Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  She glared at him. Because he had never stated outright that she was his daughter, she could not bring herself to deny it. It would have meant saying it out loud.

  “I don’t need to convince you,” he added, “but you haven’t convinced me you were looking for Varishkin. There is no reason for him to be here at this late hour, tonight of all nights... You didn’t ring for help. Could it be that you did not wish to be found here?”

  “Think what you will. Now, you’d better go before I do call somebody.”

  Lupin did no such thing. He thrust his hands in his pockets and produced the sound of paper crinkling between his fingers.

  “Are you sure? I might take away something you were looking for.”

  She faltered and fell silent, uneasily aware that he had seen through her. Lupin waited for the truth to come out, but she surprised him. Out of desperation, she filled the quiet with a question he did not expect.

  “And what are you doing upstairs, Monsieur Lupin?”

  “I was headed for the kitchen when I heard somebody coming, so I ducked into the first open office.”

  “Open?”

  “How could I be here if the door was not open?”

  “Don’t toy with me. I know you found the oil concessions.”

  “I wasn’t looking for them,” Lupin confessed. “With most of the embassy staff downstairs, either assigned to the ball or guarding the jewels in the basement vault or in the kitchens, I knew there would be nobody left up here. Nobody could ask for a better opportunity to go through the secret papers of the embassy. The right ones will fetch a good price from the French Government. At least if it sets any value on knowing the names of GPU and NKVD agents in this country.”

  “What about the oil concessions?”

  “They’re signed in all the right places by the Soviet authorities. The name of the beneficiary has been left blank. Quite convenient. I think it’s time for Arsène Lupin to go into the oil business. It would be a chance to meet new people.”

  “My late husband...”

  “Do you really want these oil wells, Lady Diana? If you claim them, you’ll just entangle yourself some more with the very unpleasant people who run Soviet Russia, whether or not you’re able to break off with Varishkin. Why not make it a clean break?”

  “You may be right...”

  She left it at that. As she turned away, she threw him a playful smile over her shoulder.

  “Well, Monsieur Lupin, I’ll take my leave. But one last thing. You’re a poor excuse for a footman. No properly trained servant would be taking an unopened bottle of champagne back to the kitchens.”

  She grabbed the champagne pail off the chimney mantle, overturned a settee and was out of the room before Lupin could hurdle the obstacle and reach the door she had shut behind her. As he did so, his mind flashed through some of the formidable women he had known. Had he met anyone to equal her?

  He ran after her down the corridor, but she reached the stairs leading down into the ballroom before he managed to close the distance. He stopped and laughed softly.

  “And so ends the fourth act.”

  Rouletabille was growing bored. In spite of the ballroom’s expanse, he felt like a lion penned in too small a cage. Even the rented musicians showed signs of flagging as couples left the dance floor to speak quietly, go outside for a breath of fresh air or join the conversations in neighboring rooms. No scandals so far. Not even a White Russian attempt on the ambassador’s life. Rouletabille sighed. Where was the excitement that Lupin had promised him?

  Of course, Lupin had said very little. A general in the midst of a battle does not confide his plans to foot soldiers. By all accounts, Lupin was only talkative after the fact–as long as things went his way.

  For a moment, Rouletabille entertained the thought he might not see Lupin again. If the thief’s schemes did not work out, that would leave the journalist no other option but to resort to the time-honored solution of the harassed scribe. He would make up something.

  He idly set about composing a headline, with details to be filled out later. If he claimed there had been a heist at the embassy, the Soviets would deny. But nobody would believe the denial...

  Around him, the guests fell silent. Heads swiveled. Rouletabille looked up in turn, recognizing the notorious Lady Wyndham. Everybody watched as she swept down the stairs. She nearly missed a step and caught herself on the railing. Yet, when her voice rang out, Rouletabille could detect no hint of slurring.

  “Ah, friends, Parisians, countrymen! How glad I am to see you here. This soirée has been enjoyable enough so far, considering the questionable past of our hosts, but I promise you more if you come with me.”

