“I intend to burn it in order to prevent it from ever being used to blacken my niece’s reputation.”
“Please, don’t do such a thing. It is the only memento that I have of my deceased daughter.”
“I am afraid that I must insist.”
Cerral reached inside his desk and retrieved the letter. He handed it to Chupin, who turned his back on the Doctor in order to light a match over an ashtray.
Cerral reached inside one of the side pockets of his jacket. He began to grasp the syringe filled with curare. It would be easy to stab the needle into Chupin’s neck. The Doctor could then arrange to have the detective’s death diagnosed as a heart attack. Cerral had hoped that he would never need to perform this action. It was regrettable that his plan to misdirect Victor without technically lying had failed.
“If you destroy this letter, you are no better than Mascarot,” he finally said to Victor.
Chupin then extinguished the match. He turned around to face Cerral. The Doctor withdrew his hand from his pocket. It was empty.
“You are correct in your diagnosis, Doctor. I return Teresa’s letter to you.” Victor handed the letter back to Cerral.
“Do you still intend to bring charges before the medical authorities?”
“No. I will use cleaner methods to gain custody of my niece. She is only 19, and her mother is still her legal guardian. I should be able to gain a court order.”
“You can’t intend to return Irene to her mother!”
“No. Victoire is unfit to raise her, but I will coerce my sister to make me her guardian.”
“There is no necessity for you to involve your sister. Mathilde will be leaving the hospital in about an hour. I will discharge Irene in your custody afterwards.”
“What will you do to avert Mathilde’s threats to tell your wife about your affair?”
“As you said earlier, Monsieur, my domestic bliss is my own concern.”
Irene left the hospital in Chupin’s carriage. The detective realized that he would need to place his niece in a nursing home in order for her to regain her mental health. He thought it best to remove her as far as possible from the rumors surrounding the College Girl Murders. During his stay in England, he learned of the recent opening of an excellent nursing home known as the Sanctuary Club. He would secret Irene there.
Chupin recognized that the history of her misdeeds as a disciplinarian at the College could eventually become public knowledge. Besides Teresa’s letter, there must be police records. There also were over a score of former pupils who must have been cognizant of his niece’s activities. If his niece ever returned to France, it would have to be under another name.
Chupin also intended to have a stern talk with his sister after enrolling Irene in the Sanctuary Club. Considering his knowledge of the Queen’s Necklace affair of 1880, he possessed a powerful tool of persuasion. He would permit Victoire to see Irene on condition that his sister would prevent any contact between her daughter and Raoul. Victor Chupin bitterly blamed Théophraste Lupin’s son for all of his niece’s problems.
After spending a month with Irene at the Sanctuary Club, Victor returned to Paris. He searched for any news of Dr. Anatole Cerral. He read a report that the surgeon had given evidence at the inquest into the recent death of Mathilde Grévin in Avignon. She had died in the Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital on the day after Irene’s departure.
The Coroner’s verdict was that she died of a heart attack.
Serge Lehman, one of France’s most gifted science fiction writers, has an impish sense of humor–he once confided to me that one of his youthful unfinished projects was a novel entitled Langelot et les Martiens, featuring the popular hero of a long-running French YA spy series. In a style reminiscent of Fredric Brown’s, Serge tackles here the first two of a Suite of Shadowmen.
Serge Lehman: The Mystery of the Yellow Renault
Rouletabille forced his way through the crowd of reporters; his still youthful silhouette was familiar to everyone and they let him through.
He looked at the yellow Renault 4CV. With a single glance, he grasped the essentials of the crime. He asked the mechanic who was standing by the vehicle with a worried face:
“Tell me, my friend, were you here when the horrible deed took place?”
“Yes,” said the man. “I’ve been here all day. I’m not in the habit of leaving cars unattended.”
“And you saw what happened from start to finish?”
“As I said.”
“Parbleu,” said the young reporter with a triumphant smile. “We know there is only one body inside that car, and the mechanic told us he’s been here all the time. Therefore, there can only be one conclusion...”
