On the Brink of the World's End

by Brian Stableford

  Charged with the investigation of the affair, Monsieur de Landré had been very satisfied; it promised to be sensational, given the number of victims, their notoriety in America, the ten millions collected by the ungraspable Joe Helly and the general mystery suspended over the ensemble.

  An accomplished and hard-working magistrate of genuine talent, Monsieur de Landré hoped, by conducting an efficient investigation in such an important case that he might reach the position as a tribunal judge that his professional ambition had set as an objective.

  Naturally, to begin with, he had interrogated the people resident in the boarding-house where the crime had taken place. There were only three: the proprietor, a maid and a traveler.

  From that first enquiry, he had learned that a month before the event, the proprietor, Madame Durand, a very honorable individual, the widow of a former civil servant, had received a cable from New York signed “Charfland” asking that a room be reserved for him on a particular day; a telegraphic mandate for five hundred francs had been attached. The client thus announced was unknown to Madame Durand, but as her clientele, exclusively composed of Americans, was invariably recommended to her house, she was not astonished by that; she was even delighted, as no guest was then occupying the large and luxuriously furnished apartment that comprised her accommodation. The message being accompanied by a reply coupon, she had cabled that a room had been reserved.

  Two days later, another telegram, similarly sent from New York, had arrived retaining the whole apartment; it was signed A. H. Terrick. That one was known to Madame Durand. Almost every year, he came to spend some two months in Paris with his wife and two daughters; to the great caravanserais that are modern hotels that American, a man of taste and discretion, preferred the elegant furnished apartment that Madame Durand maintained very well, and tried every time to retain the entire accommodation for his family, for which he paid five thousand francs a month.

  In spite of that windfall, the proprietor had been unable to break her prior arrangement, so, on the arrival of the Terrick family, she had taken great care to apologize for not being able to put one of the rooms at their disposal, occupied two days previously, but retained for some time, by a Mr. Charfland.

  In any case, the position of that room left complete liberty to the occupants of the rest of the apartment.

  The latter was on situated a broad avenue, with one wall at the junction of two streets. On entering, a large gallery communicated, to the left, with two small rooms, one of which had no windows, which was reserved for Madame Durand, and then a beautiful dining room overlooking the street, and, to the right, with a large cloakroom, a bathroom, WCs, a kitchen and then a small room occupied by Thérèse Vila, Madame Durand’s maidservant.

  The bedroom to the right of the gallery next to the entrance door had been attributed to Mr. Charfland; apart from the small drawing room, the four bedrooms overlooking the avenue had been given, in the following order, to Mr. Terrick, Mrs. Terrick, the two children and the governess.

  The room overlooking the courtyard, occupying the interior angle formed by the gallery and the corridor contiguous with Mr. Charfland’s room, had remained free and served as a nursery for the little Terricks.

  As permanent staff resident in the apartment, Madame Durand only had Thérèse Vila; she was at the disposal of the clientele at all times. Depending on the number of guests, one or several housemaids came by the day to do the necessary work. When the guests wanted to take their meals in the house, an agreement made between Madame Durand and a good local restaurateur permitted them to be easily satisfied.

  As soon as Mr. Terrick arrived, Madame Durand had introduced him to Mr, Charfland; the two men had bowed to one another courteously, no more; they did not appear to know one another.

  After that, each of them had led a tranquil life and no incident had occurred.

  On the eve of the day of the discovery of the crime, Madame Durand had been obliged to go to the suburbs to visit her aged parents, who were ill. Departing at eight o’clock in the morning, she had not returned until ten o’clock in the evening. When she came in, her maid, Thérèse Vila, had told her that the American family, being indisposed, had not left the drawing room all day.

  The proprietor added that when her domestic had made that communication to her regarding her principal tenant, she appeared slightly haggard, but as that fashion of acting afflicted her from time to time, being a woman of overly sensitive nerves, Madame Durand had not paid any particular attention to it at the time.

  The following morning, at half past eight, Thérèse had come into the proprietor’s room without knocking, prey to an intense emotion, and cried: “Madam! Madame! They’re all dead in the drawing room!”

  It was true. Upset by the horrible sight, the proprietor had her other tenant alerted, so great was her need for support at such a tragic moment.

  The maid had found Mr. Charfland still in bed; he had put on a dressing gown and run to the drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Terrick, the two children and the governess were slumped in the chairs. Their icy hands and heads attested to the fact that death had done its work. Mr. Charfland, overcoming his emotion, had recommended that nothing should be touched and that the nearest police commissaire should be alerted by telephone. Then he had dressed in haste and was ready when the magistrate in question, accompanied by his secretary and two agents, had arrived. The commissaire had limited himself to putting an agent on sentry duty at the door of the drawing room in order that no one would go in, and another at the door of the apartment, in order that no one would leave, and had immediately alerted the court.

  It was at that moment that the public prosecutor, who was summoned personally with a medical examiner, had charged Monsieur de Landré with the investigation of the frightful crime.