  “More what?” asked someone in the crowd.

  “More fun!”

  “Come with you where?” hollered another.

  “Maxim’s, to start with. Quick now, before I run out of champagne!” She was cradling possessively a pail with a bottle of Mumm’s. She uncorked the bottle with one practiced hand, crying: “One for the road! Za vashye zdorov’ye!”

  The cork popped out with a bang. She took a swig from the bottle and the sight of her lips fastened to its neck roused several of the younger men’s attention. A few cheered lustily, the more thoughtful ones dashed off to get their car, and others flocked around Lady Diana, shouting suggestions.

  Rouletabille was struck by the sheer glee on her face. No, it was no ordinary tipsiness. There was something strikingly free about her manner, as if she had been liberated from a long-shouldered burden. She surveyed the young people gathered around her with the fearless gaze of a pirate captain choosing a crew for a jaunt into a hurricane, past a Royal Navy warship, and into the cannons of a galleon or two. Undaunted by some less than honorable propositions from the onlookers, she then pushed past the footmen and skipped down the stairs, trailed by her admirers and swinging the champagne bucket like Little Red Riding Hood off to see her grandmother.

  The remaining guests took up again the conversations interrupted by the British aristocrat (“Disgraceful!” “She’s a free spirit, isn’t she?” “Lord Ralph must be spinning in his grave.”). Rouletabille took out his notebook. It was not the kind of news that made the front page of the morning papers, but it would be grist for the gossip mills in the society pages. He’d only gotten to the lead when a new tumult broke out.

  A man ran out from the direction of the kitchens, yelling in Russian. He crossed the dance floor and only skidded to a halt in front of the ambassador. His words tumbled out, but he kept his voice so low that Rouletabille was forced to sidle closer.

  More men burst forth. Rouletabille spied old Ganimard himself, followed by a couple of Policemen escorting Baron Karl and Countess Idivzhopu, their clothing in obvious disarray.

  The journalist did not need to strain to hear Ganimard confirm the disappearance of the Romanov diamonds. The rest of the trove was untouched, but the diamonds were gone. Baron Karl and his accomplice had been caught red-handed trying to overpower the guards stationed in the kitchens. They had been searched before being handcuffed. Nothing had been found on them.

  Soon, the entire crowd was abuzz with the rumor that all of the Romanov jewels had been stolen. Lupin’s name had been mentioned by no one, but it was soon being muttered in amazement.

  As Ganimard sent off his agents with orders to keep people from leaving the grounds, Rouletabille came up to the old Chief Inspector.

  “Ah, Monsieur Rouletabille...”

  “May I leave?”

  “You’re going to run straight to your newspaper, of course.”

  “I have a car. It’ll be faster.”

  Ganimard stared at him like a maddened animal.

  “Your scoop will be out of date before you get there,” he said roughly. “I will catch him this time, I swear. When your rag comes out with the news of Lupin’s successful robbery, the others will be announcing his arrest.”

  “So be it.”

  “Béchoux!” thundered Ganimard
, calling to one of his assistants. “Please take this man to his car. And pat him down before he goes; Lupin could have slipped some diamonds in his pockets without anybody realizing it.”

  Rouletabille did not object. A petty humiliation was a small price for getting out with such a scoop. Afterwards, Béchoux shadowed him all the way to the courtyard and his waiting car.

  The driver was finishing a cigarette, but he stubbed it out quickly when he saw Rouletabille hurrying towards him. Showing commendable initiative, Béchoux also searched the car rapidly before walking off to the gate. When the car rolled up, the Police Inspector waved it out, all the while watching the courtyard for any attempts to take advantage of the gate’s opening.

  As the car sped off into the darkened streets, the journalist breathed out.

  “I’ve rarely been this nervous,” Rouletabille admitted, “even under fire.”

  Lupin pushed back his chauffeur’s cap and tore off the nicotine-stained moustache he had been wearing all night.