The Inspector looked at Rouletabille with expectant eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s a locked room mystery!”
The Policeman looked at the yellow cube of metal that had once been a Renault 4CV before its passage through the compactor and sighed. Damned amateurs!
Serge Lehman: The Melons of Trafalmadore
Doctor Omega and Hoppy Uniatz were the first spacemen ever to visit the planet Trafalmadore. After landing the Cosmos at the foot of a mountain made of beryl, the Doctor decided to leave Hoppy in charge of the ship and explore.
The next morning, when he got up, Hoppy was pleasantly surprised to discover that, during the night, someone had left a giant melon just outside the ship. He was delighted to realize that the planet’s natives were obviously friendly and wondered if the Doctor had met any of them yet. He ate the delicious melon for breakfast while waiting for a delegation of Trafalmadorians–which never came.
The following morning, he found another succulent melon outside the ship, but still no other sign or word from the aliens. Hoppy decided that they might have expected an exchange of gifts, so he reciprocated by leaving a bottle of his best Glenfiddich outside.
This went on for a week: a delicious melon for a bottle of scotch, but still no emissaries. Hoppy was starting to get upset. Did the aliens think they were too good for him?
The Doctor returned ten days after his departure. The first thing he saw was Hoppy’s body, with a note pinned on the corpse. It read:
“Why did your monkey eat all our ambassadors? This means war.”
Thanks to Doctor Omega’s legendary skills, a diplomatic incident with Trafalmadore was narrowly averted and Earth was saved again.
The aphorism “less is more” is generally credited to architect Mies van der Rohe. While not true in every circumstance, the very short story, or “short short,” is a unique medium that allows the reader to focus on one aspect of a character and find something surprising and enlightening about it, as if he was looking at the shadow of a larger thing. Unlike prose poems, it is not purely about the language, and it should contain more of a plot than a mere character sketch. An acknowledged master of the “short short” was the late Fredric Brown (1906-1972), to whom this Suite is respectfully dedicated.
Jean-Marc Lofficier: Arsène Lupin’s Christmas
Arsène Lupin was always early. He had often found it useful in his career. But this time, the girl, perhaps wiser, had not shown up for the hastily arranged rendezvous on the Grands Boulevards.
“Bah,” said Lupin. Since he had a couple of hours to spare, he entered the children’s theater. It was the week before Christmas and they were presenting a traditional puppet show. In the dark, among his own people, Lupin felt safe. Suddenly, just as Père Noël–Santa Claus–was shown coming down the chimney, he noticed that the child next to him, a little girl of ten, had begun to cry.
“Excuse me, Monsieur,” said a woman who turned out to be the child’s aunt. “I thought the show would help take her mind off of things, but you, see, the Police arrested her father last night...”
It turned out that the child’s father, Monsieur Dubois, had been the homme à tout faire, handyman, employed, or rather exploited, by Baron d’H***. The heartless nobleman had fired Dubois, a widowed f
ather, the week before Christmas, refusing to pay him his final month’s wages. When Dubois had returned during the night through the chimney to steal something in exchange for what he was owed, the wily Baron, who had anticipated the move, was waiting with the Police.
The next day, a man impersonating Chief Inspector Ganimard signed for Dubois’ release at the Prison de la Santé. That same night, Baron d’H*** was the victim of a daring burglary which robbed him of nearly half-a-million francs.
And in Canada, there would soon be a newly-emigrated French family whose little girl never cried again when she saw Santa Claus slide down a chimney.
Jean-Marc Lofficier: Figaro’s Children
Figaro was the only one in the Opéra not afraid of Erik.
Figaro was a cat.
Pardon, Figaro was a chatte, a lady cat (in every sense of the word), but it had always been a tradition to name the Opéra’s cat Figaro, and gender had not been deemed important enough to upset that tradition.
Every rat the Rat-Catcher did not get was Figaro’s to enjoy. She was welcome everywhere, above and below the Opéra.
