Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  What’s that, you say? And whatever happened to Gianetti and the Sâr Dubnotal?

  Well, that’s hard to say… for I have no intention of ever writing down about our second encounter…

  In the story he wrote for our first volume, Rick Lai cleverly brought together the worlds of Kung Fu movies and spaghetti Western with that of pulp literature; in this tale, he continues in the same vein by importing characters from B movies. Here, he draws on a little known, yet wonderful, Spanish horror film, La Residencia, a.k.a. The House That Screamed, and brings its story and characters into the mythos of the Shadowmen.

  Rick Lai: Dr. Cerral’s Patient

  Paris and Avignon, 1890

  In his personal laboratory at the Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital, Dr. Anatole Cerral filled a syringe with curare. An injection of this South American poison would bring quick death to the recipient and leave the outward symptoms of heart failure. Dr. Cerral had never before contemplated murder, but a man would soon be arriving who might threaten to jeopardize the surgeon’s marriage and career. That individual was Victor Chupin, a private detective from Paris.

  The Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital was located in Avignon. The institution was named after a wealthy Russian aristocrat who had been a celebrity in Parisian society. Nine years earlier, the Countess had suffered an accident that resulted in the loss of one of her hands. She had died shortly after that misfortune, and her considerable wealth had been bequeathed to one of her male admirers. Rather than spend the money on selfish pleasures, the heir of the Countess had sought to honor her memory by financing the construction of a hospital. The principal function of this institution was to treat laborers who had lost limbs in industrial accidents.

  In a private room at the hospital, a young female patient awoke screaming. Dr. Cerral was summoned from his private laboratory by an orderly. He spent the night calming the distraught girl.

  “I dreamed that I was disciplining another student in the boarding school, Papa,” murmured the girl. “God then punished me by destroying my hands. ”

  The next afternoon, the disturbed girl was playing the piano in a room in the hospital. Her soft delicate hands swept deftly over the keyboard. As she played, a middle-aged woman with dark hair sang a cabaret song. When the song was concluded, the older woman motioned her accompanist to sit besides her on a nearby table. On its surface laid Isis Unveiled and The Secret Doctrine, two books by the occultist Helen Petrovna Blavatsky.

  “Your father told me you again had a difficult night, but you have nothing to fear. You now have a new life… a new existence,” asserted the middle-aged singer. “Let me show you your destiny.”

  The older woman took a pack of Tarot cards from her handbag. She proceeded to remove cards from the deck and place them on the table.

  It was in June 1890 that Victor Chupin received a telegraph from his sister, Victoire. He had just returned to Paris after a difficult investigation that had forced him to spend over three months in London. The message indicated that there was an urgency to discuss the status of her daughter. Chupin immediately settled his affairs in Paris and departed for Normandy.

  Chupin was nearly 41 years old. He was a lean, short man with blonde hair. When he arrived at his sister’s residence, he was greeted at the door by a slim athletic 16-year old boy.

  “Victoire is in the kitchen making dinner,” intoned Raoul d’Andresy.

  The investigator critically scrutinized his young host. Chupin had always felt a tinge of resentment towards Raoul because of the critical role that the boy had played in his sister’s life. Victoire was five years older than Victor. They were the only children of Polyte Chupin, a pickpocket and a drunkard. Their father’s intoxicated rages had caused her to flee the Chupin household when she was 14.

  Like his father, young Victor had drifted into a life of crime. At the age of 18, Victor had become a member of the notorious Mascarot blackmail ring. When the gang was smashed by the famous M. Lecoq of the Sûreté in 1867, Victor had surrendered to the Police. Rather then prosecute him, Lecoq had arranged for the young miscreant to become a protégé of the wealthy Champdoce family. They sponsored Chupin to become an apprentice to a private inquiry agent. As a reward for his assistance in solving the mystery of the Chalusse heirs in 1868, Chupin received sufficient capital to start his own detective agency.