  “Think of the scoop!”

  “I was thinking of my father. Since there was no other way I could repay you... But I will use the scoop, too. Can you tell me more? How did you do it?”

  “Ganimard helped. He provided me with an invitation to the ball.”

  “But you knew Ganimard would betray you?”

  “I was counting on it. The fools never learn that Lupin does nothing in vain.”

  “And the invitation?”

  “Was to focus their attention on the guests. I gave the invitation to an old friend, a perfectly honorable gentleman who really is the Grand Duke of Kurland and Semigallia. He couldn’t resist an opportunity to tweak the nose of the Soviets.”

  “Aren’t they going to interrogate him?”

  “He left an hour ago.”

  Lupin chuckled. Once, he might have stopped the car to celebrate, jumping up and down benches, or twirling around streetlights. He’d grown more reflective with age, and it was enough to imagine the utter confusion of the opposition.

  “How it must have galled Ganimard! Just think of it, my goodness. Ganimard coming to the rescue of the Bolsheviks! A bitter pill to swallow for a man sworn to defend the public peace and uphold the rights of property owners. But a pill sweetened by the chance to work again for the Police. I hope Justin realizes what he owes to me.”

  “Weren’t you playing with fire? He knows you so well.”

  “It was part of my plan. When the Ambassador was told by the Sûreté that I was showing an interest, he thought twice about his hiding-place–and that was one time too many. I had an ally inside the embassy and I was told the jewels had been moved.”

  “Your friend witnessed the move? I’m sure our spymasters would love to know how you managed to find such a highly-placed source!”

  “He didn’t actually see the move, but he was among those the ambassador chased out of the kitchens before posting guards outside the meat locker.”

  “Weren’t you lucky your informant happened to be working in the kitchens?”

  “Luck is a woman. If you wish to be favored by her, you must court her assiduously. I told Ganimard that I had paid off a member of the embassy’s security staff and I asked him to find me a contact among the kitchen staff. Once Ganimard reported this to the Soviets, they were bound to doubt their current arrangements and to consider the kitchens to be the most secure section of the embassy.”

  The car reached the boulevards and picked up yet more speed. Rouletabille concentrated on his questions, hoping that they wouldn’t distract Lupin from his driving.

  “So, how did you get inside? Surely, after Ganimard’s warning, the Soviets did not hire any help from outside, or at least none that the Sûreté hadn’t vetted?”

  “Of course. I showed up disguised as one of the regulars, though a relatively recent hire. I haven’t spoken Russian very often since Sonia’s death, but it proved sufficient. In any event, nobody had time to chat this afternoon. It was a perfect frenzy of errands and last-minute preparations.”

  Rouletabille sighed happily as he stretched, thinking back to their exit from the embassy.

  “Thankfully, Béchoux did not think to ask if I’d come in with a driver at the wheel of my car.”

  “Béchoux is a dunce. He doesn’t even speak Russian.”

  “Still, the real challenge was in getting the diamonds out of the meat locker. How did your accomplice manage that?”

  “It took the two of us working together. Understand: the diamonds were not just dumped inside the locker. The kitchen staff still needed to have access to the frozen meat and the ice trays. The strongbox inside which they were stored was moved to the locker as a unit.”

  “Go on,” Rouletabille said, scribbling feverishly in the dark and hoping that it would produce something readable the next morning.

  “My collaborator lost his whole family to the GPU. For him, it was not just a matter of financial gain. He was ready to run any risk. He distracted the guards while I was in the meat locker, dealing with the strongbox. Not that I tried leaving the kitchen or even the locker with the diamonds in my pockets. The Soviets had posted two men to search anybody who left the kitchen, and it was no good trying to hide something outside the meat locker. There were people running all over the place. So, I just went in, cracked the strongbox, and threw the diamonds inside a block of congealing water. I then went out, clean as a whistle.”

  “I think I know how you did it, but...”

