Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  Next to the cylinder sat a helmet.

  “Um. A rocket pack.” Violet paused. “I think I’ve seen one like it before.”

  “Well?” asked Rambert.

  “You see, this leather belt buckles around the waist, and the other ones go about the shoulders, like so.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Adélaïde said.

  “I am.” Violet looked at Adélaïde. “I’m getting out of here. Are you coming?”

  “Mesdemoiselles, this thing. That thing might carry two, but surely not three,” Rambert said. “Your need is greater than mine.”

  “Are you sure, Raymond?” Violet asked.

  “Yes, now that we know that Fantômas is not behind this plague, and that matters will be resolved when you and Mademoiselle Johnston escape with the Eye, I am content to stay and help Doctor Rieux fight this plague in whatever small way I can. Now quickly–you must go!”

  “Thank you for all your help.” Violet took his hand and held it for a moment, warmly. Then she continued to heft the cylinder onto her back and secure it with the leather bindings.

  “Well?” she asked Adélaïde, expectantly.

  Adélaïde just shook her head unenthusiastically, as if to say, what madness! She slipped her arms around Violet’s waist and tightly through the leather straps, clasping her hands firmly.

  “Go,” she murmured, “before I change my mind.”

  Violet nodded and before anyone could say another word, she hit the ignition button.

  Flames erupted from the four nozzles, and without further adieu, the two women soared into the air. The flames backlight their airborne figures. Violet, in her jodhpurs and boots, looked the perfect picture of a daring aviatrix test-flying an innovative new device. Adélaïde presented a different picture, holding on to Violet for dear life, her dress fluttering about in the wind, exposing her thighs above black stockings and garters. Rambert didn’t even have time to chide himself for impure thoughts, as gunfire from the sentries erupted a second later.

  The rocket pack discharged even more flames and noise, and the two women accelerated over the sea. Although the rifle fire continued, the bright dot of the rocket quickly became smaller and smaller, and eventually winked out.

  Rambert wished both women a silent bonne chance and turned to make his way back to Rieux’s laboratory before the guards came to investigate.

  Doctor Francis Ardan, as he was known to the French, continued to listen, his bronzed face immobile as he patiently took in the remainder of the fantastic tale. A young, dark-haired man with a thin, white vertical scar down his right cheek sat in the background, representing the British Secret Service. They were aboard a schooner, the Orion II, now headed for France. Violet and Adélaïde were wrapped in warm blankets, nursing mugs of strong, black coffee. However, they continued to shiver as much from fatigue as from the dunking in the cold water.

  “We were out over the water, still flying. We didn’t know how to land the thing. You didn’t exactly include an instruction manual, Doc,” Violet said, a note of accusation in her voice.

  The scientist shrugged. “The rocket pack was meant for Lupin. He knows how to fly it.”

  “Hmm. Well. We were flying, Adélaïde was barely hanging on, we didn’t know how much fuel was left–”

  “More than enough,” Ardan said.

  Violet glared at him and continued, “–and since it was pitch black and we couldn’t tell where we were, or what direction we were going, we decided it was better to try to descend. Next thing we knew, we hit the water. Of course, your rocket pack made us sink like a stone, and I didn’t think we would make it, but thank God you found us and fished us out in time.”

  “I followed the tracking signal,” the scientist said. “We were following you the whole way and you could have come down at any time.”

  “Yes, well, no way of knowing that, right?”

  “As I said, the pack was intended for Lupin. He would have understood.” Violet suspected that Ardan was beginning to become irritated, although he didn’t show it. “Do you know what became of him?”

  Violet stood up and slammed down her mug. “No, I don’t bloody know what happened to Lupin! I never saw the man once the whole time I was there. Now excuse me, I’ve had quite enough of this.”

  She stomped off and down the narrow gangway. Stopping, she turned back. “I am grateful, Francis. But this has just all been a bit much.”

  Ardan nodded, and she continued down the gangway, the young man from British Intelligence following her.

  “Violet,” he called, and she turned around.

