“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 tiny 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 els
e. 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.”
Now her mind raced. She did have the Eye. Or at least, she had had it the last time she had checked for its reassuring lump in her pocket. That had been back at the Spanish restaurant.
Where the hell was it? her mind screamed, but she kept her composure. Which was all the more remarkable, given what else she had just realized. Or perhaps it was not that remarkable; she was a Holmes, after all.
“You killed my husband,” she said calmly.
“Yes, as I said, I have much to apologize for. To you, dear lady, if not to him.” His eyes narrowed, taking on a cruel cast. “Fortunes of war, and all that, as you British would say.”
“May I at least know the name of my husband’s murderer?”
“Murderer? It was a battle. We were opponents. He lost. I won.” He drew himself up regally. “You may call me Doctor Natas.”
“I see.”
“You do not appear to be surprised.”
“I suppose I’m not, at that. This is all too surreal for anything else. And it all fits. Of course, I’ve heard tales of ‘Fu Manchu’ before... Your jousts with my uncle, your ongoing battle of wits with my cousin...”
“I would hardly call it a ‘battle of wits,’ my dear.”
“Ah yes, and the fabled charm, too... Is that how you populate your harems, Doctor, on charm alone? Or do you resort to kidnapping the women you desire, drugging them, dressing them as you wish”–she looked pointedly down at her gown-clad form which provocatively revealed every contour and curve–“and keeping them captive for years on end?”
Natas’ eyes burned a brighter green, as he replied, “I assure you, Miss Holmes, that I wish you no harm. If you had had the Silver Eye of Dagon, you would be free by now. As it is, you are merely a lure. Once the damnable Frenchman knows you are here, he will return for you and your companions. He will give me the Eye, you will all go free and the matter will be concluded.”
Dammit, Violet thought, we’re never getting out of here. The Frenchman doesn’t have the Eye, I do. Or did, she amended.
“Furthermore,” Natas continued, “I have too much respect for your vaunted family to treat you with anything other than the utmost deference which you deserve. Neither you, nor your companions, shall come to harm while in my care.”
“Adélaïde and Rambert, where are they? And what do you want with this Eye anyway? Surely no mere gem, no matter how exquisite, can be worth all this.”
“Your friends are being held safely close by. They have also been searched, as a precaution. Of course, neither of them had the Eye either. As for it, it is merely a key–a key to a deep and unfathomable power. With it, uncounted masses will bend to my will, or else be swept away in the current of history.”
Violet was beginning to suspect that Natas was a tiny bit mad, although neither her uncle nor her cousin had ever hinted at that. She decided it would be prudent to get off the subject. “All right, then. If you had already searched us all and didn’t find what you wanted, why bring me here for this elaborate audience? Why not just let us go?”
“I can’t, Miss Holmes… Not until Lupin comes.”
“Lupin? He’s the mysterious Frenchman? You are insane! He’d be, what, in his seventies by now? Besides, I doubt the great Arsène Lupin would ever work as mere agent of French Intelligence. It wouldn’t be his style.”
“You are mistaken. I know for a fact that Lupin was your husband’s partner. And now, he has the Eye.”
“Fine then, whatever you say. But how the hell do you know he’s coming at all? He could be thousands of miles away!”
“No, Miss Holmes, he is still trapped here, in Oran. He is not free. My little plague has ensured that.”
“Your… little… plague? My God, you monster!”
“I created this particular strain in payment for a service the admirable Fantômas rendered me some years ago. I always pay my debts. I held some in reserve for my own use at the appropriate moment. I would say the present situation qualifies, wouldn’t you agree?”
“No.”
“Ah, of course not. But, Miss Holmes, are you quite all right? It may be the peculiar phosphorescence in these caverns, but you’re looking a little green.”
Doctor Natas rose, walked over and crouched down to examine her. Was it really the grotto’s phosphorescence, or… No. Natas lost consciousness, hitting the cavern floor with a rather ignominious thud.
Violet quickly rose, thinking to take advantage of this amazing stroke of luck. Her thoughts of escape, however, were short-lived. She felt a faint odor of mushrooms. Then the cavern spun and swirled and she, too, passed out, falling back on the settee.
FROM: A.L.
TO: Lieutenant Aristide, Section Afrique du Nord, Service National d’Information Fonctionnelle, Paris.
