too much time and effort here, recovering the Silver Eye. I cannot allow Lupin to make away with it.”

  “The only way he could escape is with help, and he has had none from the criminal element in this city. If he had, we would know. Smuggling operations in Oran are controlled by Signor Ferrari’s gang and we are paying him quite well to keep us informed.”

  “Summon Pao Tcheou.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  When the new arrival entered, he bowed deeply. “I come to serve you, O Li Chang Yen, my cousin.”

  “I will have the Silver Eye back, Pao Tcheou. Since we cannot locate Monsieur Lupin, find the English spy’s wife. If she does not know where the Eye is, then at least Lupin will come for her. He will not ignore a ‘damsel in distress.’ “

  “As you wish.”

  “Once she is located, bring her here. Send the Korean.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Fen-Chu,” Natas called next.

  Another shape emerged from the dank shadows and asked: “Hanoi Shan?”

  “Notify the Council that we shall be arriving soon. And alert Doctor Ariosto to accelerate his timetable. With the Eye at my command, spawning the armies of Dagon will take considerably less time than previously thought.”

  “By your leave.” Fen-Chu bowed and left.

  Adélaïde Johnston jumped up as Doctor Rieux came out of the back bedroom of his small apartment.

  “Doctor, how is Violet? It’s not… la peste, is it?”

  “No, no. Mademoiselle Holmes shows none of the tell-tale signs, no buboes at the joints. She is, however, suffering from grief and exhaustion. She needs rest.”

  “May I go in to see her?”

  “Of course, but please do not tax her.”

  Adélaïde went in to the nondescript bedroom and closed the door. Violet, sprawled on the small bed, looked up without energy at her friend. “Hullo, Adélaïde,” she said with affection.

  “Vi, are you all right?”

  “Yes, just a touch of… exhaustion, the doctor says.” Violet smiled wanly. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Vi, I have to tell you, you’re looking a little green around the gills, so to say. Are you sure it isn’t that… thing?

  “The gem?” Violet laughed, sharply. “Don’t be silly, dear. You can’t tell me you actually believe those stories.”

  “Well, Charles put some stock in them.”

  “It was Charles’ job to believe. That doesn’t mean I do.” This was true. Her late husband, Charles Reston, had been an agent for the Diogenes Club, the least known and most eccentric instrument of the British Government, which dealt with matters more unfathomable and outré. Reston was a protégé of Beauregard, who had stepped down as the head of the Club’s Ruling Cabal several years previous. That the current Cabal had loaned him to S.N.I.F. indicated a state of affairs that touched on both the political and the unknowable. Violet, on the other hand, had been known to refer to the Club and the cases they dealt with as “a bunch of superstitious rot,” which had caused some friction between the young couple, but there it was.

  “But Vi,” Adélaïde continued, “you have to admit, it is awfully odd that you’ve become sick since Charles died and you started carrying the Eye around with you. You could let me hold it for you for a while.”

  “It is not awfully odd that I’m all done in. And it has everything to do with my husband being killed by some madman, and us being stuck in this god-forsaken city surrounded by the sick and dying, with a very good chance of becoming sick and dying ourselves,” Violet retorted with the trademark Holmes acerbity. “Now, stop mother-henning me and let’s get down to cases. This Eye was the responsibility of my husband and his French partner. They’re both gone now–not that I ever did lay eyes on the mysterious ‘A.L.’–so
it’s up to us. Those devils must know that Charles arranged to have the Eye delivered to me following his death, and that we now have it. I’ll hold on to it, but we’ve got to figure a way to get the hell out of here with it, and we can’t wait for this damnable plague to end. They’ll find us long before it runs its course and the city re-opens.”

  Adélaïde wasn’t offended by her friend’s tone. In fact, she was long accustomed to it. The two women had first met years ago in finishing school and had become fast friends. When Reston had been loaned to S.N.I.F. and assigned to Algiers, Violet had been left at loose ends in a strange city with no friends. He had suggested that she ask Adélaïde down for an extended visit and all had agreed. After all, when Adélaïde wasn’t around, Violet had a tendency to get herself into trouble.