  “What is it, James?” she asked, as he moved to take her in his arms.

  “Thank God, you’re safe now.”

  “Safe,” Violet said.

  “Yes, safe. Look, I’m sorry about Charles.”

  “Yes, well, so am I. I treated him pretty shabbily. Obviously, we wouldn’t have lasted. At least now he’ll never know.”

  “Yes. I am sorry.” He paused. “But you’ve escaped that devilish place. I’m here to take you back to London, get you well again. You’re free now.”

  “Free? Free?” She slapped him hard, once, across the cheek. “I’m pregnant, you bastard. I’m not feeling terribly free right now.” She stalked off, slamming the cabin door behind her.

  Upstairs on deck, Doctor Ardan approached Adélaïde. Remarkably, now that she had cleaned up and dried off, he could see that she was quite beautiful. Remarkable, not because he was immune to feminine beauty (he wasn’t), but because he rarely allowed himself to take note of it. She was tall, six feet, and her dress clung to her perfectly proportioned curves in all the right places. Dark, lustrous hair fell about her shoulders. She was, in a word, stunning.

  Ardan got ahold of himself and held out a bronzed, cabled hand. “Mademoiselle? We weren’t really properly introduced. I’m Doctor Francis Ardan.”

  Adélaïde sized him up, rather boldly. “Yes, Doctor, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. The newspapers paint you as an adventurer. How do you say it… a wild man?” she asked provocatively.

  “I see.” Ardan cleared his throat, choosing to ignore her question. “Yes, well. Mademoiselle, I still have some more questions, and Miss Holmes doesn’t seem up to it right now.”

  “Of course,” she said. “What about?”

  “About the Silver Eye of Dagon.”

  “The Eye? We gave it to you.”

  “Yes, thank you. But how did you come to have it?”

  “I don’t understand?” Adélaïde looked at him quizzically. “We’ve given it to you. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Yes, but, no… I….” Ardan felt out of his element. He was never very at ease with women, but for some reason was even more out of his depth with Adélaïde Johnston.

  He took a deep breath and started over. “I am not a representative of the French government, but I have agreed to work with them in this case.”

  “Yes?”

  The scientist started to gain momentum. “They very much appreciate the recovery of this object. But we–they–wish to know. How did it come into your possession? They sent a man here, Lupin, who was supposed to help recover the Eye for them. I expected to find Lupin. Instead, I find you and Miss Holmes, and you have the Eye in your possession. I still don’t understand how that happened.”

  “Well, it was all very strange.” Adélaïde made eye contact and held Ardan’s gold-flecked eyes. “Violet and I were hiding at Doctor Rieux’s laboratory near the Place d’Armes after we escaped from Natas, when Rambert came to us with a message.” She wandered over near the rocket pack and sat down heavily on the deck.

  “Go on, please.”

  “He had received that message in the last medical drop of plague serum. I assume that serum came from you?”

  Ardan nodded. “Yes, after Lupin sent his information, I obtained samples of the plague strain Fantômas used over 30 years ago, and was able to develop a serum to combat it. The peste in Oran sho
uld start to abate shortly.”

  Adélaïde continued. “The note was anonymous, but it instructed that this Lupin go to a place near the city walls at midnight last night. There he would find a way out of the city.”

  “Mademoiselle Johnston, that note was supposed to go to Lupin. I arranged to remote-parachute the rocket pack and I don’t blame you for using it, but what happened to Lupin then?”

  “I don’t know, I tell you!” Adélaïde started to sob, slumping further down on the deck next to the rocket pack.

  “Mademoiselle Johnston–” Ardan crouched down, close to her.

  “Please, Doctor, no more, I am spent!” She hugged herself closer to the pack. “Just hold me, please, a little, and then I’ll try to be strong, and answer all your questions.”

  This was mostly uncharted territory for Ardan. If there were women involved in his adventures (and often there were), he usually left it to the wolves among his five aides to deal with them. No such luck, this time, he thought uncomfortably. He leaned down further to console her, and held her as she cried it all out.