  After 12 years, Victor Chupin was running a sound and profitable business. Nevertheless, he was deeply dissatisfied with his life. He had lofty ambitions of expanding his agency into a nationwide venture that would become the French equivalent of the American Pinkertons. He just needed to solve a case that would give him the enormous publicity needed for his dreams to reach fruition.

  Raoul d’Andresy had almost provided the means to achieve Chupin’s hopes.

  In 1880, Paris had been stunned by the theft of the Queen’s Necklace, the property of the Duc of Dreux-Soubise. This article of stolen property had enormous significance in French history. It had been purloined in 1785 as part of a complex swindle that severely damaged the reputation of Queen Marie-Antoinette. The original thieves had removed all the diamonds, but the intricate setting of the necklace had survived. The Dreux-Soubise family had arranged for new diamonds to be placed in the setting.

  At the time of the robbery, Henriette d’Andresy had been living as a servant at the Dreux-Soubise residence with her six-year old son, Raoul. Due to the loss of the Queen’s Necklace, the Dreux-Soubise family had fallen on financial hardship and had to discharge Henriette. A Police investigation proved that Henriette d’Andresy was incapable of having committed the theft.

  In the manner of C. Auguste Dupin in the Marie Roget case, Chupin had devoured the details of the investigation in the newspapers. And like his illustrious predecessor, he had come to a correct solution of the crime: the thief must have been young Raoul.

  The question in Chupin’s mind was whether the boy had perpetrated the crime as some sort of prank or as the accomplice of an adult. Chupin had located Henriette and interviewed her. It became apparent to the astute sleuth that she was an honest woman in poor health. She clearly had no suspicion that her son was indeed the architect of this audacious crime. Chupin had thought it wise not to enlighten her about Raoul’s thievery.

  Chupin had also talked to Raoul, whom he had pegged as a rude and obnoxious child. After leaving the apartment, he had continued to watch their dwelling. When Raoul had left the building, Chupin had followed him for a few blocks. The boy had met a woman, whose age was in the mid-thirties. She looked vaguely familiar to Chupin. Raoul had handed her an envelope. Once Chupin overheard her first name, he began to surmise her true identity. Raoul had called her Victoire. She was Chupin’s long-lost older sister.

  Chupin’s subsequent queries had revealed his sister’s sordid past. She had once been arrested for transporting stolen goods and had served a year in prison. Victoire had never married, but that did not prevent her from giving birth to a daughter, Irene, in 1870. Four years later, she had been hired as nurse for the infant son of Théophraste Lupin and his wife, Henriette.

  Chupin had wondered if his niece was the daughter of Théophraste Lupin. After an intense quarrel, rumored to concern an extra-marital affair, Théophraste and Henriette had separated. Henriette had resumed her maiden name of d’Andresy and kept the custody of their young son. Victoire was dismissed as Raoul’s nurse. Chupin had concluded that Henriette had learned of a love affair between her husband and Victoire.

  Chupin had a difficult choice to make. It became clear that Raoul had stolen the diamonds from the Queen’s Necklace and was now passing them to Victoire. There could also be no doubt that Victoire was using her criminal contacts to convert the stones into hard currency. Chupin had a chance to gain national acclaim by solving the celebrated theft. But the only way to achieve this end would be to send his sister to prison.

  In order to understand the consequences of his decision, Chupin had concluded that it was time to become reacquainted with h
is sister. One day, pretending that family ties were his sole motivation, he had knocked on his sister’s door. Victoire gave him a cold reception. The investigator had no qualms about sacrificing his sister for his own personal glory, but an unexpected factor stayed his hand.

  Chupin had developed a rapport with Irene.

  His niece had bridged the gulf between Chupin and Victoire. Consequently, the detective had relinquished the opportunity to secure enormous publicity. Victoire had never realized that her brother knew of her role in the Queen’s Necklace affair.

  Through observing his sister, Chupin had deduced the true motive behind the robbery. The proceeds from the fencing of the diamonds were anonymously mailed to Raoul’s mother. The naïve Henriette had concluded that these funds were donations from a philanthropic source and had used the money to secure better lodging for herself.