  Not that Adélaïde’s presence had saved them this time. She was here, having accompanied Violet back to Oran from her recent sojourn in London, and now they were in the deepest trouble of their lives. Through the kindness of Doctor Rieux, they had a place to hide, but it couldn’t last long.

  “All right,” Adélaïde agreed. “There’s a man who comes around sometimes to visit Doctor Rieux. It’s the reporter, Rambert. He’s a journalist for my favorite Parisian paper, L’Echo de France. He’s trapped here like we are and is desperate to get back to his wife. I’ll see if he can help.”

  Raymond Rambert had readily agreed to include the two young women in his escape plans, and now the three sat together at the Spanish restaurant near the docks waiting for their contact. They had waited the better part of a week for the meet, during which time Violet’s condition neither bettered nor worsened.

  “The man we’re waiting for is called Gonzales,” Rambert explained. “It took me weeks to get to him, first through the smuggler Cottard, then through what seemed like an endless series of middlemen. The plan is to hook me up with two of the city guards. When they have sentry duty together and none of the regular soldiers are on duty, that’s the time, we’ll sail through the gates as if no one was there at all.”

  “And this man Gonzales won’t be upset that you’ve added the two of us into the mix?” Violet asked.

  “Maybe, but he’s too close to getting paid. This is to be our final meeting, where he’ll introduce us to the two sentries, go over the schedule, and agree on the exact date we go. It’s costing me 10,000 francs. I don’t think they’ll be too upset at the prospect of an extra 20.”

  Adélaïde nodded, a Red Apple cigarette dangling elegantly from her full red lips. “Ten thousand each is a lot, but we’re good for it.”

  “Yes, especially when the alternative is a hail of bullets,” Rambert agreed. Escape attempts and the resounding echoes of gunfire from the city walls had been a nightly occurrence.

  Their food arrived; Rambert and Adélaïde dug in, while Violet picked at her own fare.

  “Monsieur Rambert,” Adélaïde said, “my mother was also a journalist and I find it fascinating. I simply must know–what brought you to Oran? It seems a bit off the beaten path for a Parisian reporter.”

  “A combination of professional and personal interest, Mademoiselle. I read the reports at the start of the plague, how it spread so quickly throughout the city. I asked to cover the case and arrived a few weeks ago, just before the quarantine was imposed. The accounts intrigued me. They bear certain similarities to a horrendous plague my father witnessed and reported on years ago in Paris.”

  “Your father? Surely you don’t mean–ah, but I see you do! Your father is Charles Rambert, the noted journalist who wrote for La Capitale under the byline ‘Jerôme Fandor!’ “

  “Yes, that is so. My father crusaded against a terrorist called Fantômas, who once released plague-infested rats on an ocean liner. If Fantômas has returned…” Rambert paused to light his own cigarette, a Morley. “Well, as I said, there are certain similarities.”

  “Monsieur, forgive me if I overstep, but didn’t I hear once that your father might have actually been related to Fantômas?”

  “Yes,” Rambert responded quietly. “Some believed he was his son... No one has heard from Fantômas in years, but if he is behind this plague as well... I’m convinced it is unnatural but the information is too dangerous for telephone or telegraph. I must personally bring my report back to Paris and contact the authorities there. In fact–” He broke off as three men approached. “Ah, if it isn’t Magistrate Othon! What brings you here this fine day, Monsieur?”

  “Won’t you introduce us to these two lovely ladies, Rambert?”

  “Of course, where are my manners?” Rambert stood up. “May I present Mesdemoiselles Johnston and Holmes, acquaintances of Doctor Rieux. But I am sorry, I have not had the pleasure?” Rambert inquired.

  “Indeed,” Othon said, “these are my colleagues, Inspectors Fabre and Fauchet of the Sûreté.”

  The three newcomers seated themselves, and Fauchet, a squat Corsican, spoke first. “Mesdemoiselles, Monsieur, let us come straight to the point. We have reason to believe that you intend to leave Oran by less than legal means.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, I may have been misinformed,” said Violet innocently. “Are there legal means of leaving Oran?”