DATE: July 10, 1946
SUBJECT:Oran situation.
Conditions here deteriorating. Tell Champignac his sleeping gas works perfectly, but bag of tricks running out. Plague initiated by Natas in order to prevent escape from Oran and delivery of object. Doctor Rieux highly dedicated but overwhelmed. Plague same as strain used in 1911 by Fantômas aboard British Queen en route from Southampton to Durban. Suggest American medical expert, if available.
Object is still safe. Request extraction support. Route response through Parisian reporter Raymond Rambert. If necessary, will report again at designated weekly interval.
It had been almost a week since Violet, Adélaïde and Rambert had been mysteriously rescued from Natas’ clutches. They had come to outside of Doctor Rieux’s laboratory near the Place d’Armes, and now were in hiding there. It was very kind of him to provide them shelter, without asking too many questions, and he wasn’t there much anyway, spending upward of 18 hours a day tending to plague victims.
What was more, the Eye of Dagon was back in Violet’s possession, safe and sound, at least for the time being. It was all very strange, but apparently the “damnable Frenchman,” Lupin, had come for them, just as Natas had predicted. In fact, he must have been in Natas’ lair before they even arrived, although that seemed impossible on its face. But how else to explain the mystifying transference of the Eye from Violet’s pocket to where it was ultimately found when they awoke outside Rieux’s? For it had been found in Adélaïde’s generous, raven-colored hair, tucked in her French roll.
Adélaïde had laughed it off with her natural good humor. “After all, Vi,” she said, “Monsieur Lupin chose the perfect hiding place. Not even those terrible men thought to look there. And you must admit, dear, that while your hair is quite lovely, it is not quite as abundant as mine, yes?”
Violet had been forced to admit that this was true.
Now, with little else to do but wonder if Natas and his minions would find them again, the days passed slowly, until finally there was a break in the monotony. Since the quarantine, various airlines–TWA, Pan Am, Oceanic, Air France and so on–had generously donated planes. Now, relief cargo flights made regular passes over the city, dropping the usual cartons of supplies and foodstuffs for the trapped citizens. This time, among the usual containers, Rieux received a new drop of plague serum, as well as extensive notes on this strain of the plague.
The new serum came from an unnamed American doctor who had set up an encampment outside Oran to consult on the crisis. Along with it was an unsigned message addressed to Rambert:
M. Rambert:
Tell Lupin to follow the Boulevard du Front de Mer to where it meets the city walls at midnight tomorrow night. There he will find escape.
Rambert, not understanding why
he had been identified as a contact for Lupin, or how to contact him, naturally shared the note with Violet and Adélaïde. Though they commiserated about it–after all, Lupin had rescued them from Natas, and what kind of gratitude was it showing to just strand him here?–the three finally agreed that, in the absence of any way of contacting him, they may as well exploit this new escape plan themselves.
As they arrived at the appointed place and time, an airplane flew over the city. The craft’s engines must have been muffled, because only Adélaïde’s extremely sensitive hearing picked up the noise. Even after she pointed it out to the others, they couldn’t see the plane, which was flying without running lights.
Shortly afterwards, a black spot appeared above them, blotting out the stars as it became larger and larger. Eventually the dark spot resolved itself into a black-painted crate, approximately a cubic meter, which was attached to a parachute and a small, absolutely silent engine, both of which were also pitch black to blend in with the night. The engine guided the gently falling crate to a perfect and silent landing next to the three astonished watchers.
The crate had apparently been designed to open upon landing, for the top flopped open and then the four sides of the box separated at the corners and fell to the ground. Violet, Adélaïde and Rambert approached cautiously.
“What is that?” Rambert asked.
As they came closer, they realized that the shapeless object within was encased in packing material, which came away easily and quickly. What lay revealed within took their breath away, at least momentarily.
It was cylindrical and made of metal, glinting in the sparse moonlight. It stood on four fins which were attached to the bottom of the cylinder at 90-degree angles. The cylinder came to a conical point, which was topped by three horizontal rings. In between each fin was a nozzle which pointed at the ground. It looked like nothing so much as a miniature-sized rocket ship from a Saturday-matinee movie serial. Six straps of leather, with buckles at the ends, were attached to the assembly at various points.
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 4