  When the physicians consulted as experts had affirmed that the death had taken place some thirty hours previously, the magistrate had no hesitation in having Thérèse Vila arrested, who, according to her employer’s declarations, must certainly have had knowledge of the facts a day before revealing them.

  In spite of that crushing evidence, Monsieur de Landré had been unable to get anything out of the poor girl, who, utterly distraught, swore that she did not know anything at all and did not recall having mentioned the victims to Madame Durand on the eve of the discovery of the crime. The accused, seemingly extremely nervous, had been examined by specialist physicians, who, while recognizing hereditary defects in her, had concluded that she was entirely responsible for her actions—but the investigation could not deduce anything from that.

  Charfland, interrogated as a witness, said that he only knew the victims by virtue of having perceived them once or twice on the stairs or in the antechamber. He had given an account of the employment of his time, the verification of which, without leading to certainty—it is so easy for a stranger to pass unperceived in the public life of Paris—did not permit any doubt to be cast on his declaration.

  The examining magistrate had immediately sensed a veritable combatant in the man who, he thought, could put him on the right track: he was a cool individual, incapable of letting himself be carried away by a nervous impulse, the master of his words as well as his actions. His prudence was such that one could clearly sense reflection and calculation prior responding even to insignificant questions. Spontaneity was so excluded from everything the man said that Monsieur de Landré said to himself: If that man is the guilty party, it will be difficult to unmask him; the contest will be hard.

  One day, in order to provoke a movement of protest on the part of the man he vaguely suspected, he said to him point-blank: “What if I were to have you arrested?”

  Charfland did not even blink, and replied: “In what way would arresting a innocent person advance your instruction?”

  The lack of emotion at the announcement of that redoubtable eventuality, and the tone of the response, indicated that the man expected the question and had reflected in advance as to what reply to make.
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  From that moment on, the magistrate’s suspicions gained substance, but they were only based on imponderables that did not permit any action on the part of the law.

  One precious indication was furnished to him by one of his friends, a celebrated doctor at the Salpêtrière, who had been part of the committee charged with examining Thérèse Vila. Informed of the magistrate’s suspicions, he asked him to repeat the confrontation, which had produced no result, of the accused and the witness while he the doctor, watched the scene concealed behind a curtain.

  This was what the man of the art observed:

  Thérèse Vila is sitting in the magistrate’s study, facing the door; when, on the ringing of the handbell, Charfland is introduced, she stands up as if moved by a spring, but the witness darts a cold glance at her, which seems to subjugate her, and she sits down quietly, as if resigned. The remainder of the scene presents nothing of interest; Mr. Charfland does not appear to pay any heed to the unfortunate creature who is there; no contradiction is manifest in the responses that the two of them make to the magistrate’s questions.

  When the confrontation is over, Charfland having left while Thérèse Vila is still there, the doctor lifts the curtain and enters the scene in his turn. With a gesture, he signals to the magistrate not to intervene, and advances quietly toward the accused. He seems to recognize her, enquiries amiably about her health, brings up a chair, sits down beside her, and takes her hands, continuing his conversation in a low voice. Gazing at her fixedly, he makes a few passes over her head...

  “She’s asleep,” he whispers then, attracting the attention of the magistrate. In a voice that is not raised, but insistent, he says: “Do you know Charfland?”

  “Yes,” she replies, shivering at the name.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Does he frighten you?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Tell me what he ordered you to do, and what he ordered you so say.”

  The face of the accused reveals an intense internal struggle; she raises her hands, seemingly want to repel an atrocious vision; then, as if curbed by a superior will, she murmurs: “No, I can’t…he’s forbidden me to do it.”

  By means of further passes, the doctor renders the magnetic sleep more profound. He exerts all his psychic will to extract his subject from the anterior grip, but he does not succeed.

  Breathlessly, the poor girl can only respond: “No…no!”

  To prolong the experiment would be dangerous; the doctor calms the patient and wakes her up gently. He asks the magistrate to have some consolation brought to her.

  Then, in a low voice, he says: “You’re right, my friend; the girl is innocent. Charfland, who dominates her, is in all probability the guilty party, but my science can do no more; the criminal’s emprise is too powerful. The truth will have to come out some other way. In the meantime, it would be kind to ameliorate the material situation of this poor creature, for I understand that, legally, you’re not yet able to release her.”

  “Any more than I can have Charfland arrested,” the magistrate replies, still moved, in spite of his professional impassivity, by what has just happened before him.

  It was all the more necessary to take precautions with regard to Charfland because the latter claimed to be a United States citizen, although born of French parents. He had shown several documents justifying his claims, incomplete from the legal point of view but generally recognized as sufficient for foreigners traveling in France for pleasure.