And, as we said, she was the only resident of that prodigious building who was not afraid of Erik. She purred when he caressed her, came occasionally to visit him, begging for treats (she loved dates) and generally behaved like a proper little lady around him.
There was one man, however, who did not like Figaro: Antoine Manoukian, a machiniste who, unbeknownst to Management, raised rabbits in a hutch on the third level. Manoukian thought that Figaro ate his baby rabbits, and truth be told, not all baby rabbit disappearances could be blamed on rats.
When her time came, Figaro had kittens. In those days, the Rue Scribe was a notorious haven for cat dalliances.
Manoukian was prepared to put up with one Figaro, if only because he knew that to do otherwise would mean being ostracized by the rest of the staff, but he could not tolerate a chowder of Figaros.
So, stealthily, he managed to grab all the helpless little kittens and stuff them into a bag, weighing it down with a stone, intending to drown them into the Lake.
Mewling bag in hand, he approached the dark water’s edge.
Antoine Manoukian’s body was found floating in the Seine the next day. Cause of death: drowning, presumably accidental.
Figaro’s children still roam free today below the Opéra.
Ask anyone.
Jean-Marc Lofficier: The Tarot of Fantômas
“Death. I see Death,” said the gypsy fortune-teller laying out the seven major arcana of the Tarot on the table.
“Indeed,” said Fantômas, quickly plunging his dagger into the woman’s right eye socket.
The body was quickly undressed and stuffed inside the empty box that served as the support for a scratched crystal ball that had seen better days.
Then, dressed in the gypsy’s robes, properly made up, a veil partially obscuring his face, Fantômas waited.
Juve and his men had pursued him to the Foire du Trône. By now, they undoubtedly had drawn a cast iron Police cordon around the Fair. Escape was chancy at best.
Fantômas looked at the cards the gypsy had laid on the table before her untimely demise: Death. Well, we’ve seen to that, he thought.
The Fool. Fandor, who had been sent on a wild goose chase down into the Catacombs. Fantômas smiled at the thought of the deadly trap he had set down there. Perhaps, this time, the pesky journalist would not be lucky.
Justice. Juve. Dull, plodding, but relentless. No surprise there.
The Devil in the middle. That would be him. So far, so good, he thought. But how does the Devil get out of jail? Is there a card for that?
The Wheel of Fortune, the Hanged Man and the House of God, struck by lightning. Fantômas smiled. He swept away the cards. He had the answer he sought!
The fire, which nearly destroyed the Foire du Trône, was attributed to arson. Eight people died, crushed in the panic; a dozen more had to be hospitalized. The fire had started near the Grande Roue. Luckily, it was put out before it could collapse, which would have killed even more people.
Police Commissioner Juve was found hanging by his feet in the snakes’ pit inside the Pavilion des Reptiles. Only his knowledge of the ancient Hindu songs of the snake-charmers of Manganiyar had saved his life.
Fantômas remained an unbeliever in the power of the Tarot, but never criticized Lady Beltham anymore for spending her Wednesday afternoons with her astrologer.
Jean-Marc Lofficier: The Star Prince
“If you please, draw me a dinosaur!”
Francis Ardan looked at the golden-haired boy. He was dressed in an operetta-style costume, wearing a long blue coat, white shirt, pants and shiny boots. The aviator had been forced to make an emergency landing in this deserted part of the Western Sahara and was busy repairing the engine when, suddenly, the boy had appeared out of nowhere.
“What are you doing here?” asked Ardan.
“If you please, draw me a dinosaur,” asked the boy.
It seemed churlish to refuse. Ardan took out his logbook and pencil and began drawing.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I come from above,” said the boy, pointing at the starry sky. “I am so bored up there.”
“How did you come here?”
“It is difficult. And very painful. When I leave, I die a little. So I only come when someone is around. I can only come here because that’s where they are. The machines.”
“The machines?”
“They’re buried deep in the sand. There used to be a sea here, and dinosaurs and other children with whom I could play. But everything is gone now. And I am all alone.”