  Her new prosperity had softened Henriette’s heart towards Victoire and she soon had re-hired her. Both Victoire and Irene had come to live with Henriette and Raoul.

  As the years passed, Chupin frequently visited Irene at Henriette’s residence. He played the role of an indulgent uncle and often purchased gifts for his niece. She proved to be an excellent student during her elementary education. Irene possessed a love of literature and a gift for foreign languages. At the age of 13, she was already fluent in English. This achievement prompted Chupin to buy her several books by Charles Dickens. By the time she was 15, she was studying Spanish and Italian. She also had some skill as an artist. On the wall of his office, Chupin had framed a sketch that Irene had made when she was only 14. It was a portrait of himself. Her firm strong hands had captured his likeness perfectly.

  Chupin’s business often took him outside of Paris. One evening, in 1885, he had arrived at the d’Andresy residence and discovered, to his dismay, that Irene had left for the College for Young Women, a boarding school in Provence. Victoire had explained that the school would give her daughter a better opportunity to pursue her interest in the foreign languages.

  The following year, Henriette had died from natural causes. Victoire had taken charge of her employer’s orphaned son, and the pair of them had moved to Normandy.

  Irene had spent five years at the College for Young Women, until a monstrous series of events turned her into a patient at the Countess Yalta Memorial School.

  Entering the kitchen, Chupin discovered his sister making a salad. She ceased her labors once Victor entered the room.

  “I just returned from Avignon. Dr. Cerral refused to let me see Irene,” said Victoire.

  “Did he give any reason for this prohibition?”

  “He simply stated that she had no wish to see me. He gave no further explanation.”

  “Cerral cannot forbid your visit. Irene is sill a minor. In fact, she won’t even reach her 20th birthday until the autumn. You remain her legal guardian, Victoire.”

  “I tried to make that argument, but he would not listen.”

  “Did you threaten him to go to the authorities?”

  “Such a threat would have been useless, Victor. The Avignon Police will do nothing to disturb Dr. Cerral. They feel indebted to him for his help with the College Girl Murders. I made a far worse threat.”

  “Which was?”

  “I warned Cerral that you would be forced to pay him a visit.”

  At the Tivoli cabaret in Avignon, singer Mathilde Grévin entered the office of the nightclub’s manager to discuss her status.

  “I’m sorry, Mathilde, but you can longer be a star attraction at the show. We need to give top billing to a younger star. All that notoriety surrounding Teresa’s enrollment in that damned boarding school has damaged your career.”

  “I have a new addition to my act that will change your mind.” Mathilde unrolled the draft of a poster advertising her act.

  After the manager read the poster, he just had one question for the singer.

  “When will your accompanist be ready to start?”

  On the train to Avignon, Chupin perused a letter that had been written to him by Irene in late 1885. She had sent it to him only a few months after her arrival at the College. The letter had ended with certain requests:

  “When you have time, dearest uncle, you may wish to read Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast. You will find them just as enthralling as Nicholas Nickleby. I pray for you every night. Please pray for my soul every night, too.”

  Chupin often wondered if Irene had experienced a premonition of the cruel blow that fate had in store for her. From her letters, it appeared that she had prospered. A select elite of female students functioned as assistants to the headmistress, Madame Fourneau. Irene had joined that select clique in late 1885. In 1889, she had been promoted to Fourneau’s chief assistant. A year later, Irene nearly lost her life.

  Fourneau had a son who suffered from asthma. His ill health prevented him from being sent to a boarding school for boys. He lived on the premises of the College. At 16, a bizarre idea had come into his head to become a modern Pygmalion. Rather than sculpt his vision of the perfect woman from clay, the boy had opted to use a more grotesque ingredient: human flesh.

  He had murdered five girls over a period of four months in order to obtain supplies for his ghastly handiwork. He was able to hide his atrocities by creating the impression that the girls had run away from the school. Irene was his sixth victim. The killer had knocked her unconscious and then had mutilated her hands. The headmistress, who had been unaware of her son’s butchery, had discovered her murderous offspring and Irene’s comatose body in the school’s attic. The sudden revelation of her son’s abominable crimes had caused her to perish from a fatal heart attack.