  “Ah, well, Mademoiselle, this is the crux of it, is it not? You see, no one is free to leave Oran right now–Fabre. Fabre! Stop staring, it is impolite!”

  Without a doubt, Inspector Fabre was unabashedly staring at Adélaïde, at her dark eyes and even darker hair bound up in its French roll. “I’m sorry Fauchet, but… Mademoiselle Johnston, you seem very familiar to me. Perhaps we have met somewhere before?”

  Adélaïde laughed, a soft tinkling sound. “No, I’m sorry, it is quite impossible–Violet, dear, are you quite all right?”

  The blood seemed to have drained from Violet’s face. Her eyes bulged. She looked a little green. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she made a bee-line for the back of the restaurant. Dammit, this was no time to be sick, like some weak-kneed ninny! But autonomic reflexes took over and she retched violently as she reached the bathroom. She turned on the water full-blast. The sounds of her sickness and the gushing of the water pulsated in her eardrums, as she heaved and heaved.

  What seemed like hours passed, but it must have been only minutes. Nevertheless, when she emerged from the washroom, the scene had changed dramatically. All the other patrons had departed. Many of the wooden tables and chairs were destroyed, caved in and splintered as if they had been chopped in two. Wooden pillars which formerly supported the ramshackle roof lay on the floor, broken in half. Adélaïde and Rambert lay on the floor, unconscious. Fauchet, Fabre and Othon were in no better condition.

  And in the middle of the room stood an enormous Korean clad in a black three-piece suit as if he was off for a day at the track. He was almost as wide as he was tall. He removed his black bowler hat and the next thing Violet knew, its steel brim was embedded in the wood pillar next to her, almost severing it in half. He slammed the side of his right hand into the last remaining pillar. His hands must have been as hard as teak wood.

  The roof started to come down. The Korean advanced on her. She never had a chance.

  “Miss Holmes?”

  Her eyes opened and vision blurred, then cleared.

  She was lying on a settee of Chinese design, comfortably propped upon pillows of the finest yellow and red silks. She tried to sit up, but a new discharge of pain in her skull effectively dissuaded any further movement.

  “Please, Miss Holmes,” the voice continued solicitously, “do not make any further sudden movements and I assure you that you shall feel better in short order.”

  Violet looked in the direction of the voice; as her vision continued to clear, a tall, lean Asian man came into focus. He was dressed in black silk robes and a black cap was settled upon his skull. He sat, surrounded by flickering candles, upon a dais across the room, which she now saw to be some sort of underground cave decorated with silks and tapestries. Water came down various sections of the cavern walls in tin
y rivulets. She didn’t know enough about the local geography to know whether the moisture was unusual or not. Certainly it contrasted sharply with the current dry dustiness above ground in Oran. At least, she assumed she was still near, or under, Oran.

  She refocused on the man who was leaning toward her, an expression of concern written across his high brow. His hands, clasped together in front of him in a pyramid–a gesture that evoked memories of her uncle–were adorned with long, sharp nails which seemed to be lacquered in black varnish. His eyes were green. Just like the cavern walls.

  “Where am I?”

  “You are my guest.” The man gestured at the cavern. “I must apologize for the accommodations. One makes do with what one has at hand.”

  Once more, ignoring the blinding pain, Violet moved to sit up. As she did so, her hands moved down her sides and what she felt was discomfiting. The familiar lump that the Eye made in her pocket was gone. In fact, her clothing–khakis and jodhpurs–was gone, replaced by a calf-length, formfitting silk gown in the style of the Chinese. And nothing else. Her eyes widened, and she snapped a glare at the man on the dais.

  “Yes, yes. I do have much to apologize for. It was necessary to search you. Your clothing was also searched. There is an object I seek, Miss Holmes. I did not think that you had it. In fact, I was almost positive that you did not. But why take chances?” He leaned back and sighed, somewhat dramatically, she thought. “But I was right, you did not have it, which means that damnable Frenchman still does.”