  Finally, her sobs dwindled, and she nestled further into his arms.

  “Mademoiselle–Adélaïde, please,” Doc began tentatively. “I need to know.”

  “Yes?” she murmured, distantly.

  “What about Lupin? Do you know anything about him, or what happened to him?”

  “Lupin, Lupin, Lupin! Always this man Lupin!” She pushed him away, sharply. “All right, I’ll tell you!”

  That was when Ardan noticed. Her right arm was now tightly looped through the two leather straps of the rocket pack. Her left hand was also near the pack, fingers poised above the ignition button.

  “What–?”

  “So you want to know about Lupin, do you? All right, I’ll tell you!” The fingers of her right hand flicked, and as if by magic, the Silver Eye of Dagon appeared, held tightly between them.

  If Doc Ardan was at all capable of shock, this was certainly the time for it. She had actually managed to lift it from his inner vest pocket without him noticing, quite a feat.

  Adélaïde leapt up, left hand descending toward the ignition button, propelling herself toward Ardan. Her lips brushed his cheek at the same time she hit the button. As she launched into the air, accelerating away, she yelled down at him over the blast of the rockets. “You dear, silly man! You want to know where Lupin is? She is right here! You think my father is the only one capable of pulling this off? I am Lupin!”

  She waved at Ardan as she flew higher and higher. “Au revoir, mon cher Francis, au revoir! We shall meet again! Thank you for the Eye, it’s lovely!”

  Ardan stared up at her as she receded into the distance, her dress billowing about her shapely stockinged legs. Some of the same impure thoughts that Rambert had had also crossed his mind, and he also chided himself, not for his lack of purity, but for his lack of focus on the matters at hand. A lack of focus directly attributable to Adélaïde Lupin. A.L.

  And then she was gone.

  She was right. They would meet again. He’d make sure of it.

  FROM: SNIF.

  TO: Sous-Lieutenant Aristide, Service National d’Information Fonctionnelle, Paris.

  DATE: July 19, 1946

  SUBJECT: Your report re: A.L.

  Am more than disappointed with your performance, to wit:

  Poor decision-making: You either engaged A.L.’s services sight-unseen, or else knew A.L. was actually Lupin’s daughter and failed to inform me. Either alternative is unacceptable. Dealing with Lupin (or a member of his family, obviously), is always a risky business. You should have foreseen that she would double-cross us and keep the Eye. Her acquisition of Doctor Ardan’s rocket pack only compounds your missteps.

  Using S.N.I.F. funds and resources unwisely: You paid A.L. in advance for services not fully rendered. S.N.I.F. must now dedicate further resources to recovering the Eye from A.L.

  You are hereby demoted to the rank of Sous-Lieutenant. Had ultimate objective of securing Eye from Natas not been met, you would be facing immediate termination. Report directly to Montferrand for reassignment

  In the first installment of The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange, a young Harry Dickson was dispatched by Sexton Blake at Sir Henry Westenra’s request to work protection duty for a diplomatic conference to be held at Sir Henry’s country estate. In the train, Dickson met Lord John Roxton, his niece Christina Rutherford and the beautiful Gianetti Annunciata, assistant to the mysterious Sâr Dubnotal, invited to the neighboring Rutherford Grange by Mrs. Rutherford, a Spiritualist, for a séance. At Westenra House, Dickson is assigned to share rooms with a young Indian, Darshan Kritchna. In the library, he comes across the journal of Christopher Westenra that mentions a mysterious tragedy that occurred two centuries earlier. Dickson’s first night is far from uneventful when he and Darshan come across the gruesomely slaughtered corpse of the house cat. And now, the conclusion of...

  G.L. Gick: The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

  Surrey, 1911

  Shards of falling glass had rained on our hair, skin and clothing, or bit painfully into our feet as we stepped blindly about in the darkness. But our discomfort was as nothing compared to the still, small form lying grotesquely upon the pillow before us: the body of Colleen, the kitchen cat, sprawled lifelessly upon the bed, a small, intensely crimson geyser of lifeblood pouring out of the maw of her neck.