  “Don’t interrupt. A few minutes later, my friend took out a block of ice larded with Romanov diamonds. He attacked it with a pick to fill an ice bucket for chilling the champagne. The next time I came to the kitchens, I was handed the diamonds. In a silver bucket bearing the hammer and sickle. The guards searched me from head to toe, but they did not go through the pieces of ice in the pail.”

  Rouletabille frowned.

  “So, do you have the diamonds or not?”

  “No. They went out in front of you. Not that I’m accusing Lady Diana Wyndham, a peeress of the realm, of having absconded with any part of the Romanov jewels...”

  “Indeed not!” Rouletabille cried, pocketing his notebook with a curse. “I can’t print anything of the kind. Not without proof. And your say-so isn’t enough. But... but how did she end up with them?”

  “She’s no Constance Bakefield and she’s no accomplice of mine. Don’t think that. Let’s just say that I was too chivalrous for my own good. I wanted to knock away some of her scruples and I succeeded beyond my wildest hopes. Once she spotted the diamonds, she was too quick for me.”

  Lupin told Rouletabille what had happened between Lady Diana and him.

  “She got away with the diamonds, then. Like father, like daughter?”

  Lupin laughed delightedly.

  “She could be my daughter. I truly was in Scotland that year, or at least in Britain. But I never met her mother, though I may have paid a midnight visit to the castle grounds. I had some information about an undiscovered Jacobite cache of gold in the vicinity...”

  “So why did you lead her to believe she is your daughter?”

  “I told her that because I could see she was too stubborn not to go through with that mad, mad plan to marry Varishkin if she could not get her hands on those oil wells. I wanted to shake her up, and shake out of her head the ‘Death before dishonor’ code. I have met beautiful creatures who lived by that code, but not happily.”

  He paused.

  “And so ends the final act.”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Rouletabille asked.

  “Fate’s little joke on us... I came for the Romanov diamonds and she came for the oil wells. But she got the diamonds, and I got the oil wells. Come to think of it, it probably makes more sense that way.”

  “So, now that you can be the French Rockefeller, what are you going to do with your oil?”

  Lupin pondered, but only a moment.

  “I may keep a well or two, to sell back to the So
viets.”

  “But what will the Grand Duchess Anastasia say?” Rouletabille asked.

  “If she wants to fund the Counter-Revolution, there’s more money in oil wells. In fact, it’s probably better this way. My hands will be cleaner. There’s less blood in oil.”

  We close this volume with a mammoth contribution by Brian Stableford, who embarks here on an ambitious multi-part serial entitled The Empire of the Necromancers. Although this novella can be read independently, subsequent pieces will add to the tapestry begun here. We asked Brian to introduce his story for the benefit of readers unfamiliar with the characters in Paul Féval’s John Devil, perhaps one of the most seminal works in the history of popular literature.

  Brian Stableford: The Grey Men

  (Being the first part of

  The Empire of the Necromancers)

  The Grey Men is a sequel to Paul Féval’s John Devil. More precisely, it is the prologue to a vaguely-conceived but hopefully extensive series of sequels to my translation of John Devil–which is not exactly Féval’s version, because it includes a long supplementary essay pointing out the inconsistencies in the novel’s plot and making some suggestions as to how those inconsistencies might be resolved. The Grey Men assumes that my interpretation of what “really” happened in John Devil is correct.

  Forty years ago, Kyril Bonfiglioli (the editor of Science-Fantasy) rejected an early story of mine on the grounds that it was “too recherché”–which was a polite way of saying that the vast majority of readers would be unable to figure out what it was supposed to be about. Earlier this year, a publisher’s reader killed off a much more recent book with the brutal judgment that “Nobody is interested in this stuff...there is no point in publishing it”–which proves that I have not changed my ways in the interim. One could certainly argue that no one but a lunatic would bother to write a sequel to a novel that practically no one has read in the last 100 years and practically no one is likely to read in the next 100, but I’ve done it anyway, because the whim took me.