Ardan had finished the drawing. He gave it to the boy.
“It is very beautiful,” he said. “Just as I remember them. Thank you. I will treasure it forever. It was worth it.”
“Can’t you come more often? Reach other people?” asked Ardan. “There is so much we could learn from you.”
“I don’t have enough power. I’m sorry. I’m only a very little star,” said the boy, as his made-up body slowly began to crumble into dust, mingling with the sand that covered the ancient machines.
Jean-Marc Lofficier: Marguerite
Vichy had ordered a sweep of the region of Combefontaine, North of Lyon, for members of the Resistance. The Nyctalope was asked to go along; he was not happy because he despised the Milice, but when Jacques de Bernonville had told him that Mezarek might have returned, he felt he had no choice. He feared that the carnage Belzebuth might wreak far exceeded that of Klaus Barbie.
They had been searching the village for an hour when the Nyctalope entered the Loubets’ house. The old farmer and his wife looked at him with the hostility he had come to recognize; in a corner, he noticed a small girl playing with a doll.
“What’s your name?” he asked the child.
“Laurence,” she replied.
“And what’s her name?” he said, pointing at the doll.
“Marguerite.”
“Can I hold her?”
The child reluctantly gave him the doll. He looked under its skirt. It was made in England.
“Where did you get it?” he said, giving the doll back.
“Yesterday was my twelfth birthday. The Tooth Fairy came in the middle of the night and brought me the doll. He said her name was Marguerite. He kissed me and told me to go back to sleep and not tell anyone.”
The Nyctalope stood up. The Milice was about to enter the Loubet house. He looked at the child. He looked at Marguerite.
“Please, Monsieur, take Marguerite for your daughter,” said Laurence, shyly handing him the doll. “Maybe she doesn’t have a Marguerite.”
The Nyctalope took the doll.
“I already searched this house,” he told the Milice. “There’s no one here except a couple of farmers and their granddaughter. False alarm.” Then, he whispered to Laurence: “I’ll take Marguerite but only because someone else might wonder what a British doll is doi
ng here. Tell the Tooth Fairy that tonight, the border will be unguarded near Chaumont.”
After the War, the Loubets–father and daughter reunited–received a package in the mail that contained Marguerite. They searched in vain for the Nyctalope to thank him, but he had vanished.
Jean-Marc Lofficier: Lost and Found
Jacques de Trémeuse had sworn to destroy the banker Favraux, responsible for his family’s ruin. Whatever he could not achieve by day under the guise of Favraux’s discreet secretary, Vallières, he undertook by night as the black-clad Judex, an identity he had come to relish.
It was Vallières, however, not Judex, who sat across from the corpulent, sweating, 30-year old German in the Brasserie d’Alsace.
“I will come straight to the point,” wheezed the interloper. “Information has come into my possession, Monsieur Vallières, that your employer, Monsieur Favraux, has purchased an important consignment of rare objets d’art from Turkey. Worth a veritable fortune, but only if properly appraised and sold to the right parties, of course.”
“You are well informed, Herr...?”
“Gutman. Kaspar Gutman. That consignment happens to contain a treasured heirloom, which had been in our family for generations until the great earthquake of Izmir in 1883... I would like you to arrange for that special item to be sold to me privately. Of course, there would be a gratuity for you, Monsieur Vallières. A considerable gratuity, I might add.”
“I am not in the habit of doing those kinds of transactions, Herr Gutman. I am sorry but you will have to talk to Monsieur Favraux yourself.”
Gutman had told Jacques de Trémeuse what he wanted to know, which is why he had agreed to the meeting. Properly auctioned off, that mysterious consignment, the contents of which Favraux had kept secret, could provide an unexpected boost to the banker’s fortunes, just as they were beginning to flag. That could not be allowed to happen. A plan was forming. As Vallières, he had access to all the shipping information, and it would be child’s play, as Judex, to let these details fall into the hands of the Vampires, for example...
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 15