  Where her head might be, neither of us could say.

  “Damn,” I heard Darshan mutter blackly, unable to tear his eyes from the horrible sight. “Is that Colleen? What could have done this? An owl?”

  I refrained from replying. I was too busy snatching the candle from my reluctant roommate, leaning forward for a closer examination of the body. My mentor had made a point once of showing me how various animals killed, and owls had been among them. It was true owls often preyed upon cats; I had seen one do it myself back in the States, but this looked like no injury from a bird of prey I had ever seen. The one I had witnessed had struck the back of the creature’s neck with its beak, instantly snapping it, but it did not shear the head clear off. For a moment, I debated whether a shard of glass might have severed it, but no; I would’ve expected the wound to be more jagged. This was very neat and even. It was hell running my fingers through the bloody fur, trying to peer through the gusher of life, but after a moment, I found tiny marks about what remained of the neck, bearing no sign of having been made by beak or glass. They were deep and even, and could possibly have been made by talons, but somehow I found myself doubting it. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I could swear these were…

  …teeth marks.

  Scthwump, schtwump wump wump wump

  Kritchna and I shot looks at each other. There it was again–the wet, sucking, peculiarly incomplete sound we had heard just before the cat had come crashing down upon our heads. It pattered with its strange sloshing swiftly along the edge of the eave outside–and then, what small sliver of the moon Kritchna’s tiny, blocked window allowed inside was suddenly darkened and we heard a great whuffing sound and the struggling of branches. Whatever it was had either leaped or fallen out off the roof, down to the bushes some three stories below!

  Hastily, I scrambled to my feet on top of the bed, ignoring the glass and slippery pools of blood soaking into the mattress. If I could just get my head out the window, see what it was–no good. Not all the pane had shattered, but what was left had turned into transparent jagged knives: I’d behead myself like Colleen if I dared try stick my head out the opening. I fumbled with the lock but was again frustrated. It was too still from disuse. Below I could hear something struggling in the foliage. Leaping to the floor, and nearly knocking Kritchna over in the process, I yelled: “Come on!” and threw open the door. If we hurried, we might just make it in time–

  –Slamming into Mr. Appleby, the butler, was, I assure you, entirely unintentional.

  “Great God Almighty!” the butler, clad in robe and slippers, exclaimed–and
for such a devout Christian, to do so meant he was very, very annoyed indeed. “What is the meaning of this ruckus? Do you wish to wake the masters? Explain yourselves at once!”

  “See for yourself,” I snapped back, jerking my thumb back toward the bed. I felt a bit bad about it; I rather liked the man and had no wish to be rude, but time was of the essence. I pushed past the butler, dashed down the small flight of stairs, through the hall, down the main stairway and out the huge front door to find–

  –Nothing, save for the chirruping of insects and the occasional call of night birds. The gardens surrounding the House were silent. Nothing stirred, nothing appeared. The full Moon beamed down benevolently, bathing threes and bushes in an ethereal halo. You’d never imagine something slinking about it had just slaughtered an animal.

  But the shrubs I wanted were along the west side of the House, and whatever it was might not have been able to have extricated itself yet. Still clad in nightshirt and bare feet, the dew cold on my still-bleeding soles, I made my way along the length of the House as swiftly and silently as possible, my ears pricked to catch the slightest disturbance. The window to Kritchna’s garret would be right around this corner. I paused to listen; I could hear no rustling; no schtwhumping, nothing unusual to speak of. Taking a deep breath, I whipped around the corner, prepared for anything, only to find–

  –Nothing again. Absolutely nothing. Just a clump of flattened rosebushes, the stems bent and broken as if a great weight had crashed upon them. My prey, whatever it had been, had escaped.

  I scanned the ground for footprints, indentations, anything that might tell me the direction my fugitive went. But even in the soft, dewy grass, I found no sign of anything. Yet something was shining on the flowers in the moonlight, something thick and sparkling, like dew only much more viscous.