  Irene surely would have bled to death in the attic if not for a fortuitous coincidence. A doctor had arrived at the College late that night. He had forced the janitor of the school to let his carriage inside the gates. The doctor and the janitor had then searched for the headmistress. Their quest had taken them to the attic. The killer had attacked the janitor with a knife, but the custodian had easily disarmed him. The doctor had found the dying Irene and taken her to his carriage which rushed to the Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital. The doctor was Anatole Cerral.

  The newspapers had ruthlessly exploited the horrific events. They dubbed the killings the College Girl Murders. Although journalists had howled for the execution of the youthful maniac, he was eventually judged to be mentally incompetent to stand trial. He would probably spend the rest of his life in an asylum for the criminally insane. Many lurid stories had circulated about the College Girl Murders. It was often claimed that the killer’s sixth victim had perished. One popular story was that the butchering youth had completely severed both of Irene’s hands.

  Chupin knew that the latter story was totally false. He had seen Irene at the hospital twice. The first time was in late January 1890 when she was still comatose. The second was a month later when she was awake, but in a state of delirium due to her terrible ordeal. On both instances, her hands had been wrapped in bandages. Shortly after his last visit, Chupin had embarked on the case that caused him to make a lengthy trip to England.

  When the train arrived at Avignon, Chupin took a carriage to the Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital. He was able to secure an interview with Dr. Cerral in his private office.

  During his previous visits to the hospital, Chupin had only had brief discussions with Cerral. He was a tall, thin man with black hair and a short beard. His hands were soft and delicate. Cerral had been a talented surgeon who left Avignon to work in Paris in 1871. He eventually secured a position at a medical school, but a controversial proposal concerning surgical procedures had led to his resignation in 1885. Chupin was unaware of the exact circumstances, but he had heard rumors that Cerral’s critics had compared him to Moreau, the notorious vivisectionist. Returning to Avignon, Cerral had risen to a position of authority at the Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital. Chupin had only had brief meetings with him during his previous two v
isits because the surgeon had been occupied with other matters in the hospital.

  After thanking Cerral once again for saving his niece’s life, Chupin took a chair in front of the doctor’s desk.

  “You have expected this visit, Doctor, because of several statements made by my sister during an altercation that you had with her. Let me assure you that I am not acting in her interests. I am merely concerned with my niece’s welfare. My sister and I have never been very close.”

  “You claim to have no strong bonds to your sister, then why are you so concerned about her daughter?” asked Cerral.

  “Doctor, I am over 40 and unmarried. I doubt very much that I will ever be a husband. Bachelorhood suits me. I have always possessed a special kinship for Irene. Perhaps it is because I always harbored a foolish hope...”

  “I do not understand, Monsieur.”

  The detective noticed a photograph on the doctor’s desk. It was of a middle-aged woman, five young girls and a boy. Victor gestured towards the photograph.

  “You have a rather large family, Doctor.”

  “The oldest girl is 22. My son is only six years old.”

  “Do any of them show an interest in becoming a doctor?”

  “The girls have no desire to seek a vocation in the medical profession. I hope that young Alexandre may follow in my footsteps, but he is too young to make such a choice now.”

  “Yet you would desire that he, too, become a doctor.”

  “I am conducting a line of research that will probably not reach fruition in my lifetime. The possibility that Alexandre could finish my work is highly attractive.”

  “I have established a small but profitable detective agency. I harbor the ambition of enlarging it to be a nationwide concern. I have capable assistants, but none of them could function as a possible successor. The thought that Irene might perhaps inherit my business has entered my mind. She is intelligent and perceptive. She may even possess managerial skills. Of course, I recognize that my idea may be naive. Irene had artistic aspirations. Most likely, she might want to be an artist, or a writer. In light of her recent trauma, it is now extremely unlikely that she would ever find my line of work appealing.”