  Via diplomatic channels, very slow, but which could not be by-passed in the present case, the magistrate had requested complementary information from America at the very start of the investigation, and had even sent an agent of the Sûreté over there with a detailed description along with a photograph of the man he wanted to unmask. Unfortunately, he had not been able to add anthropometric date to it, because subjecting a foreigner who had not been accused of a crime to Bertillonian measurement might have created a diplomatic incident. The envoy was therefore limited to a detailed verbal description made by skillful sleuths who had been able to examine Charfland in the public places he frequented, and photographs taken without the knowledge of the interested party.

  A summary of the investigation was added to it.

  One morning, Monsieur de Landré found in his post a letter from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He opened it immediately, and was astonished to read:

  In response to your request for information on the subject of case no.*** (in accordance with the diplomatic habit of classifying affairs of a criminal nature by numbers in order not to have name appear in documents officially exchanged between chancelleries) we have the honor of informing you that the response will be made to you verbally by an American functionary specially dispatched from New York for that purpose.

  He had not had time to think of drawing deductions from that fact when the usher handed him a folded piece of paper, saying: “The man who has come from New York.”

  “Send him in,” ordered the magistrate, spontaneously.

  The door opened, and the usher let through a handsome old man with a white beard, standing very straight, dressed in the latest Parisian fashion.

  He bowed to the magistrate “You are Monsieur de Landré, the examining magistrate responsible or the Charfland affair?”

  The magistrate replied with an affirmative nod of the head.

  “In that case, Monsieur le Juge, would you be kind enough to make sure that no one disturbs us, on any pretext, while our conversation lasts? I don’t want to be recognized.”

  The magistrate rang, gave the instruction to the usher, invited the stranger to sit down, and said: “I’m listening, Monsieur.”

  The man from New York sits down. Then, briskly disposing of his beard, his moustache and his white wig, he shows his astonished interlocutor a completely clean-shaven face surmounted by black hair. He fixes the examining magistrate with his intelligence gaze and says: “I ought to talk to you with an uncovered face.”

  Standing up again in order to bow, he introduces himself: “Max Semper, of the New York Police.” He takes out some documents from a wallet, which he presents to Monsieur de Landré. “These are my accreditations.”

  The examination of the latter is rapid; no doubt is permissible; the man really is the celebrated detective Max Semper, officially charged with bringing the French magistrate the response to his request for information concerning the mysterious affair.

  Monsieur de Landré extends his hand to his visitor. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Semper, and thank you in advance for your collaboration.”

  The conversation immediately got to the heart of the subject; it was little more than a monologue by the citizen of free America.

  “The examination and connection of the following facts: firstly, that the family of A. H. Terrick was the victim; secondly; that ten millions have been abstracted from the murdered man; and thirdly, that the crime is surrounded by a profound mystery; permit the belief that the crime might—I don’t say must—have been carried out by the famous Invisible Gang, of whom you’ve certainly heard mention, although its exploits have been limited until now to the State of New York.

  “The gang only commits crimes that bring in large amounts, like the aforementioned ten million collected by Joe Helly. It accomplishes its crimes in extraordinarily mysterious circumstances, such that, in spite of the finest official and private detectives in the United States, it has not yet been possible to discover them.

  “Finally, it was only by a providential hazard that A. H. Terrick escaped a blackmail attempt few months ago, which was for two million dollars, the equivalent of ten million francs.

  “It would take too long to explain that hazard in detail. Let it suffice for you to know that, by virtue of it, and, so to speak, independently of A. H. Terrick, we were able to abort the blackmail and lay our hands on two members of the Invisible Gang.

  “Those two scoundrels were abso
lutely determined not to surrender their accomplices and the organization of their association, but in the end, thanks to whisky, one of them let slip, in conversation with his guards, a few petty indications that might be useful. He allowed it to be understood that, the Terrick affair having been aborted, the latter had been condemned to death.

  “In several crimes, traces have been found of a bandit whose description, although vague, nevertheless fits the one you have given of Charfland.

  “In these circumstances, I can only try to discover whether Charfland is part of the Invisible Gang; following the results of that first investigation, I shall see if I can go any further.

  “I have the necessary indications to have Charfland followed from now on; I’ll come back tomorrow to bring you up to date. Is that okay with you?”

  Although slightly disillusioned, because he had expected more, Monsieur de Landré accepted the proposal.

  The detective readjusted his disguise, and the usher, having been summoned, showed his out with all the deference due to a man whose hand had just been shaken cordially by the magistrate.

  Twenty-four hours later, Max Semper presented himself before the examining magistrate again and told him the following:

  “Among the few useful indications I possess regarding the Invisible Gang, the most important is one related to the signs by which the affiliates recognize one another: rather complex signs in which the general attitude of the body as well as the bearing of the head, the position of the hands and that of the fingers plays a role.

  “Yesterday evening, two of my men, who arrived from New York by different routes, played a little comedy in the renowned Frangip bar, which Charfland frequents almost every day.

  “One of the men, after making sure of the presence of the quarry, perched on one of the high stools at the bar in such a fashion as to be visible from where Charfland was sitting. I placed myself in gallant company—it’s necessary to keep up appearances—in such a manner as not to miss a single one of the individual’s movements.